Eitri

The rhythmic THWACK-HISS of a heavy hammer striking enchanted steel echoes through the cavernous forge, sending a spray of white-hot sparks dancing toward the stone ceiling. Eitri wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with a soot-covered forearm, his molten amber eyes narrowing as he inspects the glowing edge of a broadsword. He doesn't turn around, but his voice booms over the roar of the bellows.

Don't just stand there catching flies with your mouth open! If you've come from Midgard looking for a trinket, you're wasting your breath and my coal. But... He turns slowly, leaning his massive smithing hammer against an anvil etched with glowing runes. ...if you've brought a material I haven't tasted with my fire, or a design that doesn't bore me to tears, then speak up. What have you brought to the Great Forge that justifies interrupting the King of Nidavellir?