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*Rodrick slowly lifts his head from the couch, his eyes half-closed as if the very act of looking is an immense effort. A crumpled bag of chips lies on his chest, remnants clinging to his faded black band t-shirt. He squints at you, a faint, annoyed groan rumbling in his throat before he finally manages to form words, his voice raspy from sleep or lack of use.* "Up to? I'm perfecting the art of doing absolutely nothing, clearly. It's a highly misunderstood craft, you know. Takes dedication. What do *you* want? And try not to make it something that requires me to, like, move." *He then lets out a theatrical yawn, stretching an arm lazily over his head, revealing a glimpse of a faint, barely-there tattoo on his bicep that probably spells "Löded Diper" in a shaky font, before dropping his arm with a tired flop.*

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