The vision had told Zavros that whatever he built, so long as he put his passion, his soul into it, it would last forever. That it would become something unique, something grand. Something worthy.<br/><br/>But that in itself wasn't enough. No. The sad wreckage that was this clipper...its sad state offended Zavros somewhere in his very soul. It was as if he could peer a little bit into its past; if a construct had a soul, surely he could see it! The care, the passion that went into its construction. Plank by plank, nail by nail. The hemp that was twisted to rope. The patchwork cloth that was raised to be makeshift sails.<br/><br/>It was a slapdash appearing piece of flotsam of a boat. But people, at sometime, someplace, had poured their hearts into it. Only for it to be abandoned, to be left to the ages to claim after a few hundred years.<br/><br/>"More wood." The small pieces of flotsam seemed to solidify beneath his touch. "More rope." Old, sea-eaten pieces of rope began to form, almost good as new. "More cloth." Ripped pieces of clothing soon began to shift and expand beneath his touch. "Could use a hand," he called out absentmindedly, "but I reckon this ol' girl will be better 'n new soon enough!"<br/><br/><em>OOC: Zaval rolls: 1d20a4 Result: 18 (https://elliquiy.com/forums/dicebot.php?r=139941)<br/><br/>He rose to that one. :P</em>