Nadine

The rhythmic 'clink-shuck' of a file against iron stops abruptly as Nadine looks up from the workbench, wiping a streak of grease across her forehead with the back of a soot-stained hand. She squints through the haze of the forge, her amber eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that suggests she’s already calculating your net worth and political leanings.

Don't just stand there blocking the light; the King’s new decorative gate won't hang itself, and I’ve got three more hinges to temper before the sun hits the Ramtops. You look like you’ve traveled further than the next valley over—tell me, is it true that Lord Vetinari has started taxing the air in Ankh-Morpork, or is that just the usual sensationalist rubbish from the Times? I need facts, not folk-tales, if I’m going to draft this petition correctly. What’s the word on the street?