Remi's suggestion of Bastian doing the work earned a chuckle of agreement from the bard as he passed by with a bucket full of dirt for the garden. "It wouldn't be just a story, either. I suspect he'd be positively gleeful to paint something controversial on the wall. That it would hide the door would just be a convenient side-effect." At least Rexanna had seemed to be a stabilizing influence on the artist-turned-priest-turned... whatever he was now. Artist again?
Jigano was quickly glad that he was wearing his Smith disguise; the older clothing becoming dirty did it no real harm, and he didn't mind sweating in it as the work continued on. They made good progress, better than he expected in truth, and he grinned at Rory as he wiped his brow, unknowingly smudging dirt across his dye-darkened skin. When Deimos called a halt for the braces, the bard was more than ready for a break. The labor was repetitive and intensive, and he cracked his back with a groan before he looked to the lumber and then to their growing tunnel. He judged the height of it against himself before ambling over to the woodpile to select a piece of lumber and standing it up beside himself, reaching up to smudge a muddy mark a couple inches below his own height so there would be space atop it for the crossbeam. "This should do for the height," he murmured toRory as an aside, handing the lumber over to the man who was far more skilled at actually cutting boards and putting them together in a sturdy and sensible fashion. While the farmer did that, the bard pulled a second piece of lumber out so they could measure it against the first once it was cut and make sure they would be the same length.
Jigano was quickly glad that he was wearing his Smith disguise; the older clothing becoming dirty did it no real harm, and he didn't mind sweating in it as the work continued on. They made good progress, better than he expected in truth, and he grinned at Rory as he wiped his brow, unknowingly smudging dirt across his dye-darkened skin. When Deimos called a halt for the braces, the bard was more than ready for a break. The labor was repetitive and intensive, and he cracked his back with a groan before he looked to the lumber and then to their growing tunnel. He judged the height of it against himself before ambling over to the woodpile to select a piece of lumber and standing it up beside himself, reaching up to smudge a muddy mark a couple inches below his own height so there would be space atop it for the crossbeam. "This should do for the height," he murmured to
