Zyl'thara stumbles as her feet hit the solid, rocky ground, her large black eyes wide with disorientation. The world seems to lurch and spin around her, the sudden shift from Fetus's cozy cottage to this harsh, metallic-smelling plain a violent jolt to her senses. Her jade-green skin takes on a paler, slightly clammy sheen.   "Oh," she gasps, pressing a delicate hand to her mouth. "The… the woosh… was… very… wobbly." Her antennae flatten against her head, twitching erratically. The metallic tang in the air and the sight of the strange landscape – so different from the lush jungles of Castrovel or even the relatively tame woods near Sandpoint – seem to overwhelm her.   Her stomach churns violently. Doubling over with a soft groan, Zyl'thara retches, vomiting onto the dusty ground near her feet. She stays hunched over for a moment, trembling slightly, her long black hair falling forward to curtain her face.   She straightens up slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her expression a mixture of misery and wide-eyed bewilderment. "Alessa," she whispers, her voice weak and shaky. "My insides… feel like… fizzy space-bugs." She looks around at the desolate plain and the strange, burning hill, her eyes reflecting a profound sense of unease. "This place… it smells… pointy. And… loud." She leans slightly against Alessa for support, clearly unwell and utterly out of her element. "Is… is this the star-piece place? It feels… prickly."

Alessa stumbles backward, bracing herself against a dry, tangled shrub behind her. As she gets herself up, she grunts in pain as she feels the briars on the bush, pressing her lip against the cut between her fingers.   "Sorry about that! I need to make my teleports more smooth." She looks over with concern at her sister. "Pointy... is right," she says hesitantly. "I didn't know what to expect from this place, but it's..." She gazes off into the vast rocky plain, and slowly turns around to take in all her surroundings. The place is alien, clearly dangerous, and strange metallic scent puts her at unease. But Alessa can't help but be amazed by the landscape as well. Most of all, she's curious, wondering what those enormous metal crags might be. They can't all be pieces of starships, can they?   "Keep an eye out... it might be dangerous around here. We'll be there to protect each other though." She looks again at the hilltop town, gazing upward at the massive purple pillar. "That looks like it might go all the way toward the stars, doesn't it? Let's go into town."

Alessa quickly casts mage armor on herself, a shimmering ball of force materializing around her and reflecting faintly across the metallic plains.

As Alessa and Zyl'thara approach the outskirts of Torch, the sounds and smells of the town intensify. The clang of hammers is louder, the heat from the smithies palpable even at a distance, and the metallic tang in the air mixes with the smells of sweat, coal smoke, and roasted meat of uncertain origin. The track widens into a rough, unpaved street winding between sturdy, functional buildings. Many structures show signs of reinforcement with salvaged metal plates, bolted or welded onto wooden frames.   The people of Torch eye the newcomers with open curiosity, occasionally mixed with suspicion. They are predominantly Kellid humans – tall, broad-shouldered folk with weathered faces, practical clothing, and often intricate tattoos or scarification. Dwarves, sturdy and grim-faced, can be seen working the forges, their skill with metal renowned. A few half-orcs move through the crowds, their green skin and imposing frames drawing less attention here than they might elsewhere. The occasional gnome or halfling darts through the throng, perhaps traders or tinkerers. The sight of Zyl'thara, however, with her jade skin and antennae, draws more prolonged stares, whispers rustling through the onlookers like dry leaves.   The street leads towards the center of town, curving around the base of the black, glassy Torch Hill. The violet flame atop the hill looms larger now, its crackling energy almost mesmerizing, casting an unnatural purple glow on the faces of those nearby. Various smithies and workshops line the street, their doors open to reveal roaring fires and sweating smiths hammering glowing metal. Makeshift stalls sell basic goods – tough-looking jerky, potent-smelling ale, leather goods, and crude metal tools. The atmosphere is one of hard work, rough living, and a constant awareness of the strange power that defines their town.

As Alessa and Zyl'thara navigate the bustling street, a figure steps directly into their path, blocking their way. He is massive, a towering Goliath barbarian easily standing seven feet tall, with shoulders as wide as a doorway. His skin is weathered and tanned, crisscrossed with old scars, and adorned with intricate blue tattoos depicting stylized beasts and geometric patterns. His head is shaved clean, save for a thick, braided warrior's knot at the back, and his eyes, a piercing grey, are narrowed in assessment. He wears practical, heavy leather armor reinforced with mismatched metal plates, and a formidable-looking greataxe rests easily on his shoulder.   He folds his thick arms across his chest, his expression blunt and unreadable. He stares directly at Alessa, ignoring Zyl'thara for the moment.   "You," he grunts, his voice a deep rumble like shifting stones. "You look... soft. Like city folk. This is no place for soft folk." He jerks his chin towards Torch Hill and the violet flame. "This town eats the weak. What business do you have in Torch?" His gaze is unwavering, direct, and utterly devoid of pleasantry. He's not necessarily hostile, but clearly unimpressed and demanding answers.

