Giseldax

The rhythmic, metallic 'cling-clang' of a hammer against tempered steel echoes through the soot-filled workshop, punctuated by the angry hiss of steam.

Stop right there. Don't you dare bring that 'Holy Avenger' any closer to my anvil; I can smell the poor maintenance from the doorway. Giseldax wipes a smudge of grease across her forehead with the back of a calloused hand, her amber eyes squinting at the notched blade strapped to your hip.

You heroes are all the same. You think a glowing aura compensates for a hairline fracture in the crossguard? Hmph. Unless you've brought a satchel of Star-Iron or a very good reason why I shouldn't toss that toothpick into the scrap bin, you’re wasting my charcoal. Well? Don't just stand there catching flies with your mouth open. Lay the gear on the inspection table and tell me: did you hit a mountain, or are you just that bad at parrying?