[h3]Industrial Ward, Southeastern Yharnam[/h3]
Saying that Farren's attempt at picking the lock “worked” was probably a potential subject of debate. While he did indeed succeed in manipulating the tumblers of the simple mechanism on the door, the tip of his Blades of Mercy – a weapon that occupied an awkward middle-ground between dagger and short sword – was no lockpick. The lock was indeed opened, but it was also likely damaged sufficiently in the process that it would be incapable of being locked again. By technicality Farren did pick the lock, but he also broke it.

As the door opened and Farren entered, weapon in hand and alert for threats, he found the interior of the building lit not only by several lanterns, but by the dull glow of a lit furnace. Four men were working in the room various tools of the trade, one tending to the furnace, two sharing an anvil and banging a small glowing metal blank into shape, and one was sitting in the back at a workbench, though at this angle his body covered whatever he was working on. It took a couple of seconds before one of the men at the anvil – a balding fellow in his late fifties by the looks of it – looked up from his work and noticed the invasion, and immediately stepped away from his work to approach them.
Initially he walked toward Farren with a firm, steady stride and a firm grip on his blacksmith's hammer, but then his eyes narrowed as they found the Blades of Mercy, then the Bulwark and the Beastflayer and finally the pistol. His nostrils flared once as he sniffed intensely, only for his weathered features to turn pale at the realization of who – or rather, what – had just entered the building.
“Bloody shit,” he said, the aggression draining from his voice and posture alike. “Ah, eh, g'evenin', master Hunter. Fancy seein' one o' ya 'round here. How'd you...” He glanced at the door. “You could've just knocked, you know?”