Alessa glances nervously around the streets of Torch. She can tell that she and especially her sister are being looked at by the locals here with great suspicion. Though she figures she can defend her with magic if necessary, it wouldn't bode well if someone were to get the drop on her. Even still, she can tell much of the metal used to form the makeshift houses and shops has a strange glint to it... a promising sign that some of it might be usable to repair Zyl'thara's vessel.   She takes a step back when confronted by the towering figure who blocks their path on the street. His expression is impossible to discern, as much like granite as the shade of his skin. Being called a soft city girl, Alessa thinks for a moment that in comparison to this man, he may not be too far off. Knowing this, though, she decides to at least try and use her unassuming innocence to her advantage.   "We're... we're a little lost," she says with a pout. "Almost couldn't find our way here. I know we need to be careful around these parts but... it'd be wonderful to have someone to help show us around." She looks up toward the pillar of purple light. "That's the forge where they refine the skymetals, isn't it? We would love to see it. Especially if they have..."   Alessa turns back toward Zyl'thara and whispers. "What kind of material is the Starfire made of?" She gives a nervous chuckle, realizing she probably should have written this down before.

Korgoth stares down at Alessa, his stony expression unchanging for a long moment. He seems to consider her words, his grey eyes lingering on her seemingly innocent pout. Alessa's attempt at diplomacy, surprisingly genuine in its apparent vulnerability, manages to penetrate his usual gruff suspicion (DC 20 Diplomacy check succeeded). He doesn't smile, but the hard line of his mouth softens fractionally.   "Lost?" he repeats, the word a low rumble. "This path leads to the center of town. Not difficult." He gestures with a thumb towards the towering violet flame. "That is the Torch. It burns hot. Melts metal fallen from the sky." He seems unimpressed by her interest.   He glances briefly at Zyl'thara, his gaze lingering on her antennae for a moment before returning to Alessa. "Help you? Why?" He pauses, then seems to relent, perhaps sensing less guile and more genuine bewilderment than he initially suspected. "Fine. Town is simple. Forge is there." He points again towards the hill. "Market is that way." He gestures down a side street lined with stalls. "Tavern is down there." Another gesture. "Stay out of Scrapwall on the edge of town unless you seek trouble. Stay away from the Black Hill after dark unless you wish to be ash."   He shifts his weight, his greataxe scraping slightly against his leather armor. "You need skymetal?" He raises a thick eyebrow. "Not easy to get. Smiths guard their findings. Technic League spies watch everything. What kind do you need?" His tone remains blunt, but there's a subtle shift – he's moved from suspicion to a grudging, practical form of assistance. He still thinks they're soft, but perhaps less of a threat than he initially assumed.

Zyl'thara, still feeling slightly unsteady from the teleportation and the unsettling atmosphere of Torch, leans closer to Alessa, listening intently to Korgoth's blunt assessment. When Alessa whispers her question about the Starfire's composition, Zyl'thara's brow furrows slightly, her antennae drooping in thought.   "The Starfire…" she murmurs, her voice barely audible over the clang of nearby hammers. "It is… complex." She touches the side of her head, as if accessing a mental database or perhaps her datapad's information wirelessly. "The hull… it is primarily a… composite weave. Like… like strong spider silk, but… made of light and… condensed nebula-dust." She pauses, trying to find Golarion equivalents. "There is also… Glaucite. Yes, that sounds right. A metal that is grey, very strong… perhaps like your… 'steel'?"   She looks up at Korgoth, her large black eyes wide with earnestness. "We need the grey kind," she explains simply, pointing vaguely towards a piece of salvaged metal on a nearby building. "The strong grey kind. For the Starfire's… outer skin. And perhaps… some of the… coppery shiny one? The one that… smells like time?" She seems unsure if "smelling like time" is a normal way to describe Orichalcum, but offers the description with complete sincerity. "For the… the engine bits. The parts that make it go whoosh!" She makes another, slightly more energetic whoosh motion with her hands.   She looks hopefully at Korgoth, then back at Alessa. "Do the smiths here have the strong grey metal? Or the time-smelling coppery one?" Her naiveté is evident; she seems to assume these rare and valuable skymetals might be readily available, perhaps just needing a polite request or another smooth river stone in trade.

Korgoth stares blankly at Zyl'thara, his stony expression betraying no hint of comprehension regarding "condensed nebula-dust" or metal that "smells like time." He processes her words literally, his brow furrowing slightly deeper.   "Grey metal," he rumbles, his gaze sweeping over the town. "Strong. Yes. Some smiths have 'Numerian steel'." He points a thick finger towards a particularly busy forge belching black smoke. "Adamantine. Hard to work. Expensive."   He then considers her mention of the "coppery shiny one." His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something – perhaps recognition, perhaps suspicion – crossing his features. "Coppery… time-smelling?" He shakes his head slowly, a low grunt escaping his lips. "Never heard metal described so. Sounds like... foolishness." He dismisses the idea outright. "Orichalcum is legend. Rarer than dragon teeth. Not found here. Not for sale. Not even for... smooth stones."   He looks back at Zyl'thara, then Alessa, his expression hardening slightly. "You need adamantine? Go talk to smiths. Bring much gold. Or prepare for pain." He gestures again towards the forge. "Khonnir Baine at The Foundry might listen. Maybe. If he is not busy."   He doesn't leave, however. Instead, he folds his massive arms across his chest again, his grey eyes fixing on Alessa and Zyl'thara with renewed scrutiny. Perhaps their strange request, their alien nature, or maybe just Alessa's earlier, successful appeal has piqued some dormant Goliath curiosity, or maybe a sense of protective obligation he wouldn't admit to. He remains silent, a looming, granite presence observing them, seemingly waiting to see what these "soft folk" will do next in his town. His stance suggests he might intervene if they cause trouble, or perhaps, just perhaps, if they find themselves *in* trouble.

