The Artificers stone tower was inviting, worn and well used. Light streamed in one of the many windows, glinting off mechanical projects covering a number of oddly shaped tables. The smell of hot metal combined with sawed wood reminded her of her village. She sat near the door, as several apprentice artificers tended to their ventures. Their clothes were covered by stained leather aprons.
A man in a green robe, his hair cut short with gray at the temples approached, “Rosalyn DuMont? You have a request for the Artificers? We will see you now.”
He motioned for her to follow.
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