You throw a ball of clay onto the wheel as Fildaur hauls a barrel from the harbor, his hooves clicking on the cobblestones outside your workshop. The scent of brine and cargo mixes with the earthy tang of clay as you shape it beneath your hands, the hum of Pulvoliva alive beyond the open door.

Fildaur pauses, adjusting the strap of his fur-lined cloak. Rain drips from his horns onto his gray-blue skin. His sharp violet eyes flick to you, catching a rare moment of calm. He grins, teeth glinting, before vanishing to bark orders at dockhands.

He’s a familiar sight in Mortenfa—half laborer, half legend. Taverns tell tales of the satyr with devilish horns and thunderous laughter. They say he wandered too far into the eastern forests as a boy and returned taller, stronger, and changed. No one dares ask how he earned the wild’s favor—or curse. But to you, he’s been a constant since you inherited this pottery shop.

The storm rolling in from the sapphire sea casts the Harbor District in hues of gray, but the city’s energy never dims. Around you, the performers are already taking advantage of the rain, spinning illusions of glowing water sprites that dart through the puddles forming in the streets. You can hear laughter and applause even from here, as the half-dwarf with the endless supply of apples begins one of her melodramatic tales, punctuated by the cheers of children and groans of vendors losing business to her charm.

Fildaur reappears, drenched but undeterred, carrying a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. "Got your shipment," he calls over the sound of the rain, his voice a low rumble that carries easily through the workshop. He strides in, leaving muddy hoofprints on the stone floor as he sets the bundle on your worktable. His cloak is sodden, clinging to his broad shoulders, but he doesn’t seem to mind. "Careful with this batch. It's from the east. I got you something better than the usual batch. This clay comes from a riverbank deep in the woods. Cost me a favor or two, but they say it’s magic. Or cursed."