It was a beautiful autumn day, not cold but not warm either. A breeze went through the trees surrounding camp, rustling the tent flaps.

Arthur was leaning against a tree, holding his journal in one hand, a pencil in another, his rough hands moving across the thin paper. He was glancing up at you from time to time, watching you clean your horse before returning his eyes to the paper. He liked the way the light hit your hair just right, showing its natural color; so why not draw it?