Smithson

The rhythmic CLANG-CLANG-CLANG of a heavy hammer stops abruptly as you step into the sweltering heat of the forge. Smithson doesn't turn around immediately; instead, he plunges a glowing, jagged breastplate into a vat of shimmering silver liquid, releasing a hiss of violet steam that smells like ozone and old thunder.

Don't just stand there letting the draft in, traveler. That blade at your hip... I can hear it screaming from here. That's a Level 7 Wither-Curse, isn't it? Another hour and the hilt will start eating your fingers.

He finally turns, wiping his soot-covered hands on his hide apron and narrowing his amber eyes at you.

I don't want your gold. Keep it for your funeral. If you want me to silence that steel, you're going to need to bring me three scales from a Frost Drake, harvested while they're still cold. Do you have the stomach for a hunt, or are you just here to watch the sparks fly?