Post by Lotty on Apr 30, 2009 10:54:01 GMT -5
One wouldn't think that chores would be a high priority, not at this stage of the game when people were still thanking their lucky stars they were alive. Apparently they were important as ever and Kasella found himself standing over a vat of pulp, his too loose shirt rolled up at the sleeves. He could have groaned and moped, but frankly work was a form of escapism in a world where the reality was death and picking up the pieces of life. Chores were a return to normalcy, and the boy was welcoming it with open arms.
Of course not all was completely honky dory in the world of the archives. There were records to be updated, the kinds that were better off unmentioned but plainly obvious in the wake of the Benden attack. There was ink to be made, and paper to be pressed, and copies to be painstakingly attended to. Perfect jobs for the candidates, especially a repeat offender such as himself, who approached the task like it was an old friend. Been there, done that, lets make the best of it shall we?
His own handwriting was unacceptable for the task of copying. It rather looked like something out of a mad scientist's notebook. Small scrawling font that schizophrenically went from little to big on a whim didn't do much in the way of legibility, and so he was stuck with the task he had a bit more grace in. He stuck the deckle in the slurry and mindlessly went about the task of stacking the damp sheets over layers of felt and pressing them. All the while saying to himself At least I'm not stuck making ink.
Of course not all was completely honky dory in the world of the archives. There were records to be updated, the kinds that were better off unmentioned but plainly obvious in the wake of the Benden attack. There was ink to be made, and paper to be pressed, and copies to be painstakingly attended to. Perfect jobs for the candidates, especially a repeat offender such as himself, who approached the task like it was an old friend. Been there, done that, lets make the best of it shall we?
His own handwriting was unacceptable for the task of copying. It rather looked like something out of a mad scientist's notebook. Small scrawling font that schizophrenically went from little to big on a whim didn't do much in the way of legibility, and so he was stuck with the task he had a bit more grace in. He stuck the deckle in the slurry and mindlessly went about the task of stacking the damp sheets over layers of felt and pressing them. All the while saying to himself At least I'm not stuck making ink.