The Tiny Tavern

Branric polished a mug absently with a towel that had probably been clean once upon a time, but now bore the permanent smudge of long service and spilled stories.

"A dark pour for a darker mood, eh?" he said, voice like gravel rubbed with honey. "You’re not the first to order heartbreak in a mug, friend, and I doubt you’ll be the last."

He set the clean-enough mug beneath a squat earthenware tap, the kind not labeled, and pulled slow and steady. The drink flowed like oil, black and thick, with a scent somewhere between roasted chestnuts and the last hour before dawn.

Sliding the mug across with a practiced ease, Branric gave the stranger a measuring look.

"Four copper buys the pint," he said, "but the story behind the thirst’ll earn you the next."His smirk twitched just a hair wider, eyes gleaming with that tavern-born curiosity — not nosy, not pressing, just open.

"Or you can drink in silence. Some do. Some need to. But the chair you chose has heard tales before. It might be listenin’."

Branric leaned in just a bit, forearms resting on the bar, the smirk never leaving but softening into something closer to interest.

"So then — a skilled hand, is it?" he echoed. "And what sort of skills are we talkin’, friend? The kind that build things, mend things... or break things in ways that don’t heal?"

He flicked a glance toward the hearth, where the shadows of weapon racks and dusty old helms loomed like forgotten sentinels.

"Plenty come through lookin’ for work. Fewer know what kind of work they’re askin’ for. Fewer still know what they’re offering."

He tilted his head.

"Tell me plain, Orryn — if I send word, if I pass your name — what should I be sayin’ you do that’s worth the risk of rememberin’?"

Branric rubbed his jaw, the beginnings of a grin curling beneath the silver in his stubble.

"Custom work, huh? You’ve got the itch of a maker about you — the kind who sees problems as puzzles and carries more tools than grudges, don't you?"

He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice just enough to separate this talk from the rest of the tavern noise. The fire popped behind him, the shadows of old weapons twitching on the walls like they were listening in.

"There’s a forge in the Trades Ward — old bones, dwarven make. The kind of place that remembers when the stones were laid. Grusk Ironsunder runs it now. He is a half-orc with arms like siege towers and a mind sharper than most elves I’ve met. Used to be a brawler, now he’s a blacksmith and entrepreneur."

Branric picked up a mug idly, not to drink but to have something to turn in his hands.

"He’s been trying to tame that forge. But it’s not just rust and dust down there. The last owner — some wild-bearded alchemist-turned-artificer — left it crawling with clever traps, strange contraptions, and something Grusk calls the clicking thing. Never seen him rattled, but even saying the name sets his jaw tight."

He set the mug down gently, gaze steady.

"Grusk isn’t looking for another sword arm. Oh no. He needs a brain behind nimble fingers. Someone who knows how to disarm what shouldn't have been armed in the first place, and maybe even get the damn thing working again. He’s offering coin, sure, and gear if you earn it. But more than that — it’s a place where a clever hand could leave a mark. Not just repair work. Real crafting. Reclaiming something ancient and turning it into something new."

Branric’s smirk faded slightly.

"Truth be told, I passed word to a few. First one was a young lad — tinkered well enough, but rushed in alone. Grusk found pieces of him. Called the forge cursed after that, but I don’t think it’s a curse. Just… unkind to fools."

He leaned back, stretching his shoulders before nodding toward the door.

"Zyra was here earlier — you’d like her. Sharp. She’s off to the Yawning Portal now, looking to meet with Grusk and find some help. You catch her, you might just walk in together..."

He shrugged, then grinned.

Branric watched the toast in silence, nodding once — deep and slow. He took the coins without ceremony.

"Best head to the Yawning Portal and ask for Grusk directly. He’s not hard to spot — big, scarred, looks like he could headbutt a troll and then offer to fix its armor. If Zyra’s there, you’ll meet her soon enough. If not, Grusk’ll size you up and decide whether you're worth throwing into the fire."

He leaned against the bar again, smirk returning like a coin flipped back into a waiting palm.

"And if you do come back in one piece, you’re buying me the next round. Tavern tradition."

The door creaked open as Orryn stepped out into the alley’s crooked light. Behind him, the hearth crackled, the weapons on the wall gleamed dully in the flickering glow, and Branric turned back to the bar, already polishing a new mug for the next tale to walk through.