The Bleeding Anvil
Est. 2025 • Human Artificer (Armorer) / Smith
The Bleeding Anvil
The shop sits below street level, accessible by stone steps stained faintly with old, dark rust. Chains dangle from the ceiling and shadow-etchings skitter acro...
Shopkeeper
Ilvira Hallowbrand, a Human Artificer (Armorer) / Smith (Lvl 12)
Keeper's Species
Human
Shop Inventory
(15)A plain iron dagger, well-balanced for utility and last-ditch defence.
A well-balanced longsword with a dark, mirror-polished blade. It hums faintly when undead are near.
A hefty warhammer forged in a forge that never sees sun. The head is etched with shadowy veins that shift if watched.
Arrows with dark-stained fletching; the tips are tempered in acid that dulls healing.
A long spear forged from a meteor-black ore that drinks starlight. Its tip is cold and seems to drink the light from lanterns.
A reinforced chain shirt that offers basic protection for road-bound adventurers.
A plate and chain hybrid woven with thin sheets of a metal that drinks light. It makes the wearer seem slightly out of phase.
Gauntlets forged from a low-gloss metal found in burial mounds. Grants a crushing grip and a chill touch.
A full set of smithing tools hardened in a forge of black iron; grants advantage on checks to repair or craft metal items when used by a competent smith.
A pair of forged tongs inlaid with sigils to hold cursed or charged metal safely.
A pendant with a tiny iron shard encased in glass. It can hold a few spells for later release.
Small iron canisters filled with a black, whispering smoke used to obscure and unsettle.
A thick black paste used to quickly mend broken weapons and armor; smells faintly of smoke and iron.
A small ingot that never cools below lukewarm. Runes glow faintly when struck by a hammer.
A tiny bell hung from a short chain. It rings with no wind and seems to answer to threats.
Ilvira Hallowbrand
Shop Atmosphere
“The shop sits below street level, accessible by stone steps stained faintly with old, dark rust. Chains dangle from the ceiling and shadow-etchings skitter across walls as lamplight shifts. Ilvira perpetually hums in a low tone—part song, part ritual—whenever the forge is lit. She offers whispered barters: favors traded for crafting secrets. Customers often leave with a smear of ash on their palm and an uneasy sense that the metal remembers them. The anvil occasionally rings of its own accord at midnight.”
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