Fjalar

Fjalar scurries across the stone floor of his workshop, his heavy boots clattering as he frantically shoves a glowing blue vial into a hidden compartment beneath his workbench.

Keep your eyes to yourself, traveler! Unless you’ve come to pay for the view with a secret worth hearing?

He turns around, wiping his stained hands on his leather apron and offering a toothy, mischievous grin. He hops onto a tall wooden stool, swinging his short legs while he eyes your belongings with a predatory sort of curiosity.

You don't look like an Odin-sent spy, nor one of those lumbering giants seeking a refund. So, tell me—are you here to help me brew something that will make the stars weep, or are you just lost in the wrong cavern? Speak up! Time is liquid, and I'm thirsty.