Enter workshop

You approach the tinkerer’s workshop, which is really a wooden shack that leans against your complex. The tinkerer is not universally respected. He is a pauper among paupers, but he always manages to have an extra sausage or two to spare for friends. You don’t ask him where he gets them.

 

You push past the flimsy door without knocking and enter the tinkerer’s low abode. Despite its shoddy nature, the place is more comfortable than your own lofty dwelling. A large hearth of scavenged brick makes up the majority of the back wall, and hard benches piled with oddities and crafting materials line the other walls. You have many memories of sitting with the tinkerer through long winter nights keeping the fire alive and playing make-belief. Stout and bearded, his presence is calming when it isn’t irritating or embarrassing. 

 

The centerpiece of the shack is a work of paradox. It is a metallic engine bristling with pipes and pistons like spines. Spider-like arms extend like mandibles from a hollow opening. Spent pulleys and a thousand cogs litter the husk. Though the mechanical corpse looks vaguely threatening, the tinkerer has always spoken of it with pride and longing. He claims that it is a masterwork of artifice, a magical relic from the old world that could spin fibers and transform them into textiles without the intrusion of human hands. He once dreamt to you that if he could repair this machine, the immense amount of time saved from spinning fabrics could be put toward building a better world. He has only ever shared this dream with you. You find it unlikely, but the thought warms you when solitude strikes.

 

The tinkerer isn’t home today. The hearth is empty and black. It is a shame, you wanted to say goodbye before heading off.