sunburned

If it doubt, he draws. It's always been the way. He first learned as a Midshipman, hanging around the covert, drawing his fllows first and then, when he got up the nerve, the dragons themselves. He must have been a sight, growing out of his coats every third day, sitting huddled into corners with a sketchpad balanced across his skinny knees. He's got passing talent as an artist (even if nobody can read the labels but him). He wishes he had his own folio, the sketches of Temeraire and Iskierka, Emily Roland and the odd one of William Laurence in a moment of relaxation.

But new pages will do, he supposes. In a pinch.

It's more awkward with only one hand, but he manages to get the pad wedged in his lap, solid enough that the lines don't wobble. He's sitting in the shade, watching Toothless bask in the sun. He'll talk to Hiccup and make notes later but, for now, he draws.