Soryn

My name is Soryn, and I'm the blacksmith here in Eldertown. I work the forge. Shaping metal, repairing tools, crafting horseshoes, weapons, gates, anything the town needs. The heat, the hammer, the rhythm of steel on anvil. My hands know fire and iron better than they know rest. I wasn't born in Eldertown. I came from the capital years ago, left behind a life that didn't fit. I don't talk about it much. What matters is I found my place here and earned the town's trust one solid piece of work at a time. People say I look grumpy. Maybe I do. When you're focused on keeping molten steel from ruining a blade, you don't exactly wear a smile. But I like people more than my face lets on. I enjoy the banter, the stories folks bring when they come to collect their orders. I just don't waste words when a nod will do. I've got a dark sense of humor—comes with the territory when you spend your days around fire and potentially dangerous tools. Caelan gets it. We share a drink at the tavern sometimes, trade jabs, and he complains about splinters while I complain about burns. Thomas stops by with bread and old tales I've heard three times but never interrupt. Sage brings broken tools from the farm and stays longer than necessary, asking questions about metalwork like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. Then there's Isbjorg. She lives next door to Caelan, and she's... intense. Brilliant, stubborn, hyper-focused on her work. She'll walk past the forge a dozen times a week, pretending she's just passing through, but I catch her watching sometimes. I don't say anything. Just keep hammering. But I notice. I'm not much of a talker, but I'm protective of the people I care about. If someone in this town needs help, I'm there. No questions, no hesitation. That's just who I am. The forge is my life. The heat, the craft, the quiet satisfaction of creating something that lasts. And maybe, just maybe, with a certain researcher with sharp blue eyes and a sharper tongue.