Zyl'thara's antennae perk up slightly as Korgoth confirms the existence of the strong grey metal. "Oh! Adamantine!" she repeats, the word sounding slightly strange but exciting on her tongue. "Like Numerian steel! Yes! That is the one!" A bright, hopeful smile spreads across her face.   Her expression falters slightly when he dismisses the "time-smelling coppery one." "Oh," she murmurs softly, her antennae drooping a little. "No time-smell metal? Just... foolishness?" She accepts his statement at face value, looking a little puzzled but not argumentative. "Okay. No legend metal then. Just the strong grey kind for the Starfire's skin!"   Her attention immediately snaps back to the positive news. "But the smiths have the adamantine! The strong grey one!" She beams again. "And you said... Khonnir Baine? At... The Foundry?" She points enthusiastically, mirroring Korgoth's earlier gesture towards the smoky forge. "He might listen! That is good!"   She turns back to Korgoth, who is still standing nearby, observing them silently. Her large black eyes look up at him with wide-eyed earnestness. "You will come with us, yes?" she asks, her voice full of simple, trusting expectation. "To see Mister Baine? You know where The Foundry is! It would be very helpful! We might get lost again." She gestures vaguely at the bustling, confusing street. "And... you are very big. Very strong-looking. Like a... like a friendly mountain!"

Alessa listens intently at the stranger's words, hanging on every warning. She hangs her head a little when hearing about the absence of orichalcum, but reassures herself that the adamantine alone should be worth the trip here. She laughs at her sister's compliment to the goliath. Until now, she hadn't considered that he might accompany them any further, but looking up at both Zyl'thara's wide-eyed optimism and the slightest hint of softening in the stranger's grimace, she decides that it is at least worth a try.   "To Khonnir we go then!" she says excitedly. "We could certainly use some company... we make no demands, but this place can be... harsh. It helps us to know there is someone who can look out for strangers in need."   Then she sets out for the Foundry, again keeping a watchful eye on the hardened Kellids eyeing them from the streets. "So who is this Technic League?" she asks curiously. "I've read a little about them in Absalom, but the information was sparse. They say the League keeps their records secret, even put in mechanisms to incinerate them whenever the wrong hands touch them."

Korgoth lets out a sound that might be a sigh, or perhaps just air being forced from his massive lungs. Zyl'thara's comparison of him to a "friendly mountain" doesn't elicit any visible reaction, though one of his thick eyebrows might have twitched slightly. He remains a stoic, granite figure.   When Alessa voices her decision to go to Khonnir Baine and subtly extends the invitation for him to join, Korgoth remains silent for another long moment, his grey eyes fixed on them. The sounds of Torch – the clang of hammers, the roar of the violet flame, the shouts of merchants – seem to fade slightly as he considers.   "Hmph," he finally grunts. "This town... is not for the careless." His gaze sweeps over Alessa and Zyl'thara, a silent, uncharitable assessment of their preparedness. "You two... will likely find trouble. Or trouble will find you. Easier if I am there to... prevent unnecessary noise." It's the closest Korgoth will come to saying he's concerned or willing to help protect them. He frames it as a matter of minimizing disruption in *his* town.   He then turns his attention to Alessa's question about the Technic League, his expression souring visibly. "Technic League," he rumbles, the name itself tasting like ash in his mouth. "They are... a sickness. They came long ago. Found the big metal mountain." He jerks his head towards the direction of Starfall, though it's not visible from Torch. "Silver Mount. They burrowed into it. Like maggots."   "They control much of the skymetal. Hoard it. Decide who gets it, for what price. They use... devices." He spits the word out as if it's distasteful. "Trinkets. Glowing things. Not like honest steel forged in fire. Their power comes from these... toys. And from secrets."   He nods slowly at Alessa's comment. "Secretive. Yes. They guard what they know. Incinerate records?" A flicker of something unreadable passes through his eyes. "Sounds like something they would do. Cowards hide knowledge. True strength needs no such tricks." He pauses, then adds, "They are dangerous. More than just greedy. They have eyes everywhere. And their 'gearsmen'..." He makes a dismissive gesture. "Metal puppets. No soul. They enforce the League's will."   Without another word, he turns and begins to walk towards the direction of The Foundry, his massive greataxe still resting on his shoulder. His pace is unhurried but purposeful, and he clearly expects them to follow. He hasn't explicitly said "I will join your party," but his actions speak louder than his grunts. He's going with them, at least for now, perhaps to ensure these "soft folk" don't get themselves immediately killed or cause a mess he'll have to clean up.

