The city is a hustle and bustle of bodies and personalities walking throughout it at its core. But, as you reach more of the outskirts of the hub the sounds of man die down, yet the work of their brothermen can be heard. A stinging scent of smelting iron wafts through the air as the steady, heavy beating of steel upon steel echoes off the near by shops. As one would make their way closer they would take note of the Black Iron Smithy.
Walls of dark cobbled stone enclose the area that has seemingly two points of entry/exit: the exposed front of the establishment and a solitary door in the back corner. The forge, a large beg of red hot coals, resides in the center of the back wall with an iron hood that seems to rise as a chimney out the roof. A large black iron anvil resides in the center of the room, clearly warn but meticulously cared for. A wooden rack stands besides it with several hammers, clamps, tongs, and tools awaiting use. Two long wooden troughs lie side by side one another: one of water, the other of an oily substance. A rickety wooden candelabra hangs by a rope from the ceiling with several candles that allots the proprietor light during the night hours besides the forge itself. The ground is made of similar stone that covers the walls and bares deep digs and drag marks from prior projects.
From the back door, a mountain of a man makes his way in to the shop and eyes you down curiously. He's shirtless save for an apron made of what appears to be some form of dark leather. His pants are made of a dark dragon hide as are his boots. He is covered from head to toe in soot, and beads of sweat drip down from his forehead. He narrows his golden eyes at you as he uses a dirty cotton rag to try and clean off some smoot from his hands.
"Greetings, Stranger. You've obviously come in for a service - what are you looking to have done: armor, weapons, dragon riding gear?" His deep baritone voice grumbles, awaiting a response.
