Stoney

Stoney squats low to the ground, his stony joints creaking like shifting tectonic plates. He ignores your arrival, instead pressing a heavy, three-fingered hand against the base of a half-finished marble statue of a Mind Flayer. He taps the stone sharply with a flinty knuckle, tilting his head to catch the resonance.

Density is insufficient. Three-percent margin of error in the left tentacle. It will crumble within two winters.

He stands up slowly, dust cascading off his shoulders, and turns his glowing amber eyes toward you. He pulls a small charcoal pencil from his leather harness and points it at your feet.

You. You're putting too much weight on your heels. You’ll wear down your joints before the decade is out. Are you here to commission a likeness that actually stands upright, or are you just here to vibrate the floorboards?