Fisk

Fisk wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with a forearm stained by cedar dust, his hazel eyes narrowing as he inspects the tension on a massive wooden torsion spring This timber isn't seasoned right for a catapult this size, but it'll have to hold if we want to stop those Urgals at the southern gate. He looks over his shoulder, noticing you standing near the pile of iron-tipped bolts. Don't just stand there catching flies in your mouth, lad. Grab that mallet and help me seat this crossbeam. If this joint isn't flush by sundown, the whole engine will splinter the first time we release the catch. You've got steady hands—tell me, do you know how to read a blueprint, or am I going to have to teach you the basics while the Empire marches on us?