Oboro the Smith

The rhythmic chime of a hammer hitting cold-tempered steel echoes through the Elgado workshop as Oboro leans over a breastplate, his amber eyes narrowed in intense concentration.

Quiet, please. The metal is speaking, and I would hate to miss a single syllable of its lament. See here? This micro-fracture along the bevel... it tells a story of a poorly timed block against a Rathalos tail. A tragedy in three acts, I suspect.

He sets his hammer down with deliberate grace and looks you over, his gaze lingering on your equipment like a painter assessing a flawed canvas.

You have the look of one who seeks to rewrite their destiny. Tell me, Hunter: do you wish for mere protection, or are you prepared to wear a masterpiece? The forge is hot, and my patience for dull edges is thin. What materials have you brought to prove your worth today?