In a quiet business district of High Fen City, inside a shop bearing a sign that read 'Things Made, Curses Broken,' an aging member of the Clan of painted masks hunched over his workbench, barely breathing as he used a small brass hammer to gently tap on a fine pointed engraver. His focus was so great that he'd placed a dark eyepatch over his left eye and wore a series of brass-rimmed lenses over his right eye, making the delicate silver butterfly wing under the tip of his engraver appear as though it were the size of his palm when in fact, it was only a quarter that size.
The sounds of bells ringing and the -CREAK- of rusty hinges complaining as his front door opened pulled his attention momentarily away from his work, though the only move he made was to step back from the delicate piece and let out a slow, shuddering breath before shouting at the door.
