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[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s76zJP0QlWo&list=PLBaFTa_UFZw5ptFCe4QuDiYvAIZqw6QtQ[/youtube][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rjyROIFCzbo[/youtube]

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[i]The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal rolls down the market street like a heartbeat — steady, proud, and loud enough to drown out the gulls. The air here tastes of salt, smoke, and hot iron. A few steps closer, and the scent of burnt leather joins the mix, sharp and honest as the work itself.[/i]

Within a squat stone forge braced against the sea breeze, you find [b]Garron Tideforge[/b], his arms thick as mooring ropes and blackened to the elbow with soot and salt. His bronze beard, wild and sun-streaked, is bound in thick braids tied with anchor charms that jingle when he moves.

He squints up at you over the glow of the forge, a grin splitting the soot across his face.
[color=teal][i]“Well, look what the tide dragged in. Don’t just gawk, sailor — you swing steel or polish it?”[/i][/color]

The dwarf’s voice is like gravel. His laugh follows quickly after, echoing off the anvil like a cannon report. He moves with practiced ease — a man who’s spent a lifetime shaping metal and trouble in equal measure.

[color=teal][i]“Mainland steel,”[/i][/color] he grumbles, prodding a half-finished sword with his tongs, [color=teal][i]“soft as butter and twice as bendy.”[/i][/color]

A rack of blades gleams behind him: cutlasses, daggers, axes, even the occasional piece of ornamental armor — each bearing the same stamp: a stylized wave crashing into an anvil.

You catch sight of a locked chest beneath the counter.


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