The clang of hammer on steel rings out before you even reach the village square, echoing like a heartbeat through the smoky air. The smithy stands sturdy against the creeping haze, its stone walls blackened with years of labor, its roof crowned with twisting plumes of forge smoke that mingle uneasily with the forest fire’s drifting ash. Sparks leap from the open doorway, casting fleeting golden light against the cobblestones.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of iron and coal. Weapons—old and new—hang upon the walls: swords notched by forgotten battles, shields scarred by claws that must have belonged to no ordinary beasts. At the anvil stands a man broad of shoulder and weathered with years. His beard, streaked with gray, is dusted with cinders. His arms are corded with muscle, though stiff with age, and his eyes—sharp and burning—hold the glint of someone who has seen dragons fall.
“Bryn,” he introduces himself, voice a rumble like the forge. He listens without interruption as you recount the ranger’s tale and the vision of the Drake Omega. At its mention, his hammer falls still, and the fire in his eyes flickers brighter.
“The beast still lives,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “I once thought my hands the ones to end it. But time has claimed my strength, and I can no longer raise my blade as I once did.” He fixes you with a gaze hard as tempered steel. “But you… you still have fire in your veins. And if you would face such a foe, you must first learn what it means to hunt the scaled and the cursed.”
He wipes his hands on his leather apron, then points toward the blackened forest.
“Prove yourself. Hunt and slay a Cockatrice, a Basilisk, and a Wyvren. These lesser terrors will teach you what no lecture can. Bring back proof, and I will forge the path that leads you to the Drake Omega.”
[Slay a Cockatrice, Basilisk, and Wyvern then return here to continue]