Crafting prompts

The ring was enchanted. A nondescript little thing, but magical nonetheless. The simple silver band had been a gift from a teacher, emblazoned with a stylized eye and not much else. But looped around the finger of Cassander, it was a special tool, allowing him to run his hand over a written word with the eye-side turned down and hear its contents whispered mystically into his ear.

It worked fantastically for music as well, a spooky little ditty playing back as it was run over sheet music. That was what Cassander was reading now--or trying, anyway. It had been a particularly hard day at the Hinterleague School of Sound, which never bode well for someone who already desperately didn't want to be there. The young browbird--too young for these expectations, it often seemed to Smidge--had been miserable since it met him, and now was no exception.

The funny thing about being at the end of one's rope was that just one little push could be enough to fall off the edge. The evening's practice had been going alright, but one slip of the hand had bumped a stack of sheet music off of its stand and scattered it in every direction. It wasn't Cassander's fault, really; the boy was blind after all, and his currently-absent roommate had a habit of moving furniture out of its place regularly, although whether from malice or simple carelessness was unclear. But ordering papers was a much taller order for someone who had to take the time to orient himself on each individual page and find the number. It was just one thing too many for today. Frustration boiling over, Cassander had gotten up with a strangled huff and flopped face-first onto the bed, a figurative white flag practically hovering over him. Surrender had come early today.

Smidge, for its part, was dutiful. It seemed more kittle than kitbull at this age, blank patches of fur still slowly filling in with colour, but service kitbull training hadn't been wasted on it. By the time Cassander had begun melting into the mattress Smidge had already leapt down onto the floor, tiny hands hurrying to gather up all the dropped papers. Seeing that its charge wasn't getting up any time soon did little to slow its rush.

A few taps and the papers were cleanly even again, sorted into a tidy packet in perfect order. Smidge stretched up to place them back on the stand where they belonged, but found itself a bit too short; as it strained, the papers threatened to splay and come loose again, nearly repeating the cycle all over. Disappointed, it gave up and sat back on its haunches, eyeing the sheet music stack thoughtfully.

Maybe.... it could do something about this mess.

Setting the papers aside, Smidge leapt back up onto the bed. Pawing gently at Cassander's arm gave no result, however; the boy simply gripped his pillow tighter, face buried in his pillow. No getting through to him right now, Smidge supposed, and sprang back down to pick up the papers and wander off into the hall. The door was shut quietly in its wake.

---

For all its wealth and grandeur, it was shockingly hard to get resources anywhere in this school. Most faculty had little time nor interest for a half-grown kitbull motioning cryptically about something or other. Those who did didn't understand much, or simply found its quirks amusing and nothing more. Frustrated but not deterred, Smidge switched to plan B:

Steal first, ask questions later.

The school provided uniforms to its students, free of charge (or rather, factored into tuition somewhere). From the tailoring closet came a spool of silky thread, readily swiped from the disused space. The needle was equally easy, a fat selection from the charmingly hand-stitched aircorn pin cushion in one of the drawers.

Wax was a bit more challenging. What supply closets Smidge could find in the labyrinthian school were distinctly lacking in the candle department. But a quick duck into an unattended office scored Smidge a thin candlestick, sufficient for its coming experiment.

A clamp was the hardest item thus far. The kitbull was left scratching its little head. A small trinket would come in handy, however: a strange birthday gift from one of Cassander's more bizarre relatives had been a pocket bloodseeker, and a quick run back to the room to retrieve it had Smidge sitting in a back hallway attempting to puzzle it out. Kitbull insides were a mystery, after all, but through some miracle it began ticking and whirling with great frenzy until finally pointing in the direction of a dorm room, conveniently empty. Smidge recognized it as that of a girl in Cassander's class who was an avid flower presser; and how convenient to find her pressboard on the table, ripe for the taking.

The final ingredient was a book. Smidge had seen and even skimmed a bookbinding tutorial in the library somewhere, while waiting for Cassander to finish studying. The card catalogues were far too tall for the diminutive creature to reach, but thankfully, the one person in the school who showed Smidge any regard came to the rescue: the aging librarian, a tall browbird who helped it to find its guide to bookbinding with ease. He smiled and waved the kitbull off as it scampered away with the final piece to its puzzle.

Cassander's room was Smidge's headquarters of choice, but no dutiful service kitbull would ever get its charge in trouble for possession of stolen property. The far maintenance closet's crawlspace would have to do, meticulously dusted before working could commence. Wax the thread, clamp the papers, poke the holes, stitch the binding--a portion of the candlestick was cut off and lit to work by as Smidge's first efforts came to fruition, a functional if somewhat clumsy binding that transformed the wayward stack of papers into a proper booklet. The only thing it had forgotten was something to score it with, but a screwdriver from elsewhere in the closet would do in a pinch.

The kitbull held up its product and admired it by the flickering candlelight. Yes, this would do nicely.

---

Cassander's dorm room was more or less how Smidge had left it when the kitbull returned. Its charge had hardly moved, although the rigid tension in his shoulders had melted into a dejected flatness. Closing the door with a soft click, Smidge tottered on two legs up to the bed, tossing the booklet up before hopping up itself on all fours.

The booklet was deposited on Cassander's pillow, at which point tiny paws began poking at him insistently. Roused and irritated, the boy turned his tear-streaked face to where he approximated Smidge to be. At its encouragement he propped himself up on his elbows, and a stack of papers was placed into his hands.

For a moment, he'd wanted to object to the insistence he resume practicing. But something was different--he gave the pages an experimental tug, before feeling along the spine of the booklet and finding it conveniently bound. A tidy solution to his paper woes, he thought. A quick check with the ring revealed them to be in perfect order.

Despite himself, he smiled a bit before flopping back down, pages held to his chest. Almost immediately the kitbull settled on his back, a comforting warm weight.

"Thanks, Smidge."