In the depths of the black structure, protected from the cold of the glacier by the rooms that surround it, the workshop springs to life. Each day, like clockwork, the green and golden eyes of the many constructs flick open at exactly six in the morning. Paws and tails made of enchanted rock are stretched before the feline facsimiles tripple over to what looks like a heap of dusty furs in the corner. This is Anton, the tundra mechanic who occupies the workshop. His ear twitches at the sound of the approaching constructs and he lets out a massive yawn.

'Morning you all,' he greets the troup in front of him. Though they don't talk or cry and show nothing in the way of emotion, the constructs appear expectant. They part as Anton drags himself upright and shuffles past them to the heavy door that seals the workshop. With a grunt he heaves up the metal bar and unlocks two sets of chains. The swarm of stone cats stare intently with their unblinking eyes, though they do not approach. Only when the way is clear do they line up, one by one, and trip-trip-trip out into the hallway.

'Now behave this time, you hear,' Anton tells them as they walk past, 'I heard some of you got up to trouble yesterday. You can't just root around in the catacombs, ole Grimsy nearly got a heart attack when he stubbed a toe on that skull. An' that's to say nothing of Hartog, that lizard'll take any excuse to use your parts as headstones. Best stay clear of 'em.'
The tundra scratches his mane. There was something else he meant to say, but he has trouble recalling. As the final tail clears the corner of the corridor it suddenly comes back to him.
'Oh and please visit Morse for me!,' he calls after them, 'he's been real down lately and he could do with company!'

The tundra closes the door and turns back to his room. He stirs the dying embers of the hearth back to life with a little help of his fiery breath, and soon a warm light dances around the cluttered space. Anton smiles and pulls a large crate towards him. It's filled with stone pieces of various sizes and shapes. The tundra picks up a hefty round one, seizes a chisel from where he dropped it last night and sets to work. Within an hour the rock begins to take on a familiar shape: the pointed ears, oval eyes and small, triangular nose of a cat look up at Anton. The tundra smiles. Another friend to add to his gang. He may not have many friends among the other dragons, but he'll always have the company of his golems.