The dwarven settlement was alive with the clamor of hammers and the hiss of forges, the air thick with smoke and the tang of molten metal. Rayz moved through the streets with his cloak drawn close, the faint trickle of blood at his neck hidden beneath the fabric. The wound was shallow but stubborn, a reminder of a fight he had no interest in recounting.

He stepped into a narrow armory, the scent of oil and steel heavy in the air. Behind the counter stood a young dwarven armorer, his beard still patchy, his eyes bright with curiosity.

“Service for repairs?” Rayz asked, his tone clipped but polite.

“What kinda damage we lookin’ at, eh?” he asked, leaning forward with the eagerness of someone who always wanted a story to go with the steel.

Rayz’s lips curved faintly. “Goblin spear to breastplace.”

The dwarf’s eyes widened, then narrowed as at his wound. “Goblin as well?”

Rayz’s reply was dry, almost muttered. “Old flame…”

The dwarf barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve got stories, I’m sure.”

Rayz ignored the remark, his voice steady. “Chest?”

The armorer nodded toward a heavy oak chest in the corner. Rayz raised his hand, murmuring a simple Chestbound spell. The lid creaked open, and with a shimmer of light his runeite breastplate appeared, drawn from his personal store. He dismissed the spell with a flick of his wrist, the chest closing as if nothing had happened.

The dwarf’s eyes widened again, but his expression quickly soured. “Runeite? I can’t work that.”

Rayz frowned. “Can’t? Runeite’s stronger than steel, yes, but it’s not so rare that a dwarven armorer should balk. If it were that high quality, the goblin wouldn’t have nearly cost me my life.”

The dwarf winced, lowering his voice. “I’m forbidden. Apprentice, see. I’ve fumbled too many orders already. If I touch runeite again, it’ll be my head. But…” He hesitated, then added, “My master, Grom Granitehand, can do it. You’ll find him at the tavern.”

Rayz sighed, lifting the breastplate under his arm. “Of course he’s at the tavern.”

He left the armory and followed the sound of laughter down the street. The tavern was crowded, the air thick with ale and smoke. At the center of it all sat Grom Granitehand, drunk and loud, slamming his mug against the table as he boasted about his skill. Rayz approached just as the barkeep shouted about Grom’s unpaid tab, and the dwarf tried to sneak toward the door.

The tavern smelled of stale ale and smoke, its rafters echoing with drunken laughter. At the center of it all sat the drawf Grom Granitehand, his beard matted with foam, his voice booming over the crowd as he bragged about forging blades “so sharp they cut the air itself.”

Rayz approached just as the barkeep slammed a hand on the counter. “Granitehand! You’ve run up a tab the size of a mountain. Pay it, or you’ll be drinking water from the shallows.”

Grom, swaying in his seat, tried to look enormous. “Bah! I’ll pay in steel. I’ll fix your hinges, polish your mugs, forge you into a fire myself!” He staggered toward the door, muttering about “royal commissions” and “ungrateful barkeeps.”

The barkeep blocked his path, arms crossed. “Coin, Grom. Or you’re not leaving.”

Rayz, already weary from the day. “If this is the fastest way to get my breastplate fixed…” He dropped a pouch of coin onto the counter. The barkeep snatched it up with a satisfied grunt, stepping aside.

Grom clapped Rayz on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. “A fine man! Generous! A true patron of the arts!” His words slurred, but his grin was wide. “Come, let’s get your armor sorted. Granitehand never fails!”

Rayz muttered under his breath, “Hmm, but not at paying your debts it seems...” They stepped out into the street, the night air cooler than the tavern’s haze. Grom was quieter now, his swagger dimmed. He muttered something about apprentices and better days, his voice tinged with regret. Rayz caught the shift but said nothing, though the thought lingered: there was more to Grom’s drinking than ale and arrogance. He staggered beside Rayz, muttering half-coherent boasts about his skill. Yet beneath the bluster, his voice carried a weight that Rayz couldn’t ignore.

“Better days,” Grom grumbled. “Apprentices who looked up to me. Commissions that mattered. Now? Just debts and drink.”

Rayz kept his silence, though his patience thinned. He had come for repairs, not confessions. Still, he caught the shadow in Grom’s words, a sadness buried beneath the laughter.

They turned a corner, and the mood shifted. A group of men stepped from the shadows, their faces hard, their eyes cruel. The tallest of them sneered, blocking their path.

“Well, if it isn’t Granitehand,” he said, his voice dripping with malice. “Still drowning yourself in ale, I see. You owe us, dwarf. And if you don’t pay, your little apprentice will bleed for it.”

Grom froze, his bravado collapsing into fear. His hand twitched toward his belt, but he had no weapon, he had no courage. Rayz sighed, setting the breastplate down against the wall. “I came here for armor,” he muttered dryly. “By Lord Saradyn’s gentle light, if she’s feeling merciful today, she will strike me down so I don’t have to do this today...”

The thug sneered at him. “And who are you supposed to be? Some pampered fool with runeite?”

INSERT INSULT HERE

Rayz moved with rhythm, his sword flashing in precise arcs. He struck one thug across the arm, then pivoted to drive a kick into another’s chest. A jab to the jaw dropped a third, his movements efficient, logical, each strike flowing into the next. He fought not with fury, but with practiced cadence, though a flicker of satisfaction gleamed in his eyes as his anger found release.

The last thug charged, roaring. Rayz tossed his sword into the dirt, then seized the man by the collar. With a sharp motion, he drove the thug’s head down onto the upright hilt. Rayz exhaled, retrieving his sword. Grom stared, wide-eyed, then let out a shaky laugh. “By the stones… you saved me. Saved my apprentice too. I’ll fix your armor. Free of charge. And for the tab.”

Rayz lifted the breastplate and handed it to the dwarf. His patience worn thin. “After the day I’ve had,” he muttered, “when you need to return it to me, you will find me at the tavern.”

You Can Find Him At The Tavern

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