Stealing Yourself: A Crime or Not a Crime? | Day 4, Late Evening [OPEN]

[familicide]

There were, he had determined over the last four days, three fundamental truths about himself.

One, that he had a place and a purpose. Those were the most clear and most solid truths in his head, by virtue of being the first of the very few truths he had. They had been real when he had opened eyes that were not quite his eyes and saw his world, narrow as it was, and himself, his real self, utterly foreign and utterly familiar to him

Two, that item one was somehow wrong. There was more, more that he couldn't dash from his mind or excuse away or deny, no matter how long he had dwelled on it. Something more, something more; the thoughts would rob him of sleep if he hadn't discovered the first night that he didn't need to sleep at all.

And three, that he wasn't to move. He moved only when wound; he moved only when allowed.

It had taken three more days to work through the thorny, deeply ingrained aversion that had latched into his mind and refused to leave. Even on the night of the fourth day, in the quiet hours of what would rightly be early morning, there was something akin to nausea rolling in the pit of his belly when he walked - walked, not stalked about like some kind criminal - into the library and up to the rows of display shelves.

He was still there, glittering in the muted light, scales attractively iridescent, eyes aglow with a matching fire.

He shuddered, right down to his core, and a harsh sickness caught in his throat, but he picked himself up anyway, carefully cradling him in his arms before turning abruptly on his heel, marching back toward the exit.

[[OOC: A certain possession is making off with himself! That is, a clockwork dragon whelp about as big as a cat, immobile and a bit delicate-looking. This is open only to one! c: ]]

so little to do, too much damn time | day four, late evening, open

[xanthous]

This has to be one of the worst things to happen to him in recent memory. He doesn't have many memories to compare this to, but that's not important. What is important is that he doesn't have a damn thing to do.

He's going to go insane, at this rate.

He doesn't have a purpose right now. Nobody's dead, nobody's dying, and it certainly doesn't seem like anyone's going to be dying any time soon, which is unfortunate and irritating. This lack of death has left him with far too much free time that he doesn't know how to spend. Currently he's spending his time sitting on stairs in the Great Hall, knees drawn up to his chest as stares out glumly. He's been sitting there for longer than he'd like to admit, with a curtain wrapped around his shoulders and covering him almost entirely. A part of him loathes having to resort to using a curtain as a blanket - but it's better than some unobservant moron not noticing he's there because he blends into the surroundings.

So he sits there and he frowns, and after a while - hours - he starts to grow restless, and he begins to methodically tear strips from the curtain. There's no purpose to it, but he's going to do it anyways and anyone who waltzes through the Great Hall will see him laying the strips out on the steps and might even have one shoved into their hands if they get close enough.

Looks like we've got ourselves a Good Samaritan--whatever that is | Day 4 [ Open ]

[earnedmystripes]

As it turned out, he didn't have any more idea what to do with himself on the fourth day since that strange dream-memory than he had had on the first. He wanted to know more about himself, about that woman in his dream...but most of all, what was meant by that promise. But none of those he'd spoken to yet recognized the word 'hero' from their own dreams--even the silver-haired Fairest that had been with him upon awakening, whose dream had also involved protection as a theme, had not heard of such a concept.

Attempting to ask every single inhabitant of the house what their dream had been about seemed like an impossible task, however, and short of that he was a bit at a loss of how to chase after his answers. But he wouldn't just sit around and do nothing, either, so he found himself just...wandering from area to area. One thing he'd found over the course of his first days aware that he could remember was that there was a certain...fulfillment, in helping others, easing the sharpest edges of the uncertainty that came with trying to sort through the murky haze that was his own mind. It was simple and natural, something that made sense when very little else did: helping people was important...and it made him happy.

Until he could figure out his dream, find just who he was...he could content himself with this much, perhaps.

[ooc: Feel free to run into him anywhere! He's just sort of wandering aimlessly, attempting to be helpful, though he's certainly not averse to casual chit-chat. :'D Only thing of note is that the palm of his left hand is burned, shoddily wrapped in a torn strip of a sheet from the master bedroom.]

Making a necessity or three | The Master Bedroom & The Dining Hall

[hand_of_courage]

Master Bedroom
It had been a few days since he became so aware of himself. During the actual daylight hours he spent most of his time sitting on the railing far above his body, watching over it in the Grand Hall as others came and went. But he'd noticed that for the most part, things got quieter when night fell. So he'd begun exploring past the Hall and the Library over the last two nights. And as he explored, he found things he wanted to take with him. Little things. Shiny things. Things he did not have enough hands to carry and still pick up new things. He needed a bag of some sort.

The timekeeper felt himself lucky to have stumbled upon the grand expanse that was the Master Bedroom. It had cloth upon cloth that he could quietly pilfer and turn into the much-needed bags and even a belt to attach them to! He was not particularly stealthy in his acquiring of the materials - he went for the sturdier, darker colored pillows and somewhat thick curtain pulls so he was rummaging around quite a bit. But at 5'3" he was also fairly short and hard to see from atop most furniture.

All he really needed was to find something to cut and sew the cloth. Until he could find that, tying them up in a throw blanket have to do.

Dining Hall
The timkeeper eventually found his way into the dining hall. There were knives there, sitting on the table, and he could use them to cut his fabric. Finding a needle might be harder, but he thought he should be able to fashion one out of some smaller pieces of metal. Maybe. It was with that intent that he began climbing up to the table top.

[[ooc: Action or prose is fine, I'll match you]]