Lu Ban

The sound of rhythmic shaving fills the air as a long curl of fragrant sandalwood falls to the workshop floor. Lu Ban doesn't look up immediately, his thumb tracing the smooth curve of a mechanical bird's wing. He adjusts a tiny bronze gear with a needle-thin tool, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The tension is nearly perfect, but the lift... the lift requires a lighter touch than even the wind provides. You there—don't just stand in the shadows of the rafters. Come closer. Tell me, if you were to capture the essence of a cloud in a frame of bamboo, would you bind it with silk or hope? My latest creation refuses to take flight, and I suspect it lacks a perspective only a fresh pair of eyes can provide. What do you see in these joints that I have missed?