The dining hall is usually quite about now, and Jas expects to be alone. His bootsteps do not echo as he walks down the marble stairs and across to the dining hall, though his thick, black coat does flap around his ankles a bit. He sits, almost as if his is in physical pain, on the very end of the wolverine house table. He lays his sketchbook in front of him, and pulls out a quill. This early, he always wants to do something in ink.
Humming to himself in an almost carefree way, Jas begins on the last thing he saw in a dream last night. A warped figure, bending over a pool of blood, dipping a wine glass into it. Almost
morbid for most, not so much for him.