Spindle sits staring moodily out of the window. From there, he can see the house, it's exterior finished and it's roof completed. A light dusting of snow rests about. I should have known it was too good to be true. I really should have. He takes another long pull from his coffee mug. Mikal and Dain, both gone. Oliviah wouldn't even talk to me ( Read more... )

Spindle trudges up to his room, rubbing at his eyes. Peri is one hell of a friend, but no one warned me about the country music. Next thing, they would be singing about how the truck left, the wife won't start and the dog ran off with another man.Unlocking his door, he enters and plops down into his desk chair. He looks at the corner of the room ( Read more... )

Spindle retreats back to his room, settling himself down at his desk. By the look of things, Dain had already left for the holiday.

Hands in face, he takes a deep breath. God's wrinkled raisins, I want a cup of coffee. He looks under his desk to see the bags Freida had brought him, sitting next to the coffee pot. I haven't had a cup since last ( Read more... )

Spindle leans back and looks at his handiwork. Travis's party wheel sits before him on the desk. A good 2' in diameter, the wooden circle hangs from its center on an A-frame stand. The letters of each pie-piece have been woodburned in and painted in gaudy "I'm-over-here-you-idiot" colors. The wheel had taken just about the 2 hours he thought it ( Read more... )

Spindle puts the sword away in his closet, and sits back on the bed for a moment. I only hope Ailan knows what he's doing. Something's got him tied in knots. He was talking to that bugger Ash last. Maybe I should... He lets the thought trail off. With a shake of the head, he dismisses the notion. Ailan, Aidan, me... God knows how many sleep- ( Read more... )

Breakfast? Spindle glances over at his desk clock. Damn. Cafeteria isn't open for another freaking hour. Lazy slacklobs. Spindle glances over at the remains of the carrots and honnied apples he had eaten late last night. Traditional, I suppose, for Rosh Hashanah, but not very filling.Leaning back in his desk chair, Spindle continues to whittle ( Read more... )

( Just for Reference )

The sound of the hammer striking cherry hot steel fills the workshop. Sparks fly out from the anvil with each ringing strike ( Read more... )

The candles are burning down, the room has been cleaned, the lights turned on, and most importantly, the coffee for tomorrow has been made and poured into a thermos. His radio is tuned in to some classical station, instumentals unspoiled by the unit's language barrier, and it rewards him by softly playing Mozart. The room he has for himself at ( Read more... )

Spindle leans heavily against the edge of his desk, the sweat dropping down his face. A shaky hand reaches out for the coffee mug, long gone cold. A quick swig to steady his nerves while he catches his breath. What was it? Four, five o'clock in the morning? His eyes are too bleary to read the dial of his battered and abused alarm clock. The ( Read more... )