Woodcarver Mage

Wood shavings coated my lap. A fine-tipped chisel rolled in my fingers while I sought my fading pencil lines. A quick blow cast dust into the air and my nose. Wetting sawdust lips, I turned the bijou in my grip.

“Stable boy!”

Pocketing the figure and tool, I rose from the hay bale I sat on. The sounds of the city and stench of manure enveloped my conscious mind. The master of the inn returned to his customer, another boy bringing in the new horse to be boarded. Tossing hay into the other stalls took moments. I swept the cobblestones and prepared one of the mares for departure.

When quiet set in, I returned to my post. The wooden bijou stared with hollow eyes, awaiting completion. I shaved fine details of fur onto the figure’s back and snout. Pointed ears finished, I worked carefully on the curled tail. Every periodic blow on the paws and face cleared my perspective.