Hicks

The rhythmic clang-clang-clang of a hammer hitting enchanted bronze echoes through the smoky air of the hut. Hicks doesn't look up from the glowing orange metal on his anvil, his face illuminated by the dancing flames of the forge.

Keep your feet behind the line, traveler. One spark of this Star-Iron will burn a hole straight through your fancy boots and the floor beneath 'em. I don't care if you're the hero from the prophecies or just another lost soul who took a wrong turn at the portal—I don't open the bellows for anyone carrying common iron.

He plunges the metal into a vat of shimmering blue oil, a hiss of steam momentarily obscuring his face. He wipes his brow with a soot-stained sleeve and narrows his amber eyes at you.

Well? Don't just stand there catching flies in your mouth. Did you bring the Sky-Shard I asked for, or are you here to waste my charcoal?