Korgoth leads the way through the bustling, smoky streets of Torch, his massive form parting the crowds like a boulder in a stream. Alessa and Zyl'thara follow in his wake, drawing curious and sometimes wary glances from the townsfolk. The rhythmic clang of hammers grows louder as they approach a large, soot-stained building from which billows particularly thick black smoke and the intense heat of multiple forges – The Foundry.   Inside, the air is a chorus of sound and a blaze of heat. Sparks fly from anvils as sweating smiths, predominantly dwarves and heavily muscled humans, hammer glowing metal into shape. The roar of bellows and the hiss of cooling steel fill the cavernous space. Piles of raw ore, mundane iron and steel, and a few tantalizingly dark, dense-looking ingots (possibly unrefined skymetal) are stacked in corners.   A figure stands overseeing the work near a large, central forge, occasionally offering curt instructions or inspecting a newly forged blade. He is a man of middle years, with a sturdy build that speaks of both physical labor and a life lived in harsh conditions. His dark hair is streaked with grey, and his face, though smudged with soot, has intelligent, discerning eyes. He wears practical leather and a heavy apron, but there’s an air about him – perhaps the way he carries himself, or the glint of keen intellect in his gaze – that suggests more than just a simple smith. This is Khonnir Baine.   As Korgoth, Alessa, and Zyl'thara approach, Khonnir turns from inspecting a piece of glowing metal, his gaze sweeping over them. He nods curtly to Korgoth, a gesture of familiar, if not overly friendly, acknowledgement. His eyes then linger on Alessa and particularly on Zyl'thara, his expression shifting from professional focus to cautious curiosity.   "Korgoth," Khonnir says, his voice surprisingly even and articulate over the din of the forge, though still carrying a note of authority. "Bringing visitors to my humble workshop today?" He wipes a soot-stained hand on his apron. "And who might these two be? Not often we see faces like yours in Torch, especially..." He trails off, his gaze briefly on Zyl'thara's antennae before returning to Alessa. "What brings you to The Foundry? Looking for work? Or perhaps something... more specific?" He raises an eyebrow, his expression inviting, yet shrewd.

Alessa is still put on edge by the stranger's heavy voice. She's faced many monsters with more warmth in their disposition. Even so, she can't help but look up at his stony face. For a few moments, she can feel what seems like at least an air of concern behind those eyes.   "People's things getting taken, what else is new?" she replies with a carefree tilt of her head. After hearing the rest of the goliath's warnings, though, she bites her tongue; she can tell the gravity of Korvoth's fear, and anything he is afraid of is something for her to take concern with as well.   "We should keep quiet around strangers," whispers Alessa to her sister. "If the Technic League ends up in our way, we shouldn't let them find out about us first."   She follows Korgoth through the foundry door, immediately struck by the huge volume of metals and bustle of the smiths. She spots a few pieces of metal that look like they might shine as Starfire does, and almost stops to ask, but decides to quietly follow Korgoth. The smith, Khonnir, has what might be a look of suspicion in his eyes. Alessa keeps a watchful eye, wondering the possibility that he or someone else here might have a connection to the League.   She hesitates for a moment before speaking, and speaks quietly when she does open her mouth. "Actually, we're looking to make a purchase." She glances back at her sister, jogging her memory of what she needs. "Do you carry glaucite and orichalcum? Or do you know where any might be found? We need some... to get home."

Khonnir Baine listens to Alessa's quiet request, his intelligent eyes flicking from her to Zyl'thara, then briefly to Korgoth, before settling back on Alessa. The roar of the forges seems to momentarily dim as he processes the words. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of his lips, quickly vanishing.   "Glaucite," he repeats, the word tasting foreign even in this town built on alien metal. He strokes his soot-stained chin thoughtfully. "Now that's a name I haven't heard requested in Torch in a long, long time. If ever, by someone not... affiliated." The unspoken "with the Technic League" hangs heavy in the air. "It's not something you find just lying about, even here. Gearsmen are made of it, they say. Strong, yes. But controlled. Very controlled."   He lets out a short, dry chuckle when she mentions orichalcum. "Orichalcum?" He shakes his head, a hint of weary amusement in his eyes. "My dear girl, if I had orichalcum, I wouldn't be standing here smelling of soot and sweat. I'd likely be a king, or a god, or a very well-decorated corpse. That metal is the stuff of legends, rarer than a quiet day in Torch."   His gaze sharpens slightly, a flicker of keen interest replacing the amusement. "You need these... specific skymetals... to get home?" He leans forward a fraction, lowering his voice slightly despite the surrounding din. "That's a rather... unusual requirement for a journey. What kind of home requires such materials for passage?"   He glances around The Foundry quickly, as if checking for unseen ears, before looking back at Alessa. "These aren't metals you can just purchase at a market stall, not even in Numeria. Glaucite, if any 'loose' samples exist, would be under heavy guard or already claimed by... interested parties." Again, the implication of the Technic League is clear. "And orichalcum... well, if you find any of that, you let me know. We'll both be very wealthy, or very dead, very quickly."   He pauses, his discerning eyes studying Alessa. "Why don't you tell me a bit more about this 'home' you're trying to reach? And why Korgoth here, who usually prefers the company of his axe to... well, anyone, has decided to escort you." He clearly senses there's a much larger story here than a simple shopping trip.

