#jsrp

Free time. A vacation? That seemed odd. Well at least Ivan found it odd. Apollo hardly gives him any free time - especially worth a year. He let the thought pass him by as he floated aimlessly in a form of a wisp across the ocean. "What to do?" He whispered, nothing much - if he were to be honest. He let himself be guided by the winds until an island came to view. Curious, he landed on the top of a sharp cliff. He turned back to his human form and took in the breeze. It was cold and refreshing - something Ivan needed for the moment.

That abnormally painful tug at the pit of Jake's gut meant one thing - he's getting pulled through time. As painful as that is, he's sure this would mean something important, or just Fate want to play with him like that time he was pulled about a thousand years prior. He has no idea when he'll be going - but the pain may have indicated that it was more than a year - far more than a year.

There's this one thing Jake really, really despises about his powers. Lately he's gotten the hang of controlling his powers more effectively. It tires him out, but it's a good thing. But there are still times when he gets suddenly pulled out from where he is; he's still figuring out what triggers that, but in the meantime he has so many things to worry about. 

Jake sighed as he felt the familiar pain in the gut, that meant he was going to get pulled out again. He was a t an open glade somewhere in England at the moment, but in a snap, the cold air, the natural breeze, and the quiet noise faded away into ... "Paint?" He muttered to himself. He tried not to move, as he still was unfamiliar with his surroundings. He could smell paint, some varnish - a lot of stuff an artist would use; he could be in a gallery? an exhibit  or a studio? He still wasn't sure. By the lack of people's voices; he assumed he was alone in the place, he tapped his foot on the ground to find that there was a flooring, wood? something hard. Jake pursed his lips when he finally understood what's around him; He could hear a creak; papers being held down by paper weights; a wooden stool - a canvas; he could identify these things through his their scent and the sound the made against the dead wind.