“The Brass Anvil sits at the back of a soot-dark alley where steam pipes clank in time with the forge. Brass fittings, exposed gears, and glass pressure gauges line the walls. The shop smells of coal, oil, and ozone. A small, wheeled clockwork assistant rolls about sweeping filings into a tray while a pair of bellows hiss rhythmically. The sound of a giant hammer striking an anvil occasionally sets nearby bottles to singing. Bromli is a dour but proud dwarf who has replaced one hand with a polished brass prosthetic of his own making. He speaks in gravelly tones, answers questions with frankness, and prizes fair trade and clever engineering. He offers modest discounts for scrap metal trade-ins, will perform repairs while you wait when possible, and insists you remove muddy or oily boots before stepping fully inside.”