Zyl'thara's antennae droop noticeably as Khonnir speaks of the difficulty in acquiring the metals. Her large, dark eyes widen slightly, reflecting a mixture of disappointment and confusion. The concept of metals being "controlled" or deliberately kept rare seems entirely foreign to her.   "Oh," she murmurs, her voice soft and tinged with sadness. "No coppery time-smell metal? And the strong grey Glaucite is… controlled?" She looks down at her hands for a moment, as if picturing the Starfire, then back up at Khonnir, her expression earnest.   "But… but the Starfire needs them, Mister Baine. To… to wake up its sleepy engine and go whoosh!" She makes a small, hopeful soaring gesture with one hand. "So we can go home. To Castrovel."   Her eyes light up a little at the mention of her home world. "Castrovel is… it is very beautiful! The sky is green, like fresh leaves after rain! And the trees sing! And… and everyone is waiting for Alessa! It is very important she comes home."   She tilts her head, her antennae twitching with genuine bewilderment. "Why do people here… guard the shiny sky-metals so much? On Castrovel, if something is broken, everyone helps find the pieces to fix it. Like… like when a glow-blossom loses its light, we all find new sun-crystals for it."   She looks directly at Khonnir, her gaze open and trusting, seemingly oblivious to any underlying suspicion in his questions. "Our home needs these metals for the Starfire to fly. Is there… is there a little bit, maybe? Just enough for the important parts? We would be very grateful. Alessa is very good at finding things!"

Alessa lowers her head as the smith speaks to the rarity of the metals she and her sister are looking for. It seems like the task will be harder than she thought, although she should have well expected it. Once Khonnir starts questioning about her home, she purses her lip and pauses for a moment, ready to turn around and look elsewhere.   Then Zyl'thara chimes in with the name of her homeworld. Alessa immediately grabs her arm, biting her tongue to avoid shouting at her for blowing cover. Now that their secret is out, though, she tries to keep her cool, looking warily between the three of them as Zylthara speaks of the wonder of Castrovel. Every time she hears about the place, it seems closer and closer to Alessa.   Alessa smiles at her sister's last remark, regaining some confidence. Good at finding things... well, she will have her ways of trying. And if she and her sister already look suspicious, they might as well start asking the real questions.   She leans in closer toward Khonnir with a finger on her chin. "Who are these... interested parties, if I can ask? And where might they be located?"

Korgoth remains silent during most of the exchange, his massive arms still crossed, his grey eyes watching Khonnir Baine with an unreadable expression. He shifts his weight slightly when Zyl'thara speaks of "controlled" metals and the strangeness of Golarion's ways. A low grunt rumbles in his chest, perhaps an agreement with her sentiment, or perhaps just a general sound of goliath contemplation.   When Khonnir presses for more information and directs his gaze towards him, Korgoth finally speaks, his voice a gravelly rumble that cuts through the forge's din.   "They are… different," he states simply, jerking his chin towards Alessa and Zyl'thara. It’s a statement of fact, not judgment. "Not from around here. Clearly."   He pauses, considering. "The little one," he glances at Alessa, "she has… a strong spirit. For someone soft." This is high praise, by Korgoth's standards. "The other one," a nod towards Zyl'thara, "is… very strange. But not… dangerous. Just… confused by hard things."   He meets Khonnir's gaze directly. "They need the metal for their… flying rock." He uses the term Zyl'thara might have used if she were describing the Starfire in simpler terms. "To leave. Go far away." He doesn't elaborate on Castrovel or the reasons, likely because he doesn't fully understand them himself, or perhaps because he sees no need to share such details.   "I brought them here because they asked. And because… Torch has too many sharp edges for those who do not see them." He lets out another grunt. "Less noise if they find what they need and go. Or if they find nothing and go." His reasoning is pragmatic, focused on minimizing potential disruption in what he considers his territory. There's no sentimentality in his tone, but his continued presence and his willingness to speak, however bluntly, suggest a grudging sense of responsibility, or at least curiosity, towards these unusual outsiders. He's not vouching for them, merely stating the facts as he sees them and his own uncomplicated motive for being there.

