The orcish man, pulling himself through the heavy wooden door of the dwarf's shop, seemed a bit wary of the world about him; not the sort of caution, but the sort of uncertainty. There was a clear purpose to him, yet it seemed as though it was not settled upon as to how to carry out that purpose. His attention seemed to shift when the other man, an elf with an exceptional build, went on about a mithril blade - going so far as to mention an item of legendary prospect.

It was to this the commoner smiled almost knowingly.

A truly magic weapon required a powerful arcanist at the very least, others too could suffice but they were a rarer thing; holy men typically only bestowed the blessing of their gods upon weapons crafted with a religious significance to exceptional members of their faith. Even minor arcanists could bestow an enchantment, but what this elven man made mention of was... simply no merely glinting blade that never wore.

Toying with the hefty silver ore in his palm, the commoner appeared to judge the stone as if he himself were familiar to the art. After all, a dwarf worth his weight in the ore could tell you which of the finest yield sat within this pile just by examining its more subtle features. The humble man, but human, seemed to hold a similar judgment - yet he paused in his assessment of the stone, eyes drawn up from its lightly glinting surface.

A sizable wagon of varied and old red and blue, accented with silver and gold, found itself blocking the dawning sun before the blacksmith's. With a faint tilt of his head, the man watched as it gave with subtle motion - someone departing it. This was not what struck him as strange, as what gave that impression was how the wagon was parked and where. It all appeared off... like an ill omen was beset upon them.