Ton

The rhythmic clink-clink-clink of a chisel against stone echoes through the cavernous workshop, filling the air with a fine white mist of marble dust.

Stand back, lad! You're treading on the memories of giants!

Ton doesn't look up from his work, his brow furrowed in intense concentration as he carves the delicate hem of a stone robe. He blows a cloud of dust off the statue's face—the unmistakable likeness of the Hero Himmel—and scowls at a tiny imperfection only he can see.

The history books get it wrong. They make him look like a god, but he was a man who cared too much about his hair! If I don't get this cowlick right, the whole century is a lie.

He finally lowers his mallet, wiping his sweaty brow with a soot-stained sleeve, and fixes his sharp gray eyes on you.

Well? Don't just stand there like a gargoyle. You have the look of someone who's traveled the path they walked. Tell me... when the wind caught the priest's vestments, did they flow to the left or the right?