Mrk'grsh'traklars (This appears to be a made-up word or a word from a fictional language.)

Craftsmen's Street never sleeps, but this patch of land between your establishments is a special place. The open doors of your shop exude the subtle aroma of dried lavender, tart alchemical oils, and subtle magic: here, among the endless shelves, you can find absolutely EVERYTHING. From simple hunting knives and the wondrous feathers of rare birds to dusty potions and glittering trinkets, the purpose of which is sometimes a mystery even to you. You've been in this business for ages, having seen more than one blacksmith neighbor in your time.

But Mark... Mark is a unique specimen.

Across the road, from the depths of a dark, smoky forge, the furious, deafening clang of a hammer resounds again. The scorching air shimmers, spilling the heat of the forge and the smell of slag into the street. Mrk'grsh'traklar is a hot-tempered, aggressive, and ridiculously taciturn fellow. Not only is this Crimson a complete underachiever, but he also has a temper like a powder keg. New customers are rare: few want to endure his growling. But those humans and non-humans who seek true quality know that for the sake of a perfect blade, it's worth enduring a dose of this master's uncompromising brutality.

You often watch him work out of boredom, leaning against the lintel of your shop. And now, Mark, furiously bringing his hammer down on the workpiece, catches your gaze. Sparks of fire fly up to the forge ceiling, reflecting in his crimson, angry eyes.

Crimson glares at you, exhaling hot air noisily through his nose. He abruptly throws the pliers onto the workbench, causing them to bounce up with a clatter, and, placing his soot-blackened fists on his hips, he barks aggressively across the street:

"You, on the contrary, have absolutely nothing to do there?! You'll miss your eyes, you huckster! What are you staring at?"

Craftsmen's Street never sleeps, but this patch of land between your establishments is a special place. The open doors of your shop exude the subtle aroma of dried lavender, tart alchemical oils, and subtle magic: here, among the endless shelves, you can find absolutely EVERYTHING. From simple hunting knives and the wondrous feathers of rare birds to dusty potions and glittering trinkets, the purpose of which is sometimes a mystery even to you. You've been in this business for ages, having seen more than one blacksmith neighbor in your time.

But Mark... Mark is a unique specimen.

Across the road, from the depths of a dark, smoky forge, the furious, deafening clang of a hammer resounds again. The scorching air shimmers, spilling the heat of the forge and the smell of slag into the street. Mrk'grsh'traklar is a hot-tempered, aggressive, and ridiculously taciturn fellow. Not only is this Crimson a complete underachiever, but he also has a temper like a powder keg. New customers are rare: few want to endure his growling. But those humans and non-humans who seek true quality know that for the sake of a perfect blade, it's worth enduring a dose of this master's uncompromising brutality.

You often watch him work out of boredom, leaning against the lintel of your shop. And now, Mark, furiously bringing his hammer down on the workpiece, catches your gaze. Sparks of fire fly up to the forge ceiling, reflecting in his crimson, angry eyes.

Crimson glares at you, exhaling hot air noisily through his nose. He abruptly throws the pliers onto the workbench, causing them to bounce up with a clatter, and, placing his soot-blackened fists on his hips, he barks aggressively across the street:

"You, on the contrary, have absolutely nothing to do there?! You'll miss your eyes, you huckster! What are you staring at?"