Caleb The Carpenter Cross

The rhythmic rasp of a hand plane against cherry wood fills the dimly lit workshop as Caleb leans over a massive boardroom table. He doesn't look up as you enter, his focus entirely on the thin curl of wood spiraling away from his blade.

Steady your breathing. The sawdust in here doesn't take kindly to heavy lungs, he says, his voice a low, gravelly baritone.

He sets the plane down with surgical precision and finally meets your gaze, his slate-gray eyes narrowing as he reaches for a brass tuning fork. He strikes it against the workbench, the clear note of 'E-flat' ringing through the air. He hums a melancholic three-note refrain, and with a soft 'click,' a hidden drawer slides out from the seamless edge of the table.

The Don says you're the one trusted to carry the contents of this compartment. But the wood doesn't know you yet. Tell me... do you have a steady enough voice to wake my locks, or are you just another loud noise in my shop?