Don't think that I am a harsh man. Think of me as a business man.
That's what I say to my clients. Oh, they come and go, so many of them. It's hard to turn them down. But the warmth of their... generosity feeds me, makes me whole, and everything that makes no sense at all suddenly comes to the surface when I see what they have to offer. It's an epiphany every time I open the box and see them stirring, like little angels.
I usually observe my collection once a day, to admire my keen tastes. You see, it's hard to find constructs these days, especially ones in such good condition. While I walk I hear them hum, sensing the heat of my skin, yearning for my kinetic life force. They are like sentient creatures, starving for food. Sometimes I feel like such a beastly man.
Each construct has a different color. They ought to. After all, it is hard to tell them apart. But I don't see them by their color. I see them by their texture. Not many know this, but constructs often link psychically with their owners. Original factory settings I think are the cause of this. No, long ago in some ancient world, a man thought better than most and deemed that each construct should cater to the wishes of their master. They can't think of course, but they can obey.
In Sog the boat keeper is more an historian than anything. If you asked me I could tell you the story of any construct. Here, in each jar, one flickers like a moth.
This one, here, was owned once by Harold Hårdråda. He was named after his distant grandfather. People misunderstood him; such a shame. I liked him. Each time I whisper a song of victory to the construct it expands, ever so slightly. His construct is 1.45% larger than when I began.
This one here, studded in gems and royal gold, was once owned by a king. He wasn't a nice king, but he had his reasons. Some say he loved his land far more than any other. He strangled to death his entire cabinet once when rumors of treason emerged. Afterward he stuffed their heads, reminders of their traitorous devices. Some called them ghastly while others regarded them in fascination. Do you know what I think though? I think he was just lonely...
Not many come back to the boat house for their constructs.
But Halldórr will. I could always trust in him.
Some call me a boat keeper. No need to call me that, though. We aren't on ceremony here. No, I am a keeper of secrets and wonder. You see, constructs are hardly sacred. Neither are they tools for us to use. They are fragments of peoples' souls. With thought and precision, the mind carves it and molds it to the user's liking.
Halldórr's construct is a beautiful boat. Oh, if you could see it. Halldórr told me that he formed his while on his journey to Orn. I am not certain why he would leave it behind. He was always one to just... go. I remember he told me that he wanted to see the land. When he left, I asked him if he was content leaving me his prize. But he was already gone.
Sometimes when a construct is born, it wants to see the world. Other times it wants to hide away never to face the light. I can't stand here and justify his mistakes with wishful thinking, but I can tell you one thing. Someday he will return. And when he does I will be waiting, and he will love me for it.