milliways_bar | (no subject)

The first time Baze attempted a serious whittling project, he went at it recklessly.

It only took five minutes before the knife blade slipped from the wood and opened a gash in his thumb. He stubbornly continued carving, but ended up getting blood all over the balsa wood. Another ten minutes passed before the blade skipped off a knot and sliced his index finger. More blood. More carving. At that point, the wood was slippery, so he had to stop.

He applied bandages to his fingers and waited a day before trying again. But try again he did, and learned how to properly protect himself with a Bar-provided thumb pad for his blade hand.

And he learned more than that. He learned that cuts made with the grain will peel away smoothly; cuts made against the grain will give resistance and eventually split. He learned the pull stroke, the push stroke, and straight-away rough cutting. He learned to whittle slowly, to use the strokes as a meditative practice.

Though his carved fish and eggs and demon bunnies are still crude, he thinks he can whittle in his sleep.

Today he's leaning against the bar, holding a block of balsa wood in his left hand and his pocket knife in his right, with the blade facing towards him. He braces the thumb of his right hand against the wood, and squeezes his fingers in order to draw the blade towards his thumb. His strokes are short and controlled.

He's getting wood shavings everywhere. Someone might want to tell him to clean up.

(OOC: Chirrut may pop into any and all threads!)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"He-e-e-ey, guys, how's it hanging?"

Atton has his Security badge fairly prominently on display as he approaches, and -- oh, it's Wallace. Again. At least it seems like he's unequivocally the victim here.

"Anyone want to explain to me what's going on?"

"I punched him," Baze says. See, Wilford, that's how you take responsibility for your actions. "Go ahead and cell me."

Wilford is definitely the victim here.

"I'm fucking bleeding, you prick."

At least his shirt is black, but still.

"Give me warning first next time."

"Wow, usually things are so much less straightforward than that," Atton says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, Warrane, you might want to go check into the infirmary; and you, Largeguy Puncher, should come with me."

Largeguy Puncher? What? Baze lets loose an explosive bark of laughter, the tension of the conversation bleeding off him. "Yes, let's go," he says, amused as hell. "I have no objections."

Wilford is genuinely surprised he isn't getting his ass hauled in as well. Or he would be, if he weren't so fixated on the fact that Baze hit him so hard, he's bleeding.

No, wait. His glasses. He was wearing his glasses. Great, where the hell are they?

"You know, if you got that bug out of your ass, you'd be a lot of fun to hang out with," Wilford says to Baze while he laughs like a maniac over being called a dumb name.

Atton gives a quick nod, and gestures Baze along as he heads to the office.

Baze follows obediently, his giggles tapering off as the enormity of what he'd just done sinks in. Shavit. He's going to be without Chirrut for a few days. Now what? He'll be bored to death.

Wilford eventually gets up, only once Buster comes over to investigate what happened this time. Buster is Very Concerned about what happened, which means he becomes a jittering, whining mess before too long. With a great big sigh, Wilford foregoes the infirmary and heads upstairs to go lie down for a little bit.