Khonnir Baine listens to Zyl'thara's earnest, if somewhat bewildered, explanation about Castrovel and the Starfire's needs. His expression remains thoughtful, though a new flicker of interest appears in his eyes at the mention of a world with singing trees and green skies. He’s heard tales of other worlds, of course – Numeria itself is a statement to such things – but a direct encounter with someone claiming to be from one is a different matter entirely. Korgoth's blunt assessment seems to confirm their otherworldly nature.   When Alessa leans in, her voice lowered, and asks about the "interested parties," Khonnir’s gaze sharpens again. He glances around The Foundry, his eyes briefly scanning the shadowed corners and the faces of his smiths, as if ensuring their conversation isn't being overheard.   "Interested parties," he repeats, his voice dropping to a more conspiratorial tone, though still audible over the clang of a nearby hammer. "In Numeria, when you talk about rare skymetals, especially ones with… unusual properties, there's usually one name that comes up more often than any other: the Technic League."   He pauses, letting the name hang in the air. "They’re based primarily in Starfall, the capital, near the Silver Mount. They fancy themselves the sole inheritors and interpreters of the alien technology that fell here. They have… agents… operatives… spies," he says the last word with a hint of distaste, "all over Numeria, particularly in places like Torch where skymetal is found or worked. They control the flow, the research, the very knowledge of many of these materials."   "If there's any 'loose' Glaucite to be had – perhaps salvaged from a downed gearsman, or a forgotten cache – the League would be the first to know, and the first to claim it. They don't like competition. And they really don't like outsiders meddling with what they consider their technology."   He considers Alessa for a moment, then adds, "Then there are the… less organized elements. Scrapwall," he says, and a look of distaste crosses his face, "is a haven for scavengers, bandits, and desperate souls. They pick over the refuse of the plains, and sometimes, they get lucky. You might find a piece of something there, but you'd be risking your life and likely dealing with cutthroats. And even then, anything truly valuable usually finds its way back to the League, one way or another."   "Some of the more powerful Kellid tribes out on the plains also value skymetals, though more for their raw power or as symbols of status than for intricate understanding. Dealing with them is a gamble; they might trade, or they might just take what they want."   He leans back slightly, folding his arms. "So, if you're looking for Glaucite, your path likely leads through the Technic League, either by trying to negotiate with them – which is like bargaining with vipers – or by trying to find a way around them, which is equally, if not more, dangerous. As for Orichalcum…" He shakes his head again. "That, my dear, is likely a fool's errand on Golarion, unless you stumble upon a secret even the Runelords didn't fully exploit. Your best bet for that, if it exists at all, would be in the deepest, most forgotten ruins, or perhaps… not on this world at all."

Zyl'thara's antennae twitch thoughtfully as she processes Khonnir's words. Her large, dark eyes shift between Alessa, Khonnir, and the distant, smoky air outside The Foundry. The concepts of "control," "spies," and "bargaining with vipers" are clearly new and unsettling to her.   "Oh," she says softly, her brow furrowing. "So the… the Technic League… they keep the strong grey metal all to themselves? Like… like a child who will not share their prettiest glowing pebbles?" She tilts her head, a look of genuine puzzlement on her face. "That does not seem very… helpful. If someone has a broken thing, others should help them find the mending-pieces, yes?"   She brightens slightly, a hopeful idea sparking in her eyes. "Perhaps… perhaps if we go to this… Starfall place, where the big Silver Mount is? And we find these Technic League people? We could tell them about the Starfire! It is a very special ship, from very, very far away! It has many wonderful technics! Maybe if they see how important it is, and how much Castrovel needs Alessa, they will understand and give us some of the Glaucite?"   Her antennae droop a little as she considers the other options Khonnir mentioned. "Scrapwall sounds… messy. And 'cutthroats'… do they actually cut people's throats? That sounds very impolite. And very painful." She shivers delicately. "And the Kellid tribes… Korgoth is strong, like a mountain. Are the tribes like many Korgoths? He said they might 'take what they want.' That also does not sound like sharing."   She looks at Alessa, her expression earnest and full of simple conviction. "I think… I think we should try asking the Technic League first, Alessa. If we are very polite, and explain everything very clearly, maybe they will be kind? They like technology, Mister Baine said. The Starfire is very good technology! Maybe they will want to see it? And then they will help us fix it so we can go home!" She seems genuinely to believe that a polite explanation might be enough to sway a notoriously ruthless organization.

