Blackjack found himself waking up this afternoon to an unholy CRASH, scrambling from his makeshift bed onto his feet. Planks of old, destroyed wood now rested on the floor of his jungle treehouse, and the sun stared dead at him from above. Where there once was a pleasant and much-required ceiling was now a gaping hole in the roof over his head, and he cursed himself for his foolishness. Okay, if he was going to make a shelter out of an abandoned building in the ravaged jungle, the least he could've done was fully ensure its structural integrity. Sure, the floor and other walls of the home were sturdy, but clearly he had moved on too quickly. I was far too hasty, it seems. He cast a glance of disappointment at Oscuro, who buried himself deeper into the nest upon his perch. Seems they both felt the same way.

His first course of action after evaluating the damage was to gather more materials, stripped from any part of the jungle that was still capable of holding proper wood and resources. Lugging these planks and other materials back to his treehouse, he scaled the structure and made his way to the roof. Time to get to work, he supposed. The horned jaguar lay the planks down and began the reconstruction process with every muscle in his body tense and fiery, his expression twisted and sour to fairly match his emotions. This fucking sucks.

[member=18691]BEE + JOT[/member]