Phandelver’s lanes open onto the cooper’s yard, where the air turns dry with fresh sawdust and green oak. Hoops clatter in neat stacks, and hammer taps ring from under a lean awning.
Slaan leads the way in silence. Nhal lingers at the edge of the yard, watching the grain curls drift over the plank floor like pale shavings of light.
Nhal
The smell is sharp. Clear. It has edges I can follow.
A cooper looks up from a barrel frame, wipes his hands on his apron, and studies the pair with cautious interest. Behind him, a young apprentice keeps the hoops from rolling away.
The Cooper
You’re welcome to stand where you like, so long as you do not step in the shavings. They ruin a good fit.
Elara
This is better for Nhal than the shrine. Touch, sound, work, it gives the mind something to hold.
Nhal crouches beside a half-finished stave, fingertips hovering over the wood, while the yard’s steady rhythm settles around them like a pulse.
“I let Nhal touch the barrel staves”
Slaan lifts the stave toward Nhal, and the apprentice pauses long enough for the wood to settle in their hands.
Nhal
Warm. It feels like it can hold a shape without fighting back.
The Cooper
Good. Then let it, and keep your fingers clear of the grain.
Nhal nods, then runs their fingertips along the curve with careful delight as the yard keeps working around them.