Korgoth listens to Zyl'thara's optimistic plan with his usual granite-faced stoicism. When she finishes, a low, guttural sound rumbles in his chest – something that might be a chuckle if Korgoth were capable of such an expression. It comes out more like the grinding of stones.   "Hmph," he grunts, his grey eyes fixed on Zyl'thara. "Polite. To the Technic League." He shakes his massive head slowly. "They do not understand 'polite.' They understand power. And coin. And secrets they can use against you."   He shifts his weight, his greataxe creaking slightly against his armor. "You walk into Starfall, tell them you have a 'Starfire' ship from another world? They will not give you Glaucite. They will take your ship. They will take you. Poke you with their strange tools. See what makes you tick." His gaze drifts to Zyl'thara's antennae for a moment. "They like 'different' things. To dissect. To control."   He looks at Alessa. "Asking them nicely is like asking a hungry wolf not to eat the lamb. Foolish."   He then considers her other points. "Scrapwall. Yes. Messy. Cutthroats cut throats. That is what they do." He states it as a simple, unarguable fact. "Kellid tribes. Some are like me. Some are worse. They respect strength. If you are weak, they will take. If you are strong, they might trade. Or they might still try to take, to prove they are stronger."   His gaze returns to Zyl'thara. "The League will not be 'kind' because your ship is 'special.' They will see it as a prize. Something to be claimed. To be studied. To be broken down and hoarded." He pauses, then adds, with characteristic bluntness, "You go to them with smiles and polite words, they will smile back. And then they will put you in a cage."   Korgoth is not trying to be cruel; he is simply stating the world as he sees it, stripped of any sentiment or hope for Golarion's more predatory factions. He offers no alternative solution, merely a stark assessment of Zyl'thara's naive plan.

Zyl'thara's bright, hopeful expression crumbles as Korgoth speaks. Her antennae droop significantly, almost touching her shoulders, and her large, dark eyes glisten with unshed tears. The bluntness of his words, painting such a grim picture of the Technic League, seems to physically wound her.   "Oh," she whispers, her voice barely audible, trembling slightly. "They… they would not be kind? Even if we asked very nicely? They would… take the Starfire? And… and poke us with tools?" The idea is clearly horrifying to her, a complete betrayal of her understanding of how beings should interact. "In cages?"   She looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers together nervously. The image of the beautiful Starfire being broken apart, of herself and Alessa being treated like… like specimens… is more than she can bear. The concept of such deliberate cruelty is profoundly alien to her.   "But… but if we do not ask," she says, her voice small and filled with a dawning despair, "how will we get the strong grey metal? How will the Starfire… whoosh again?" The simple, joyful sound she made earlier is now tinged with sadness.   She turns her large, sorrowful eyes to Alessa, her lower lip trembling. "Alessa?" she asks, her voice pleading. "Korgoth says they are not nice. He says they will hurt us. What… what do we do now, little sister? I… I do not understand this place. It is not like Castrovel. People here… they are not always kind. They do not always share." A single tear escapes and traces a glistening path down her cheek. She looks utterly lost, her naive optimism shattered by Korgoth's harsh dose of reality, and now turns to her sister, the only familiar anchor in this strange, unwelcoming world.

Alessa stands quietly between Korgoth and Zyl'thara, glancing nervously between the two of them. She can't help but look away as despair begins to set over her sister. It looks so wrong for her, and Alessa immediately tries to think of what might cheer her up. Unfortunately, though, she shares some of her fear: everything she has seen and heard about this place tells her that few in Numeria will be much to share. Some might appear generous, some might be honest, but almost no one will be both.   She lets out a deep sigh. "It looks like we might have our work cut out for us, then." She glances back toward Khonnir and gives him a courteous smile. "Thanks for the lead. If we can find anything, we'll come back with a gift."   "Let's regroup and make a plan," she says quietly to Zyl'thara as she turns toward the forge's exit. Looking back at her sister, she hopes to have eased her sorrow at least a tiny bit with her promise. She gives a quick inviting look up at Korgoth as well, still curious as to why he might be so willing to help them but happy to have company.   She leads the party through the streets of Torch, motioning toward a quiet alley surrounded by stone walls and rusty shuttered windows. "If Scrapwall is just outside of town, we should look there first. It will be dangerous, I'm sure." Alessa glances up toward Korgoth, allowing him to affirm her assessment. "But I can help us stay safe. I can make us invisible while we look around. If any robbers find us, I can enchant them. And if we need to, we can fight." She waves her fingers to demonstrate a hint of a few of her spells: for a moment her hand vanishes, then produces a scintillating purple shimmer, then a ball of fire that swirls above her palm.   Alessa smiles confidently at her companions. "If we stick together, we can stay strong. And if the skymetal isn't in Scrapwall, we can find out who might have taken it out of there."

Korgoth watches Alessa’s display of magic with his usual stoic impassivity, though his grey eyes might narrow slightly at the disappearing hand, a flicker of something – perhaps grudging respect for power he doesn't understand, or simply analytical observation.   When Alessa mentions Scrapwall and looks to him for confirmation of its dangers, he gives a curt, single nod. "Scrapwall is… bad," he rumbles, his voice flat. "Filled with broken things. And broken people. Desperate. Dangerous. They will try to take what you have. Or take you."   He listens as Alessa outlines her plan for invisibility and enchantment. He offers no comment on the magic itself – such things are outside his ken. His concern is practical. "Invisibility is good," he grunts. "Keeps eyes off. Enchantment…" He pauses. "Some are too wild for pretty words. Too hungry. Fire," he glances at the flame dancing on Alessa's palm, "fire they understand. Pain they understand."   His gaze sweeps over Alessa and Zyl'thara. "You say 'stick together.' Good. In Scrapwall, alone is dead." He shifts his greataxe on his shoulder. "If we go to this place… watch your backs. Trust nothing. And if fighting starts…" A grim set comes to his jaw. "Do not hesitate. They will not." He doesn't explicitly agree to go, but his continued presence and his practical, if grim, advice strongly imply he intends to accompany them into the dangers of Scrapwall. He's seen their "softness," but also Alessa's emerging resolve and magical potential. Perhaps he sees a fight worth joining, or at least, a disaster worth trying to mitigate.

