A polished wooden board in the shape of a handsaw swings gently from a rusted chain above this breezy, well-built workshop. Unlike many of Camp Dragon’s haphazard structures, this building shows the mark of careful hands — fitted joints, mortised beams, and elegantly curved supports. It's one of the few places in town that looks like it might endure the jungle’s constant, creeping decay.
The front third of the structure is open to the air, shaded by a tiled overhang. Inside, you see a muscular man in a leather apron, his brow slick with sweat, shaping a plank with swift, practiced strokes. Tools lie everywhere — saws, hammers, nails, chisels, prybars — organized chaos for a master at work.
But not everything matches the display of excellence.
Amid the finely made tables, chairs, desks, and chests that line the shop walls, there are two newly finished chairs and a table under construction. These pieces are rough, uneven. Joints are ill-fitted. Nails bite too deep or sit too proud. The wood feels wrong. A casual observer might miss the shift — but to the keen-eyed, something here is rushed. Off. Hollow.