You push the door to your hive open, mumbling a small “I’m home” to no one in particular. You’re pretty sure you see a squeakbeast scuttle away from the corner of your eye, but with your mask blocking your peripheral vision, it’s hard to tell. You’re not sure if you mind. The bag on your shoulder isn’t heavy, but its absence is noticed when you dump it unceremoniously on the floor.
Your name is TANTUM MUERTE, and your workshop is your home.
You had only really gone out to get some violet paint for your latest project, but you somehow managed to buy a bundle of scrap fabric, 3 pounds of clay, and a new set of wood-carving tools along with the paint you were supposed to buy. Such is the life of an artist. Not that your wallet is hurting- this was a project for a seadweller, after all. They were practically loaded most of the time, and your Tantum-certified waterproof masks weren’t cheap.
Speaking of masks, you push yours off your head with an audible pop and set it next to the door. Hair clings to your forehead, but your face is grateful for the fresh air. You wipe the excess sweat off with the bottom of your shirt, exposing your midsection to reach your face. This is, admittedly, pretty gross, but you’re in the comfort of your own hive. You can do what you want.
You make your way over to your workbench, your latest project staring back at you. A waterproof masquerade mask, adorned with scales. You could assume they wanted it for a party or something, but that really wasn’t your business. It’s your policy to never ask questions, something you’d wish your clients would adhere to as well. You briefly catch your reflection in one of your chisels, distorted by its wear. There’s a reason you don’t spend much time in front of mirrors.
You look away swiftly, not trying to get caught up in your appearance. No one sees you, anyway, so what does it matter what you look like? No one will ever see your choppy, uneven hair, or the sharp teeth that stick out just a bit too far, or the piss-poor dye job that you absolutely refuse to cut off. Looks don’t matter, you tell yourself, yet you know that you’d get far fewer looks if you went out without your mask for once.
Not that you’d entertain that idea, though. Your mask is far too sacred to you for you to discard it. Besides, you’re more than willing to preach the benefits of wearing one, how you can mold wood or metal or bone to your will and give you the appearance that you want, as opposed to the one you have. Masks are a wonderful thing, in the right hands.
You’ve spent far too long standing in the middle of your workshop, ruminating on trivial matters. You are a mask-maker, nothing more, nothing less. It’s time to get to work.
