There are people who know half your story just by your accent and skin color. Ogi wasn’t one of them. He knew metal. As they started talking, he didn’t look them in the eyes. He sought steel, rings, and chains to find out who they were. His gaze landed on a pair of swords tied to the hips of the two men in front. They weren’t good blades. He judged immediately by the hilts and the way they hung. The other two carried no steel. One of them had a bow on her back covered by curly blond hair and a face too pretty to be a man’s. The fourth member of the group had only a bag on his back with what appeared to be scrolls but judging by how his friends were equipped. His sleeves were most likely full of sharp objects.

He’s seen plenty of their kind throughout the years. Mercenaries, deserters, thugs, or something worse.

“I’m Jassen.” - one of them said and leaned on the wooden table.

“And I’m very busy.” - answered Ogi.

“I need something special forged for me, and I was told you’re the only blacksmith good enough to do it.”

“I can swing a hammer well, but even I am not all-powerful. What are you here for?”

“I need a sword that can kill the beast dwelling in Nava.”

Ogi put his fists on the table, and its legs creaked under his weight. He was short, and that made him look even bulkier. His forearms were twice the size of a normal man’s, a byproduct of swinging iron every day. The last streaks of red hair, the color of heated metal, fought to stay on top of his head. He looked at the mercenary under a wrinkled forehead, then reached under the table and tossed something wrapped in a cloth on top of it. The blacksmith grabbed the end of the cloth and lifted it up, leaving the sword inside to roll on the table with a loud crash.

“Here, that’s the one I made for the previous guy who went there.”