“Stonehand Forge sits at the end of a soot-dark alley, its forge-flare visible through a lattice of iron and slag. The shop smells of coal, oil, and a hint of ozone; slag sculptures of dragons and anvil-prints decorate the walls. Hrothgar Stonehand is broad-shouldered and broad-tempered, hair braided with tiny hammer charms and a streak of white across his beard where molten iron once singed him. He speaks in measured gruff tones and insists on testing every weapon before sale by swinging it into a practiced target dummy or into his own anvil (never himself). He will barter services—apprenticeship, discounted maintenance, or a favor-for-an-item for trusted buyers. Hrothgar collects odd ingots: meteor iron, wyrm-forged scales, and old relics; he'll haggle for those even if he refuses to disclose how he'll use them. The bell above his door rings in three notes: strike, pause, strike — a rhythm he says keeps the forge's heart steady.”