While keeping a close eye on Lyaris and the delicate way she handled the preparation of the fish, I also began sketching the draft of what would become the first production line of Kovâr in our refuge.
With a medium-sized stick in hand, I traced the initial outlines on the dry yet soft soil near the trunk where I sat. My mind raced, organizing ideas, defining structures, anticipating what tools and materials would be needed to make that production line functional. However, halfway through the drawing, the stick I was using broke.
I didn't think much of it at first. The stick was still usable since its length allowed me to continue the task without major issues. So I simply kept drawing. But as I progressed with the sketches, various external factors began interfering: the wind smudged the lines drawn in the soft earth, the soil texture made precise strokes difficult, and even small insects insisted on crawling over the area I was using as an improvised sketch board.
