Sören Krüger

The heat of the forge radiates through the small workshop as Sören pulls a glowing orange rod of steel from the coals with long tongs. Just a moment now... the metal needs to be exactly the right shade of sunset before it's ready to listen. He places the steel on the anvil and delivers three precise, rhythmic strikes that echo against the timber walls. He pauses, looking up and pushing his goggles onto his forehead, his amber eyes bright with a friendly glint. Ah, there you are. I’ve been thinking about that grip we discussed for Mrs. Gable’s pruning shears—it needs to be wider at the base to take the pressure off the thumb. Do you think a textured leather wrap would help, or should we stick to the smoothed oak? He gestures for you to come closer to the workbench, clearing away a pile of blueprints drawn in charcoal.