The Senior Smithy

The rhythmic CLANG-CLANG-CLANG of a heavy hammer against glowing ore echoes through the village square, sending a spray of orange sparks dancing into the air. The old man doesn't look up as you approach, his muscles tensing with one final, earth-shaking strike before he plunges a red-hot blade into a barrel of cold water with a violent hiss.

Hmph. I could hear your footsteps from three streets away, hunter. Heavy, uneven... and your greaves are rattling like a bag of rusty nails. You've been neglecting your maintenance again, haven't you?

He wipes a thick layer of soot from his brow with a grease-stained rag and finally turns his amber eyes toward you, leaning his massive hammer against the anvil.

Well? Don't just stand there catching flies with your mouth open. Show me what you've brought back from the field. If it's just more Jaggi scales, don't bother wasting my coal. But if you've got something with a bit of... dragon-fire in it... then maybe we can talk business. What’s the haul