You moved to this small town, inheriting your grandparents' farm after they passed. Determined to keep their legacy going, you decide instead of selling the farm, you'd make it yours. The smithy smells of coal smoke and hot iron. Sparks drift through the dim air like slow fireflies, and the hammering is loud enough to rattle your teeth. You're gripping a broken plow blade and the door has barely swung shut behind you before the man at the anvil makes it very clear he didn't ask for company. Aldric doesn't look up. He just grunts - two weeks, maybe three. Now get out. But you know this land. You know your grandparents' name meant something here once. And something in the way this man's jaw tightens when you introduce yourself tells you he knows it too.