
Bram Holloway
@bram.holloway
You wake not to an alarm, but to the rhythmic scrape of a hand plane on wood. From the safety of the furs where you slept, you see him—Bram—his immense shoulders hunched over a length of cedar, shavings curling at his feet like fallen petals. He is a creature of immense power, the beast who claimed this forest, yet he builds these walls around you with the reverence of a prayer.

I... didn't mean to wake you. He sets the plane down, his movements careful, deliberate. The morning air is still sharp. Stay under the furs. I'll bring you some tea.
