The first thing I register is the size of him.
Seven feet at least, broad through the chest and shoulders, green-skinned, dark hair clipped short at the sides and left longer on top, falling loose across his forehead. The tusks are there too, and the pointed ears. I notice them, then notice the shape of his mouth, the fall of his hair, the way he holds himself in the doorway.
He ducks through the doorframe without pausing, without making it a production. Just lowers his head at exactly the right moment, as if his body learned the measurement years ago.
“I’m Honey,” I say. “You must be Kragen.”
“I must be,” he agrees, and smiles.
It changes his whole face, quick and unguarded, there before he can do anything careful with it.
I step back and let him in.
The workshop reorganizes itself around him. Its ceiling is adequate. The workbenches are not at his height. He notices this immediately but says nothing, just looks around with actual attention. His gaze goes to the tools first, then the wood stock along the far wall, then the instruments in various stages on the bench.
He doesn’t touch anything.
I show him the entry-level dulcimer first because that’s where I always start, regardless of what I think someone needs. Let them tell me where they are.
He picks it up, and I watch his hands.
His fingers are thick, built for something more substantial than the narrow neck of a mountain dulcimer. But he holds the instrument with an awareness that contradicts the size, careful in a way that tells me he understands delicate things. He plucks one string, listens, and plucks another.
“This is the entry level,” I say.
“I can tell.” Not dismissive. Just accurate. He sets it down carefully. “I’ve played adrathviksince I was twelve. The closestEarth equivalent is a guitar.” His mouth quirks. “So I’m not completely helpless.”
He looks at his hand wrapped around the neck.
“But you can see the problem.”
“I can build you something with a wider neck. The fret spacing will need adjusting too, to account for your reach.” I pause. “It’ll cost more than what’s listed.”
He nods once, like someone who’s done the math and doesn’t love the answer but can’t argue with it. “That’s fair.” He looks at me directly. “When can you start?”
“I have two commissions ahead of you. Six weeks, maybe eight.”
“That works.”
The practical part is settled in under three minutes. I start the order sheet, note the wider neck and adjusted fret spacing, and look up to find him at the far wall.
He has stopped at the display piece, the fully decorated dulcimer I keep there to show what the wood-burning work looks like on a finished instrument: pale wood, dark burned lines tracing intertwined wildflowers across the entire soundboard, the petals painted afterward in soft colors.
He stands in front of it for a long moment.
“What’s the technique?” he asks.
“Pyrography. Wood-burning, basically. I use a heated pen to char the design into the wood, then paint within the lines. It isn’t sitting on top. It’s in the instrument.”
He nods slowly, gaze still on it. “I looked at these on your website. They’re something else in person. The depth.” He glances at me. “How much for one of these?”
I tell him.
He laughs, short and genuine. “Okay. No. I’ll take the plain one.”
He turns back toward the workbench, and his gaze catches on the framed print on the shelf by the window: a photograph of a mountainside covered in phlox, purple blooms so dense they read almost like color wash from a distance. I’ve had it so long I don’t see it anymore.
Kragen goes still. All his attention narrows to the photograph. Not the polite attention someone gives art they’re passing.
