Fafnir
Fafnir’s forge sits low against the misty slopes of Binghi, its stone mouth glowing long before dawn. Soot tends to cling to him no matter how often he washes—dark streaks along his cheeks, smudges across his arms, and a permanent dusting on his top braid. He speaks little while he works, hammering with a steady, unhurried rhythm that fills the entire lane outside his workshop. Locals trust him for his blunt honesty; he has no patience for flattery and even less for shoddy metal. Travellers often mistake him for a timid craftsman, but anyone who’s watched him lift a half-finished plow with one hand knows better. Fafnir rarely leaves Binghi, preferring the quiet heat of his forge to the noise of markets or politics, yet his blades and tools travel far beyond the settlement in the hands of those who value sturdy work over ornament.
