He’d spend all morning preparing for his lesson. The evening before had ticked by while he organized his various things in his clearing; in the roots of one of the myriad trees that sheltered him ever so slightly from winds and damp rains, he’d found a hollow, about four inches wide by six deep, a large enough storage compartment to fit his gourd down into for the most part alongside his random collection of small, decorative shells and two glass flowers.

The vines now hung from the low lying branches of a tree across the way from the one with the root compartment, some branches of the drift wood laying across the branches of a mostly bald pine tree (bald, because he’d stripped the branches so) and others buried in the ground at the foot of the tree, absorbing the moisture in the ground to remain pliable. His carrying rope, ends frayed and mostly for the use of example at this point, dangles from a branch on the same tree, occasionally shifting in the breeze.

Occasionally while he worked, he discovered a stone or two that had tumbled loose, depositing them in his collection; once all the clearing seemed suitable for company, he set out in the early dawn towards a copse of pine trees to the far eastern border of the land, a good hours walk from his clearing and another hour back, his conch shell for gathering sap held lightly in his teeth. He’d learned, quite quickly the day he’d been finding them, actually, that the shells were fragile and crushed quite easily if he exerted too much pressure, and so it was with a delicateness not truly befitting a stag of his size and build that he scrapes the chunks of sap loose from the tree bark, filling the conch slowly. Occasionally, he has to set it down, grasping a leaf between his lips to press the sticky substance down and not leave his lips bitter and numb from the sticky goo he needed to teach with.

When the shell is full, he returns to his clearing, the morning sun at an angle that suggests it will be at its total height in a few hours. The large, flat slate of stone that he often uses to rest small objects on while working becomes his table where the shell sits and warms in the sun, the sap dripping down into a liquid soup over the next hour as the rays of light heat and soften it, and all the while he totters about making finishing touches on his area of habitation.

Once there is absolutely nothing to delay the inevitable anymore, he pauses and looks solemnly about his clearing, feeling the same well of nerves that had sent him into a midnight cleaning fit rising up inside of him.

Dammit Aaron, he thinks.

"Craftsmen!" he calls, voice deep and resonating as it perforates the serenity of the Edge, "we’ve a project to work on together."



[ OOC: Anyone interested in learning how to make VERY basic rope is welcome! This lesson does not require magic and is open to any class Tier 3 and 4 member as well as unranked members. This project will lead to character opportunities such as: “inventing” tar, “inventing” rope treatments, ect.; I’ve already done all the research on how to go about creating this things from natural objects with no magic and will happily talk you through it. :D He will also be mentioning plans to deconstruct the wall and reuse the glass for later projects. I’ve tagged the Craftsmen and anyone who personally contacted me about wanting to come. ]

@[Destrier], @[Semira], @[Nasreen]