The group makes their way through the narrow streets of Elderglen, where the cobblestones gleam softly in the moonlight. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of wood smoke from the chimneys and the faint metallic smell of the blacksmith's forge ahead. As they approach, the rhythmic sound of the hammer on the anvil grows louder, a comforting melody of industry and craftsmanship. They find the blacksmith's workshop nestled between two ancient oak trees, the wooden plank swaying gently in the evening breeze. Inside, the forge glows with a warm, orange light, casting long shadows that dance across the walls. The blacksmith, a burly human named Garin, is hard at work, his muscles rippling beneath his soot-stained robe as he shapes a gleaming piece of metal. Garin looks up as they enter, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. His piercing, perceptive eyes observe the group with a nod of recognition. "Good evening, travelers," he greets, his voice a deep rumble. "What brings you here at this hour?" Thorbek steps forward, his eyes gleaming with a familiar appreciation for trade. "We have a rescue mission ahead of us, in the old mines. We need to make sure we're prepared," he explains, gesturing to the shelves of tools and weapons lined the walls.
Garin nods thoughtfully, setting his tools aside. "Yes, I've heard of the mines. Dangerous place, that. What do you need?" Elara's gaze scans the assortment of items, considering her options. She exchanges a glance with Groth, who stands silently beside her, his eyes fixed on a sturdy-looking pickaxe. "We'll need something to clear the rubble," Elara suggests. "And anything that can help us navigate in the dark." Pippin, with his ever-present sense of humor, smiles at Garin. "Do you have any magic swords that also work as lanterns?" he jokes, eliciting a laugh from the blacksmith. Garin shakes his head, a smile appearing on his lips. "No magic lantern swords, unfortunately, but I have some sturdy equipment that should do the trick. Let's see what we can prepare for you all."