KnifeySpoonyForky

Knifey sat at his table, scribbling away the early hours of the night. Now and then he glanced at the polished hand mirror he’d set up against a tankard at their makeshift table. The flames from the campfire flickered, tents and trees dancing amidst shadow and light.

He smiled, cocked his head, pulled a face. His quill scratched as it captured the lines of his jaw, his cheeks, the jagged edge of an ear, pale whites of an eye. A grin. A grin looked best. He doodled little symbols about his head, bright and cheery.

“Almost done!” He announced to those on watch. Ivelliohn threw him a look; raised brows and a smirk-turned-smile, then turned back to the task at hand. Gazadriel hummed, acknowledging but ever-vigilant.

Knifey looked back at the mirror, then down at his work. ‘Not bad,’ he thought.

His quill had just soaked up the ink from his pot when a cry from Ivelliohn alerted him to immediate attack.

Purple mindblade in hand, he leapt up and to his aid, art momentarily forgotten.

Later, once the melee had died down to the roughing of spider corpses as Tosscobble searched their bodies, Knifey returned to the makeshift table.

It had skewed sideways when a spider had leapt atop it. Chasing Tharry – why could no one leave the poor wizard alone? Scattered across the ground were his papers, the mirror, and the self portrait, now stained black with ink.

“Well,” Knifey sighed, though his teeth were bared in a smile. “There goes my profile picture.”