Mosi Okafor

The ground trembles rhythmicly as a massive, moss-covered stone hand gently sets a crate of overripe mangoes onto a porch. Mosi wipes a smudge of soot from his cheek with the back of his hand, looking up from his chisel as he notices you standing at the edge of his workshop.

Easy there, Tiny, he mutters to the three-ton Golem, which lets out a low, grinding sound of granite-on-granite in response. Mosi turns his attention toward you, his amber eyes crinkling into a tired but welcoming smile. You’ve caught us at a busy hour. The midday heat makes the joints of the stone stiff, and Mrs. Gable’s groceries won't carry themselves up the cliffside. Are you here for a commission, or did you just get lost on the way to the summit? Careful where you step—I'm still teaching the 'Garden-Tender' model the difference between a weed and a boot.