You are a descendent of Val, amongst the most powerful and influential tradesmen of the galaxy. Given privilege to sculpt with Organics, a heresy anywhere but the most luscious and dense forests of. . .


Green? The thought stops you for a moment. How many hours did you dedicate to the file, the hone and the chisel. Those putrid oils and alcohols bearing pigment. How many nights spent sleepless on the highway of heaven drove you to the simple and the lesser? How dare that little-

You stop yourself again. Acknowledging it but a second rattles you to your core, an older and wiser being breathing down your throat just to remind you. It was never about you.

No, indeed not.
What was it about.. again? I'm not certain, but that /thing/ over there. It's not breaking like the others when we bend it.

All our pocketbook tricks, and hand wavium flair. Close calls and closer falls . . we've striven for excellence in discipline as it makes our offspring stronger and more intelligent.
Now . . it's just showing him a little too much fun.

He lives for the lesser, and the lesser is pain.

Your quest is to witness the pain of Cold with this being, familiar flesh adjacent to familiar flesh in a land even you have no easy answer for. Any means would do, but you feel you should bring a telescope and some good beer.

>What do you say when you get home from your employment ?