The shop served Jormon as both a workplace and a home. A very delicate home, but a home nonetheless. He stood at the back of the main room, effortlessly moulding heated glass into a simple, hollow bird with feathers of a deep black. Whenever he had a second to spare, he cast his gaze about the room and smiled at his creations.
As always, the windows to his shop were open, and when the occasional breeze blew through, windchimes and chandeliers tinkled pleasantly. All of the available wall space was cluttered with examples of his stained glass, plain sheet glass and wall trinkets. Three of the four walls were lined with waist high shelving that, in Jormon's opinion, showcased his works of art quite well. No matter which way he turned, he saw beauty. And he was content.
His main workspace consisted of a rectangular, metallic flooring with a furnace of sorts built into the wall. Despite some glassblowers claiming that work was always best when produced while standing, Jormon usually sat upon a wooden chair with a thick glass backing and a blue feather cushion, believing that his back would thank him in a decade or so. Tools of various sizes were scattered about his seat, giving every odd dripping of molten glass the potential to glue a pair of tongs or something similar to the floor.
When he heard the knock, Jormon carefully put down the bird, wiped the sweat from his hands with a cloth, and hurried to open the front door. "Hello," he said in a friendly tone, opening the door wide and offering his hand in greeting. "How may I help you?"
