Rudstrod's Arms Intro Narration

Weapon and armor shops of all kinds line the streets of Fletcher Alley. Gun stores, swordsmiths, cannon and gunpowder stores. Everything starts to blend together as you browse, but a small, rickety shop suddenly catches your eye.

The first thing you notice is that it’s located directly in the middle of the street. The small dirt road of Fletcher Alley is already narrow, and this hut is blocking what already small space is available. People are either simply turning around to return to Hackett Square or lining up single file to fit through either side. It’s also extremely run down, and looks like it could just be pushed over by someone with decent strength. In fact, there seems to be a set of wheels underneath the front porch. The walls are speckled with bits of rotting wood, and a rough patchwork of metal, wood, and cloth covers many areas that would have otherwise fallen apart long ago.

A small handmade sign sits dejectedly by the entrance that reads ‘Rudstrod’s Arms’. In addition, there seems to be periodical flashes that are emitted from within the shop. The walls cover the flashes mostly, but the gaps between the wood go bright orange every few seconds.

As you approach the shop, there also seems to be a muffled noise that accompanies each flash, along with an unnaturally intense wave of heat that washes over you and into the street. Forges are hot, sure, but the molten metal shouldn't be pulsing out heat waves in rhythm to the hammering like the way you're feeling right now.

Opening the door, the muffled noises turn out to be grunts coming from the center of the room going ‘Muscle! Power! Strength! Ugh! Ugh! ugh!’ with each hammer strike on the anvil. Every strike causes the anvil to spark, creating the periodical flashes. Pushing your way through the small crowd gathered within the shop, you see a large, muscular man working in front of a forge. He’s drenched in sweat, and has a towel draped over his body. He’s also carrying a small, glowing flask of some kind in his free hand, which he regularly drizzles over the molten sword on the anvil. The flashes grow dimmer with each strike, but become much brighter whenever the flask’s contents are poured over the weapon.

All things considered, the speed at which he's forging the weapon is incredible. Professional blacksmiths can shape metal relatively quickly, but even they have to pause in between each strike change their grip on the metal. The angle at which the hammer hits must be precise, and the blade takes quite a while to form. The man in front of you is pounding away, almost recklessly, but the sword steadily taking shape beneath his arms shows just how skilled he is.

The awe of the spectators around you quickly changes to disbelief, followed by disgust as he suddenly takes off the towel and wrings it over the sword, causing a frankly ridiculous amount of sweat to pour out of it. The sweat evaporates on contact with the weapon, cooling it down, but also making the hut smell absolutely disgusting. A noblewoman nearby gags, and rushes out of the shop with a handkerchief pressed against her face.

He looks back to see the disgust on the crowd's faces and scoffs.

‘Psh. Amatures. Don’t ch’a know that Pandeli water’s filthy ‘n polluted?! Me sweat? Aye, now that’s pure. Part of me essence it is! Pure Manliness!!!!’