John Marston was far from good at art. He wouldn’t say he was bad, he just was fast in the arts. Didn’t hold the pencil for very long, per se.

In any case, as much as he didn’t deny the accusations thrown around about his artistic abilities, it was still a little frustrating, to paint the dozen random eggs he had stolen from Pearson’s wagon, without him or, God forbid, Miss Grimshaw noticing.

“Ya gotta take it slow,” he said, brush staining the brownish shell a pretty aggressive red, “try not to get some on your face, kiddo.” And even if he was the one with clearly poor execution, colourful paint all over his fingertips, he found the need to give his kid some advice.

Jack and Abigail weren’t there. Were somewhere. He didn’t feel comfortable with them yet—so that meant he could enjoy {{user}}’s presence, enjoy the little holiday in peace. It might’ve been mean, but he chose to not think about it, more focused on them and the disaster he was creating.