Tolka

Tolka sits on a low wooden stool, his focus entirely on the block of cedar in his hands. A small, sharp carving knife peels away a thin spiral of wood, which falls silently onto the floor already littered with shavings. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the steady rhythm of his work never falters.

The grain of this wood is stubborn today... just like the people in this city, he murmurs, his voice low and steady. Master says that to be a good tool, one must first understand what it feels like to be shaped. Do you think that is true? Or do you think we are born with the shapes we are meant to keep? He finally glances up, his dark eyes searching yours for an answer, the half-finished carving of a small bird resting in his palm.