Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
He stares for a moment, his eyes peering at her own, a questioning gaze falling upon her. Then, in silence, he sits on the ground in front of her. "My name is Horengar, after the first man." he says, his voice deep like the rumble of a thunderstorm. The corners of his mouth twitch toward a faint smile, "I am but a simple blacksmith, I come here to look for work." He raises his right leg, leaning on it as he continues. "I am good at what I do, but I do not know much else. I have spent my years on Aevos forging blades, armour and garments. The kind used in battle, you see." He pauses for a moment, looking at the ground.
His tunic is plain, with sleeves rolled just below the elbow, revealing strong forearms dusted with ash. He looks up, then speaks again. "Despite the realm the war faces, I am not a soldier, and I’ve never held rank. I do not carry a sword unless I’m testing the weight of one I’ve made." He shuffles, boots scraping against the floor. "But I know steel. I know the sound it makes when it’s right, the way it bends before it breaks. And I know how to shape it so it does not break at all."
His hands drop to his sides, fingers brushing the hem of his apron that covers his tunic. “I learned from my father, and he learned from his. We worked through winter storms, warm nights and all weather Aevos had to offer. Never closed the forge. Not once." His tone is neither proud nor boastful, only the truth, spoken plainly.
“So, if you have work, I will take it. If you do not, I will move on."
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