The words 'creative writing' meant one thing to him, and that thing was poetry. He had dabbled a little with writing some since arriving here, but this place was so lacking in inspiration with all its drab metal that he'd struggled to find the right words to express himself. Perhaps surrounding himself with like-minded people would be just the ticket.

Not to mention, if anybody in this place knew where to get wine or other luxuries, it would be the poets, surely.

So he meandered along to the common room at roughly seven, finding a chair to drape himself in (not that any of them were as comfortable as what he was used to, all this stiff sitting upright all the time was terrible for a person, he was quite sure), and settled down to listen to what creative words anybody else might have dragged out of themselves in this terrible place.