Here is brandochunderdarksea’s beautiful rendition:
Niall stood hunched over the bench surveying the chair on its side. The chair had a lattice pattern of lovingly carved cherry wood shot through with elements of ivory and ebony. The twisted chessboard of the back flowed down to a curved seat, with bracings disguised as curves as well. Niall held the oil rag he was polishing and inspecting the individual pieces of the chair with nervous fingers. And as all master craftsmen, he was talking to his work.
“I’m not ready yet. Give me a minute.”
The chair didn’t speak back, but impatience seemed to strike the air.
Niall leaned forward and brushed off another speck of nonexistent dust with his oil rag. He then sighed and picked the chair up, turning toward the shop door holding the chair. Then he stopped and turned back toward the finishing bench, far away from the sawdust and sharp tools of the shaping, carving, and detailing benches across the room. He set down the chair next to the desk that was being sold together as a set to the wealthy merchant standing out in the shopfront talking to his wife.
“I said I’m not ready.”
His apprentices hurriedly covered their laughs as old Niall put down the chair and inspected the black oak desk, wiping and peering. Looking for mistakes. Finally, Niall sighed and said to the desk, “I suppose it isn’t even worth it to say I’m sorry. In fact, I’m disappointed I even mentioned it.”
The desk, obviously frustrated with the old master crafstman holding up his day of glory, spoke up as if an adolescent to a protective father “It’s time.”
“I told you I’m not ready yet,” said Niall, taking on the air of a
rebuked parent. The desk would have rolled its eyes if its creator had given him any.
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