a taste of metal and a smell of burning flesh
In one of the books he'd read on the subject, William had read that the Japanese viewed the act of papermaking as an art in itself, with the paper-makers spirit becoming infused in the pulp and then becoming part of every finished piece of paper.
On one level, he could sympathize; he'd felt something similar about every edition of his newspaper, in both locations he'd produced one.
On the other, he felt that while putting your spirit into it was all well and good, he'd really rather have a method that didn't involve putting so much of his back into it.
He was pulping plant fibers, currently, which was perhaps his least favourite part; at least pulling the sheets had that satisfying tactile edge to it, and couching them they looked something like the finished product. This part, though, was just pounding. William had been at it most of the morning, and his back ached.
He sat back, to take a break, and stopped as movement caught his eye. He turned his head, and it was gone.
With a momentary frown, he shifted to move a rock out from under where he was sitting to get more comfortable as he rested up, and there it was again. A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, in the wrong direction to be the wind. And all the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. "Er... hello?" he said, voice not entirely steady; he'd just had an unwelcome recollection of the time he'd been kidnapped.
The time of day was completely wrong; the sun was beating down, and all. But he was still suddenly, uncomfortable aware that he was out in a clearing in the jungle alone. Even if it was by a stream and thus prone to through traffic.
He stood up, slowly, as the breeze shifted direction. Now, it brought with it... heat. The smell of charcoal, and copper, and something like beef on a frying pan. And William could almost make out the shape he was seeing through the trees; not particularly tall, as such, but human-shaped. The head a little too large for the body, bringing to mind nothing so much as-
"I wasn't meant to fry," came the words on the breeze.
-a pin. William swallowed, and wondered what he'd done with that rock. He went to take a step backwards and found out: it was under his heel and sent him toppling backwards with a surprised yelp. When he'd scrambled back to his feet, the shape or figure or... whatever he'd just seen, just heard was gone. William remained standing where he was, eyes darting quickly and nervously over the trees.
[Just a note: there's nothing for your pup to have seen heard, apart from William himself.]
On one level, he could sympathize; he'd felt something similar about every edition of his newspaper, in both locations he'd produced one.
On the other, he felt that while putting your spirit into it was all well and good, he'd really rather have a method that didn't involve putting so much of his back into it.
He was pulping plant fibers, currently, which was perhaps his least favourite part; at least pulling the sheets had that satisfying tactile edge to it, and couching them they looked something like the finished product. This part, though, was just pounding. William had been at it most of the morning, and his back ached.
He sat back, to take a break, and stopped as movement caught his eye. He turned his head, and it was gone.
With a momentary frown, he shifted to move a rock out from under where he was sitting to get more comfortable as he rested up, and there it was again. A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, in the wrong direction to be the wind. And all the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. "Er... hello?" he said, voice not entirely steady; he'd just had an unwelcome recollection of the time he'd been kidnapped.
The time of day was completely wrong; the sun was beating down, and all. But he was still suddenly, uncomfortable aware that he was out in a clearing in the jungle alone. Even if it was by a stream and thus prone to through traffic.
He stood up, slowly, as the breeze shifted direction. Now, it brought with it... heat. The smell of charcoal, and copper, and something like beef on a frying pan. And William could almost make out the shape he was seeing through the trees; not particularly tall, as such, but human-shaped. The head a little too large for the body, bringing to mind nothing so much as-
"I wasn't meant to fry," came the words on the breeze.
-a pin. William swallowed, and wondered what he'd done with that rock. He went to take a step backwards and found out: it was under his heel and sent him toppling backwards with a surprised yelp. When he'd scrambled back to his feet, the shape or figure or... whatever he'd just seen, just heard was gone. William remained standing where he was, eyes darting quickly and nervously over the trees.
[Just a note: there's nothing for your pup to have seen heard, apart from William himself.]