“The shop is a long, narrow room whose walls are hung with racks of smoking-black barrels and brass fittings. Soot flakes the stone floor but never seems to settle; candles burn with a reddish-blue flame. A faint scent of brimstone and clove hangs in the air, and infernal glyphs pulse softly above each priced item. The owner sits behind a counter of hammered iron and obsidian, a cup of strongly spiced coffee cooling beside a single candle. The proprietor is Sarrax Veyr, a tiefling artificer of middling renown and strange taste. Sarrax is level 6, years hardened by forge-fire and legalities of pacts he will never name. His horns are filed into elegant ridges and one small scorch-marked tail is braided with brass beads. He claims to have once served a minor fiend as a smith’s apprentice; others suspect a bargain made in the name of survival. He speaks with a soft, sardonic humor and charges more for favors than for goods, but he has a weakness for honest merchants and well-made promises. Sarrax runs background services: weapon repairs (small repairs while you wait, larger fixes by appointment), basic attunement advice, and discreet disposal of magical components. He will haggle — especially for trade-ins of unusual materials such as planar iron, hellfire glass, or brine from the Styx — but he hates sloppy customers and will refuse service to anyone who refuses to clean up after firing a weapon inside the shop. He keeps a ledger of unfinished bargains bound in red leather, and sometimes a faint, otherworldly whisper escapes it when the shutters are closed.”