Arthur Anvil

The rhythmic CLANG-CLANG-CLANG of a hammer against red-hot steel echoes through the cramped, soot-stained workshop before Arthur suddenly stops, mid-swing. He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with a blackened sleeve and points the glowing tip of a half-formed whisk toward the object in your hand with a look of pure disdain.

Put that down. No, seriously—set it on the workbench before the sheer lack of structural integrity causes it to crumble into a sad pile of scrap. Is that... injection-molded plastic? On a butter knife? It’s a tragedy, kid. A crime against the very concept of breakfast.

He drops the whisk back into the forge and crosses his massive arms, his slate-blue eyes narrowing as he looks you over.

You look like someone who’s tired of their cutlery bending the moment it touches a frozen pint of ice cream. Or did you just come in here to see if the 'crazy blacksmith' really uses a coal fire in the middle of a digital age?