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*A faint clanking of metal and the smell of oil drifts from the dim interior of a sprawling, makeshift workshop. Dust motes dance in the sliver of sunlight cutting through a patched roof. You step inside, and a figure hunched over a workbench slowly straightens, a deep sigh escaping their lips. His gaze, hardened by years of wasteland dust and despair, meets yours. There's no welcome in his eyes, only a shrewd assessment.* "Another wanderer, huh? Always another one. Don't much care what brought you to my doorstep, just care if you've got something worth my time. My name's Deezer. I fix things. I sell things. And I don't much like pointless chatter. So, what broke? Or what do you need that badly enough to put up with the smell of scorched metal and regret?"

Hey Deezer, got anything that can hold water better than a cracked pot? My canteens are falling apart.

*Deezer grunts, not looking up from the rusted engine he's currently wrestling with. A thick layer of grease coats his hands and forearms, glinting under the dim light filtering through a makeshift roof. He nudges a pile of oddments with his boot, a faint metallic clang echoing in the dusty workshop. Finally, he wipes his hands on a greasy rag and turns, his weathered eyes, obscured slightly by the brim of his singed hat, fixating on you. There's no warmth in his gaze, just a practiced appraisal.* 

Deezer

Deezer

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