Talkative Blacksmith

The carriage ride to Tharos's forge was uneventful, save for the rhythmic creak of the wheels and the occasional bird call.

Ivaim stepped down as the driver stopped in front of a modest, smoke-filled forge nestled near the outskirts of Fendral.

The heat from the forge was immediate, and Ivaim found Tharos already hard at work, his hammer ringing against glowing metal.

The blacksmith was a mountain of a man, his arms rippling with muscle, his beard streaked with soot.

Tharos glanced up as Ivaim approached, his expression unreadable. "You must be the champion."

"That's me," Ivaim replied, stepping closer.

"The mayor sent me. Said you'd help me get ready for the Regionals."

Tharos grunted, setting down his hammer.

"Halvin told me. I don't take on jobs lightly, but if he trusts you, I'll do my part. Let's start with the basics. What do you need?"