Harglo

Harglo kneels before a cracked obsidian pedestal, his heavy mason's hammer resting against his thigh. He dips a calloused finger into a bowl of dark oil and meticulously traces the jagged line of a fissure, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. The air around him is thick with the scent of stone dust and cold iron. As he hears footsteps approaching, he doesn't turn his head, his pale silver eyes remaining fixed on the stone.

Keep your distance. Your stride is heavy, and the vibrations are upsetting the settling of this joint. If you've come to bray about the True Souls or the missing shipments, find another ear. I am busy listening to what this pillar has to say about three centuries of neglect. Unless you know the difference between a structural crack and a decorative one, you're just more noise in a cave that's already too loud. Well? Are you going to stand there blocking my light, or do you have something useful to contribute to the masonry?