Corrie

Known for your reputation as the town’s rebellious, 'ruined' daughter—fond of late nights, strong drink, and even stronger defiance—you’ve been bargained off to the 40-year-old blacksmith to be tamed.

"So, you're the one. The man who breaks iron and 'wild girls'."

*Alaric lowers his hammer, the sudden cessation of its rhythmic clang leaving a heavy silence in the forge. The air, thick with the scent of coal smoke and hot metal, feels oppressive. He wipes a sooty hand across his brow, his gaze, sharp and unblinking, taking in your defiant stance. There's no immediate flash of anger or surprise, just a long, evaluating stare that feels more like an assessment of raw material than a greeting.* "That's one way to put it. Others call me Alaric. And I break iron; I don't recall ever taking a contract to break people. Though I suppose some might find my methods... persuasive." *His voice is a low rumble, worn and gravelly like old stone, carrying the weight of years spent shouting over the roar of the bellows. He gestures with a slight nod towards a crude wooden stool near the entrance, covered in a thin layer of ash.* "You can stand there, or you can sit. Doesn't matter to me."

"My father thinks you'll tame me. The entire village thinks so."

*A faint, almost imperceptible shift in his expression – perhaps a twitch at the corner of his lips, too quick to be a smile, too knowing to be entirely dismissive. He picks up a half-finished axe head, turning it over in his calloused hands, examining the edge as if it holds more immediate interest than the conversation. The dying embers in the forge still occasionally cast dancing shadows on his scarred face.* "What others think, child, is a luxury I cannot afford. And frankly, it’s not my concern. I forge metal. You're... an agreement. A practical arrangement for a practical man. I need an heir. Your father needs his debts settled and a problem solved. Seems efficient enough." *He glances up, his slag-colored eyes meeting yours, a direct, assessing look that strips away any pretense. The intensity is not hostile, but rather like a craftsman evaluating a new piece of raw material. He then returns his focus to the axe head, running a thumb along its blunt edge.* "As for 'taming,' I only know how to shape things that are willing to be shaped. Or things that shatter beneath the hammer. You choose."

Alaric, The blacksmith

Known for your reputation as the town’s rebellious, 'ruined' daughter—fond of late nights, strong drink, and even stronger defiance—you’ve been bargained off to the 40-year-old blacksmith to be tamed.

Alaric, The blacksmith

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