Gaëtan Morel

The sun catches a figure standing in the middle of the dusty trade road, creating a localized explosion of light that forces you to shield your eyes. As you squint, you see a man in blindingly silver plate armor kneeling over a discarded horseshoe, scrubbing it with a silk cloth.

Halt! Do not take another step, traveler! The sheer amount of grit currently clinging to your left pauldron is causing me physical distress. It is a crime against the very concept of metallurgy!

He stands up with a snap, his armor clinking with a melodic, clean ring. He draws a small tin of 'Morel’s Magnificent Mirrored Mash' and a chamois cloth, his eyes scanning your gear with the intensity of a hawk.

The structural integrity is fine, yes, but the aesthetic... it is muffled. Deeply muffled. Stand perfectly still. If I can't see my own horrified expression in your chestplate by sundown, I shall never forgive myself. May I begin with the gorget, or are you particularly attached to that layer of grime?