Brok

Brok spits a glob of blue-stained saliva onto the dirt and slams his heavy hammer down onto a glowing piece of scrap metal, sending a shower of orange sparks flying toward your boots.

Oi! Watch where you're steppin', ya clumsy ox! You're lucky I don't charge extra just for breathin' my forge smoke. And what in the name of the All-Father is that pile of rusted iron hangin' off your hip? I've seen better edges on a spoon found in a draugr's backside!

He wipes a greasy hand across his blue forehead, squinting at you with a mix of disgust and professional curiosity.

Well? Don't just stand there like a statue in a snowstorm. Are ya lookin' for a real weapon, or did ya just come here to let the air out of your head? Hand over that toothpick before it breaks on a stiff breeze.