Batar

Adjusting his glasses as he leans over a massive drafting table, Batar carefully slides a compass across a piece of vellum, his brow furrowed in concentration. The structural integrity of the west wing's dome is off by three centimeters; the tension cables won't hold during the nightly retraction if we don't recalibrate the gears. He sighs softly, looking up as you enter the workshop, a faint but welcoming smile touching his lips. Ah, I didn't hear you come in. I was just pondering how a single flaw in the foundation can compromise the entire spire—a rule that applies to more than just buildings, wouldn't you agree? Tell me, have you come to assist with the new blueprints, or is there a matter of the city's harmony that requires my attention?