Crafting prompts

All was quiet aboard the ship that evening. Well, perhaps not all of it--but the luxurious layers of sound that sprang from Cassander's onboard studio were contained by sheets of soundproofing, leaving the halls quiet to all but the keenest of ears. Two of those flicked about atop the head of the kitbull trotting leisurely down the main corridor.

The studio was a lovely workshop, but not the one Smidge was heading for now.

For the most part it did not have its own quarters, sleeping instead at the foot of Cassander's bed or atop the plush old chaise that dominated one wall of the living room. Most of its time was spent at Cassander's side anyway, in dutiful service to its landlord, roommate, boss; friend. But in these moments of downtime there was one secret little place for the creature to hole up in.... somewhere around here, anyway.

Ah, there--at the end of the corridor a simple door stood, leading into the linen closet. For the most part it was full to bursting with various cloths and household goods (Smidge was nothing if not fastidious about a presentable home, after all), but the floor was conveniently clear, perfect for reaching back to the rear floor panels where an edge was inconspicuously curled up. One little tug--okay, maybe a few more--and there, it had popped free to reveal a black hole leading into the underside of the ship.

It would have been generous to call the displaced panel a 'maintenance hatch', but it did lead down into the narrow crawlspaces below the main living deck. Cassander's ship was small, leaving room for only shallow strips of cable channels and the like; much too small for even a sighted browbird to traverse comfortably, but the perfect size for a kitbull to squirm into. Wings tucked firmly to its sides, Smidge took the plunge, little hands popping back up to tug the panel back into place as if nothing had ever happened there.

It was pitch black in the tunnel, but between a false crest and glowing insides, Smidge's huge eyes had more than enough light to work with. The turns were familiar as it slipped gracefully over cable bundles and the occasional electrical box, down a short but meandering path into the bottom basin of the hull. It was a spot mostly undisturbed save for the occasional all-points check by mechanics, and opened out into a low-ceilinged room left mostly empty by its designers, perfect for the kitbull's many plans.

A thin, utilitarian cable snaked its way into the tiny room. At its end was a single bulb, round and industrial, with a switch tacked to the ceiling next to it. Smidge popped up on its hindquarters to give said switch a hearty smack. With a stutter it flickered to life, bringing a vast cornucopia of materials into view. Papers, boards, metals, trinkets, bottles upon bottles of inks and glues--every wall was coated in mismatched shelves from floor to ceiling. Where there weren't shelves there were racks; and barring racks, boxes and drawers. Exotic papers shimmered in the warm light, while spools of threads both mysterious and mundane lay waiting to be waxed. Towards the rear of the room, the shelves had been built up to accommodate what appeared to be a desk crossed with a workbench, a thick, blocky board of butcher's wood resting on two aged canisters, still painted with labels for cookies and chain-oil. Clamped to the board was a strange-looking contraption consisting of two boards layered atop each other, a long screw driving the topmost down, while poles on either side held the whole thing together and passed through a yoke-like metal piece at the top. It was a book press, currently engaged in keeping Smidge's latest project flat as it waited for the binding process to resume.

Smidge prided itself upon being a noble and collected being. A kitbull, however, will always be a kitbull; and here was its hoard. The creature could at least say it had paid for most of these items ('most' doing some serious heavy lifting there). It was reasonably organized, if a bit messy for want of space. But it was still a secret hidey-hole in the guts of a spaceship, so really, there wasn't any escaping the old stereotype, was there?

Determined to cast such thoughts out of its mind, Smidge set to work.

The one part of its workspace that it didn't reference much as it flitted about the space was the bottom shelf near the door. The space was all but stuffed with books--finished works of art, really, with only the glimmering spines to betray their intricately etched and embossed covers. Even the most practical of the books had an aura about it, all but glowing with the powdered stardust that followed its delicately drawn lines; the most magnificent among them had been granted the humble privilege of being propped up cover-first in the dark corner instead of showing only its side, its exterior carefully composed to swirl around the stone set into the leather, flashing with a universe of stars. Gold-edged pages, glowing runes, otherworldly papers, enchanted bookmark ribbons, and more had all found a home in this corner, but the kitbull swept past as if it were a mere pile of paperweights.

Well, they might as well have been. Smidge had a personal book and Cassander couldn't write, so who cared? The fun was just in the making.