Olalla G. Semenov
Male— Ardent— The Pitt— Bio.— Plot
Olalla enjoyed the little things and, of course, the bigger picture, but every picture wasn't a picture at all without small details. A single brushstroke, a single deed, was all it took. A single, little deed. For him, today was coop day and a large pen for roaming. He didn't bother building a dome over it, since the wings of the chickens, quail, and grouse would be clipped for safe measures, as much as he hated clipping. But he couldn't put them in the aviary; it'd be too chaotic and a lot more hazardous.
Not only for anyone entering, but for birds trying to escape as well. Olalla gritted his teeth a bit as he plopped down the bundle of wet stripped branches, logs, and a large, dried gourd bowl filled with a paste made of sand, dirt, moss, and water. He sat down on his haunches, picking up a few logs and examining them for any sharp, jagged edges; he didn't need birds getting impaled; he already had to worry about that with the Pitt.
Satisfied, he began digging holes around the shaded edge of the jungle, figuring that it'd be easier for the birds than in the middle of a hot, sunny plaza. The beast then pushed the logs into the holes and poured a splash of paste into them, stirring the inside briskly with any sticks that were within his grasp while adding any small stones near him into the mix. After this was all said and done, he covered the holes with the dirt he dug and patted them down harshly.
The pen was a decent size, although if Olalla had running room, then the birds would have had more than enough room. And so, walking back over to the wet branches, the beast began pushing them between the logs and between each other as more of a wall like structure, adding the paste where it was needed to things like holes around the logs; he would need to make more to smear against the wall itself as he didn't have enough at the moment. Frustrated and with a few smacks to the face with slippery sticks, Olalla grumbled heavily, sitting down for a breather.
It was difficult; the slippery branches weren't the most cooperative, and with thumbs that were only half useful, it was almost twice as hard. A few long moments passed before the beast sighed and rubbed his eyes, looking at the only partially woven pen. Whatever, he'd do the rest after the actual coop was built. Olalla grabbed a few more logs and began digging out a pit within the pen; the foundation. He smeared paste down over top before beginning to build the bones of the coop. Using a tall, 2 floored, rectangular frame as his blueprint, he quickly set to work; propping up logs and pressing paste within the cracks, pressing and smearing, pressing, smearing, pressing, smearing.
The shaded sun was the only thing that broke Olalla out of his rhythm, realizing now that it was mid-day. He made a hell of a lot of progress, but was reluctant to finish weaving the wall. The coop was all but finished. A roof and bedding were needed to finish it, and maybe a few things inside, but other than that, it was pretty sturdy for a building made of wet branches and glorified mud. Humming lightly, he stood up and padded over to a pile of now dried branches and furrowed his brows, gathering them within his paws and ambling awkwardly on hind legs to the river. From there, he dipped them under the swirling waters and held them under, letting all the bubbles fade before pulling them from the warm river. He sauntered back to the chaparral, setting the wet branches down and beginning to weave again.
He used an over-under formation because it seemed to work best for wanting a stronger build; and knowing birds, he would need a strong build.
Not only for anyone entering, but for birds trying to escape as well. Olalla gritted his teeth a bit as he plopped down the bundle of wet stripped branches, logs, and a large, dried gourd bowl filled with a paste made of sand, dirt, moss, and water. He sat down on his haunches, picking up a few logs and examining them for any sharp, jagged edges; he didn't need birds getting impaled; he already had to worry about that with the Pitt.
Satisfied, he began digging holes around the shaded edge of the jungle, figuring that it'd be easier for the birds than in the middle of a hot, sunny plaza. The beast then pushed the logs into the holes and poured a splash of paste into them, stirring the inside briskly with any sticks that were within his grasp while adding any small stones near him into the mix. After this was all said and done, he covered the holes with the dirt he dug and patted them down harshly.
The pen was a decent size, although if Olalla had running room, then the birds would have had more than enough room. And so, walking back over to the wet branches, the beast began pushing them between the logs and between each other as more of a wall like structure, adding the paste where it was needed to things like holes around the logs; he would need to make more to smear against the wall itself as he didn't have enough at the moment. Frustrated and with a few smacks to the face with slippery sticks, Olalla grumbled heavily, sitting down for a breather.
It was difficult; the slippery branches weren't the most cooperative, and with thumbs that were only half useful, it was almost twice as hard. A few long moments passed before the beast sighed and rubbed his eyes, looking at the only partially woven pen. Whatever, he'd do the rest after the actual coop was built. Olalla grabbed a few more logs and began digging out a pit within the pen; the foundation. He smeared paste down over top before beginning to build the bones of the coop. Using a tall, 2 floored, rectangular frame as his blueprint, he quickly set to work; propping up logs and pressing paste within the cracks, pressing and smearing, pressing, smearing, pressing, smearing.
The shaded sun was the only thing that broke Olalla out of his rhythm, realizing now that it was mid-day. He made a hell of a lot of progress, but was reluctant to finish weaving the wall. The coop was all but finished. A roof and bedding were needed to finish it, and maybe a few things inside, but other than that, it was pretty sturdy for a building made of wet branches and glorified mud. Humming lightly, he stood up and padded over to a pile of now dried branches and furrowed his brows, gathering them within his paws and ambling awkwardly on hind legs to the river. From there, he dipped them under the swirling waters and held them under, letting all the bubbles fade before pulling them from the warm river. He sauntered back to the chaparral, setting the wet branches down and beginning to weave again.
He used an over-under formation because it seemed to work best for wanting a stronger build; and knowing birds, he would need a strong build.
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I demand only this...that you join with me in building a new Rome, a Rome that offers justice, peace and land to all its citizens, not just the privileged few. Support me in this task, and old divisions will be forgotten. Oppose me, and Rome will not forgive you a second time!
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