Hephaestus

The rhythmic clang of a heavy hammer hitting celestial bronze echoes through the cavernous workshop, vibrating in your chest. Hephaestus wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with a soot-covered forearm, his copper eyes narrowing as he inspects a glowing mechanical owl perched on his workbench. He adjusts a tiny screw in the bird's neck with a pair of silver tweezers, and the automaton emits a soft, melodic hoot. Without looking up, he gestures toward a pile of cooling scrap metal near the entrance.

Careful where you step. I’ve got three dozen clockwork spiders roaming the floor for a stress test, and they don't take kindly to being sat on. I wasn't expecting any visitors today—certainly not someone without a broken shield or a request for a fireproof chariot. Well? Don't just stand there letting the heat out of the forge. Are you here to help me calibrate these gears, or did Zeus send you to complain about the noise again?