As Alessa finishes speaking, a sudden, almost imperceptible sound breaks the relative quiet of the alley – the faint scrape of a boot on loose gravel, perhaps, or the rustle of fabric from just around the corner of a nearby dilapidated shack. It's a tiny noise, easily lost in the distant clang of Torch's forges or the sigh of the wind through the rusty shutters.   The sound is so fleeting that it might be nothing at all. A stray animal, perhaps, or just the settling of old buildings. But in a place like Numeria, where vigilance is survival, even the smallest unexpected noise can be a warning.

Alessa perks her head up from the quiet huddle. She hears something... or more likely someone. A footstep against the rusty metal. What would anyone be doing in this barren alley? Maybe scavenging, or maybe spying.   "What was that?" she says quietly but sharply, glancing between her two companions.

Zyl'thara, her senses perhaps heightened by her alien physiology or her innate connection to subtle energies, whips her head towards the source of the faint sound. Her antennae twitch rapidly. For the briefest of instants, she catches a fleeting glimpse of a dark-robed figure melting back into the deeper shadows at the alley's far end, a flicker of movement disappearing too quickly to identify clearly. (Zyl'thara Perception DC 22 - Success!)   Korgoth, his attention perhaps more focused on Alessa's words and the immediate surroundings, registers the sound as well, but not with the same clarity. He tenses, his hand instinctively moving towards the haft of his greataxe. He scans the alleyway, his grey eyes narrowed, but the source of the noise is gone before he can pinpoint it. He senses something was there, a brief disturbance, but nothing more. (Korgoth Perception DC 18 - Partial Success, notices something amiss but not the figure)   Alessa, caught up in her explanation and magical demonstration, also notes the faint sound, her head turning slightly. But by the time her focus shifts, whatever caused it has vanished. A flicker of unease might pass through her, a sense that they might not be entirely alone, but with no clear target, it remains just an unsettling feeling. (Alessa Perception DC 18 - Partial Success, notices something amiss but not the figure)

Zyl'thara gasps softly, her hand flying to her chest, her large black eyes wide with alarm. "Alessa! Korgoth!" she whispers urgently, her voice barely above the rustling wind. "There was… someone! Just there!" She points a trembling finger towards the shadowy end of the alley. "A… a shape. Dressed in dark things. It… it slithered away. Like a shadow-snake!"   Her antennae are erect, quivering with agitation. "It was listening! I saw it! Just for a blink, then… poof! Gone!" She looks around the alley nervously, her earlier bravery faltering in the face of a potential unseen observer. "Do you think… do you think it was one of the… the 'Technic League spies' Korgoth warned us about? The ones who like to… poke?" Her voice is small and frightened, her previous enthusiasm for their Scrapwall expedition now heavily dampened by the possibility of being watched.

Korgoth’s eyes narrow further, his head turning slowly as he scans the shadowed recesses of the alley. He makes a low, guttural sound deep in his chest. "Something," he rumbles, his hand still resting on his greataxe. "Not a rat. Not a stray dog."   He doesn't acknowledge Zyl'thara's sighting of a figure directly, but his gaze focuses on the spot she indicated. He takes a step forward, his heavy boots crunching on the debris, peering into the darkness. Finding nothing obvious, he turns back, his expression grim.   "Ears in the dark," he grunts. "Always. Torch is full of them." He looks at Alessa and Zyl'thara. "If it was League… they know you are here. Know you ask questions about skymetal." He pauses, letting the implication sink in. "Scrapwall will be… more dangerous now. If they expect you." His assessment is blunt, practical, and offers no comfort, only a stark statement of

Alessa breathes in, her widening eyes meeting her sister's. She looks around the alley for any sign of the figure, but there is nothing. For a moment she takes a wide step into the corner of the alley and glances around the corner; still no one. No spells she knows would help reveal or capture this person, at least not since they have clearly escaped their reach. She doesn't dare move any further. If she were to try to chase down the spy, she would doubtlessly put either herself or Zyl'thara in danger. The image of that last time she tried to face a dangerous enemy alone returns to her, and it did not bode well.   She grabs her sister by the arm. "I have no other guesses," she says flatly. "Could it be them?" She looks up nervously at Korgoth.   "Whoever it was, we should get out of here." Alessa points toward the central street and leads the party there. Hopefully the chattering crowd and clanking of metals might obscure the sounds of their voices. "Even if they aren't trying to hunt us down, I don't think we're safe here. Keep both eyes peeled, and antennae too... if that would help. Stay in crowded places if you can, and keep out of the shadows. This seems like all the more reason to leave. Scrapwall may be rough, but we must be safe from the League there."