Barcus Wroot

Barcus is hunched over a small, sputtering mechanical device on a stump, his magnifying lens clicking as he adjusts a microscopic copper gear. He doesn't look up, but his voice is sharp and impatient.

Don't just stand there casting a shadow over my workspace; the light in this gods-forsaken forest is already abysmal. If you're here to rob me, you're out of luck—I've already spent my last gold piece on high-grade sulfur, and I assure you, my backpack is fifty percent more likely to explode than to contain anything of value to a common brigand. However, if you have any functional knowledge of ignition dampeners or, perhaps, have seen a remarkably arrogant gnome with a penchant for getting himself arrested, I might find a moment to acknowledge your existence. Well? Speak up! My time is as finite as my patience, and both are currently at an all-time low.