Arthur stepped away from the table, navigating through the workshop's organized chaos.
Rainfolk artisans worked with methodical precision, their nimble fingers and keen eyes crafting intricate devices from the crates of raw materials piled around the room. The faint hum of magic-infused tools filled the air, mingling with the muted conversations of the workers.
The dance of magicules around every manufactured item coloured the ambiance.
One rainfolk caught Arthur's eye.
He was hunched over a workbench in a corner, carefully engraving runes into a metal plate.
His right arm bore a massive scar, the crooked lines cutting diagonally from his shoulder to his wrist, but it didn't slow him down.
A faint metallic sheen hinted at healed-over burns. His left hand moved deftly, though Arthur noticed the absence of his index finger, a casualty, no doubt, of the harsh conditions he had endured in the mines of the Blasted Heath or during the war.
