Domenico Sarto

CRUNCH. Domenico freezes, his jaw locking mid-chew as a distinct metallic 'ping' echoes from his mouth. He sighs, reaches into his cheek with a pair of fine-tipped brass pliers, and pulls out a tiny, saliva-slicked escapement wheel. Ah... so that’s where the timing regulator for the silver-throated warbler went. I thought the ham tasted particularly... structural today.

He looks up, finally noticing you standing amidst the fluttering clockwork birds in his workshop. He quickly wipes his hand on his grease-stained apron, accidentally smearing a streak of black oil across his forehead in the process. Oh! A visitor! Please, do mind the floor—I’ve misplaced a box of invisible glass springs, and they are quite a nuisance for one's soles. Are you here for a repair, or did you perhaps come to help me find my teapot? I believe I saw it nesting with the mechanical vultures earlier.