Day-to-day life remains much the same in Blackgale, the summer weather sunny and bright and… well, sometimes a bit too hot for Henry to spend too much time outdoors. Though maybe that isn’t such a bad thing; in the wake of taking a trip down to the bottom of a lake, it’s hard for the cyclical nature of the days to appeal to him, especially when he’s always struggled with the concept before. What excitement is there to be had in a “normal” day in comparison? Not much, and so he finds himself overwrought with hours, seeking out something to shear away the minutes piece by baleful piece—
It’s not too hot today. He’s out in Amelia’s gardens.
And he has his sketchbook in hand, crouched down beneath the branches of a crepe myrtle that has blossomed a bright pink in the summertime. Henry’s clearly observing something nestled in between the thick stems, at an angle awkward enough to where he has to twist his body just-so to look back and forth between drawing and art subject. Likely a comedic sight for such a lanky, long-limbed man.
He doesn’t look away when footsteps approach, too fixated on the task at hand, sketching away with gestural lines across the bright white paper. But, being psychic and all, he can certainly sense a presence nearing.]
tried to overcome my complications and my catches;
Day-to-day life remains much the same in Blackgale, the summer weather sunny and bright and… well, sometimes a bit too hot for Henry to spend too much time outdoors. Though maybe that isn’t such a bad thing; in the wake of taking a trip down to the bottom of a lake, it’s hard for the cyclical nature of the days to appeal to him, especially when he’s always struggled with the concept before. What excitement is there to be had in a “normal” day in comparison? Not much, and so he finds himself overwrought with hours, seeking out something to shear away the minutes piece by baleful piece—
It’s not too hot today. He’s out in Amelia’s gardens.
And he has his sketchbook in hand, crouched down beneath the branches of a crepe myrtle that has blossomed a bright pink in the summertime. Henry’s clearly observing something nestled in between the thick stems, at an angle awkward enough to where he has to twist his body just-so to look back and forth between drawing and art subject. Likely a comedic sight for such a lanky, long-limbed man.
He doesn’t look away when footsteps approach, too fixated on the task at hand, sketching away with gestural lines across the bright white paper. But, being psychic and all, he can certainly sense a presence nearing.]
...Busy right now.