Writing Sample:
Math, artwork, and craftsmanship had become one in the hands of this wolfish creature, and he lifted the gun up, out in front of him, so that it glinted beautifully in the light. It was amazing, to him, that he could make something that was so small, and yet so complex, in this very chamber of the Argo. A faint smile crossed his lips, in pure satisfaction, and he flicked his silver tail, gray-toned eyes glimmering with care and energy. The barrel had been blued, and the stock had been ever so carefully carved and was now as glossy as the steel itself. He held it there, easily, in his hands, then, in one flick, turned it over. That side matched perfectly in just the right places. Zik set it down, then, and leapt to the side, and strode quickly forward. He knelt down, below a table, where there was a small box, and with wide eyes, dug through the items in it, shoving this aside and picking that up for a moment, and within a few seconds, he held the correct jar of paint in his hands.
With the tiniest brush he painted green onto the front sight of the gun, and there... it was done. That finishing touch now ensured that whoever shot the gun would be able to see better and faster what they were shooting at, with the bright color to guide their way. Yes, it truly was a work of beauty, and one of the hardest weapons to construct by hand. Zik set it down, then, on the table in front of him, and took a small step back, looking at the pistol. After a moment of standing still, he hopped suddenly forward, and snatched it up with a wide smile, as though to say he was done and would do no more, though of course he would have to test it out later, and have the gun master approve of it as well. Hopefully he wouldn't smoke in this room. Maybe Zik would bring it to him instead.
He hopped up onto a shelf, thankful once more that he did not break it, and peaked over a higher shelf, where some knives, another gun, and a few other small weapons lay. Setting the new gun down amongst them, careful not to let the tiny bit of paint touch anything, he leapt back down, and stopped there for a moment. He scanned the room... now what to do next? Everything, it seemed, needed done, which was absolutely wonderful, because he wanted to do it all. The room was amazingly clean, because he so loved everything there, and didn't want it to have so much as a speck of dust to ruin it. Besides, he was always doing something, and if he felt he'd made too many extra weapons that would not be needed soon, he uncluttered and dusted and organized everything as much as he possibly could.
Now, though, everything was fine, and there was almost no organizing to do of any sort, and anyhow, he wasn't really in the mood for cleaning. He wanted to do something fun. Of course, he almost always wanted to do something fun, but right now, he was in his room... in his element. With a quick movement he turned to his left, and jogged over to another shelf, on the opposite wall. He then grabbed up a bow that shined with light color and set it on the table the gun had been on. Next to the box of paints was a box of other odds and ends, and in this box he stuck his hand. He yanked it quickly out again, though, with a yelp of pain, and winced. It was the box of chisels, and one of the sharp ones had indeed chiseled a slit in his hand. He immediately grabbed it with his right hand, trying to put pressure on it, and merely stood for a moment, at a loss of what to do. Finally he gained the courage to look at it again, and saw that it wasn't that bad. With a sigh, he ripped a piece of material from his shirt and covered his hand with it.
He went back to work, chiseling a design into the bow, but somehow he found that he could not keep his mind off of that hand. It hurt, and the longer he worked with it, the more useless it became. After about 40 minutes, he found that it was stiffening, swelling, and he did not doubt that it had somehow been infected. The swelling and inability to move correctly (even if it was just his left hand) was affecting his art anyhow, and he decided that he ought to do something about it. He jumped over the table and trotted over to the sink. He turned it on for a moment, and it spat out some water, which he assumed would have cleansed the wound, then wrapped it up again. It was still swelled. He didn't know what else to do, and yet, he wanted to be able to work with his hands. Scrunching his face and flattening his ears at the dilemma, he walked to the stairs and jogged up them, skipping every other step and closing the door behind him, entering a hallway in the ship.
He swayed back and fourth in a fast rhythm, looking forward, and thought to himself determinedly, "Find something to do. Find something to do with out your hands. Find some-...I have to go to the bathroom." A pirate's gotta do what a pirates gotta do, so he pranced the short way to the bathroom, and did his business just fine. He looped his thumb through his belt loop, and hoisted his pants to his thighs, then pulled a thumb out. The other one stayed there... in the loop, stuck. A distressed anguish came over him, and he narrowed his eyes, yanking at the swollen thumb again. He let out a low squeaking sound of disappointment, and desperately grabbed his pants with one hand, and tried to pull the thumb again. It wasn't working. Despite his distressingly embarrassing situation, Zik began to laugh at himself for a moment, then pulled again.
After a moment, he began to see that this technique was simply not going to work, so he sat on the floor, making himself as small as possible, and got the belt-loop close enough to his face that he could chew on it a little bit. Sharp teeth have their advantages, but he wished he'd had a knife with him now. He pulled and chomped with his jaws, barely able to reach the whole time, and both embarrassed and amused, sitting on the floor of the little bathroom. Finally, in one last, strong pull with his canines, the belt loop came loose, and he found himself flung backwards, his head knocking into the door. He rubbed the back of his head, and pulled his pants up again - not by the belt loops this time - buttoning them where needed. He was almost afraid to come out of the room, but of course, he would have to do so at some point. Now was as good a time as any. He stopped, upon opening the door, and looked around. No one. Good, he thought to himself, that was a relief for sure. Only a little white bird, who seemed to be squinting at him. How the hell did a bird get on the boat? Maybe it had hopped on unnoticed last time they'd landed somewhere. He stuck his tongue out at it, and it hopped closer. He whipped a little knife out of his pocket, quick as lightening, and with a snap of his wrists it was in the little morsel's head, stuck to the floor of the boat. Dinner. He smiled and began to pace forward confidently.
And suddenly it hit him.
He stopped, burst out laughing, and hoped to God that no one saw him, for they might have thought that he was insane, laughing for no apparent reason as he was. He'd had a knife the whole time. The whole time! After he was done with his laughing fit, he shook his head and grabbed up the bird and the knife. All in a days work.
