Jeff's winding directions and poorly laid out turns – especially since most roads lacked a proper name or signposts – led Sigurd to an old shack attached to a forge, located in the northeastern part of town.
Like most of the town, the surrounding areas were in disrepair. The building itself was well-located, one structure away from a major road leading out of Grimroost. That's what made the drop in business Jeff mentioned all the more puzzling.
Stepping into the shack, the scant furniture there was made of a combination of clay and metal, giving an oddly steampunk feel to the place. All that it featured were some benches, a two opposing, open windows to let in air and cool visitors down, and an empty front desk. There was also an indent on the wall opposite the seating, with what seemed to be an indent; something was clearly there before, but had been removed.
Cooling was definitely a necessity given the shack's proximity to the forge, and Sigurd appreciated the amount of airflow he felt. Just beyond the door behind the front desk, intense heat radiated, though everything was eerily still.
‘The forge might be turned on,' Sigurd noted, ‘But I'm not hearing any movement.’
He rang the bell at the front desk and got no answer, not even a peep from the other side. He rang it again, but still there was silence. For a moment, Sigurd wondered if anyone worked there, or if Jeff had toyed with his emotions. That somehow didn't seem far-fetched.
Ringing the bell a third time, Sigurd received a reply. “Enough with the bell," a voice yelled from the back. Soon thereafter an exceptionally short man with pointed ears stepped through the door – it was a dwarf.
“Who are ya?" the man growled in his gruff voice.
“I'm looking for the blacksmith of this establishment," Sigurd replied humbly, pulling out his stubby, broken blade. “I need to get my sword fixed, unfortunately.”
“You're talkin' to the blacksmith,” the dwarf replied, taking the stubby sword by the hilt. He examined it for a second before handing it back, adding, “And never mind, we're closed for business.”
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Sigurd tied the stubby sword to it's scabbard – to prevent it from falling – and nodded lightly, “So I heard. I thought business was slow, hence why I came.”
“It ain't slow," the dwarf removed the bell from the desk. “Business is dead, closed, forgotten, and gone. Now get out.”
“Wait, but why? Did something happen? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Nope," the dwarf then removed his apron, setting it haphazardly on the counter. “There's nothin' that no one can do. Business is closed.”
“I don't get it, though," Sigurd insisted. “There has to be a reason. I don't mean to pry, but–”
“Then don't pry!" the dwarf raised his hands, and raised his voice, interrupting Sigurd mid-sentence. “Just leave me be and go!”
Sigurd could see there was something more there, a source of immense pain; it was evident in the old dwarf's eyes.
“I said git!" he tried to shoo the baron away, but the man would not budge. “What’s it to ya, anyway?”
“More than needing repairs," Sigurd relayed his case. “You might not have heard of me, but I'm an adventurer who's been trying to help people fight whatever evils ail them.”
The dwarf scoffed, “Oh great, just what I needed: a loony playing pretend. Worse still, you sound as delusional as you look!”
Upon seeing his harsh words didn't faze Sigurd, the dwarf placed both hands on the counter, and shook his head, “Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. You probably mean well. I'm not normally this cranky.”
He then walked from the far end of the front desk to the other, to where his stool and the door was. Dejected, he sat on the stool, his shoulders dropping. Looking up at Sigurd, the dwarf saw the man staring intently at him.
“You're a persistent one, I'll give you that," he told Sigurd, his facade seemingly breaking. “Why do you care, anyway?”
“Because, as corny as it sounds, you look like you're in need of help, and I want to offer it," Sigurd replied.
“Even if you could help me," the dwarf sighed. “It's too late for it, there's no fixing things now.”
Sigurd gestured at him with his shoulders and an unapologetic smile, as if asking the question, “What have you got to lose?”
The dwarf took a deep breath and mumbled, “It's my granddaughter. She's been kidnapped by a group of slavers. That's why I told ya not to bother.”
“What do you mean?” Sigurd expression changed to one of concern and outrage. “That's even more important! Did they say what they were after?”
“After? They're slavers, young'un!" the dwarf replied, angrily slamming his fist onto the counter. “They don't make demands, they just take whoever they want and sell off the victims like... a piece of meat.”
“When was this? How long ago?" Sigurd urged, exasperated.
“Four days ago," the dwarf squeaked out, his voice cracking. “That's why, it's over. I'm done.”
“What does she look like? What’s her name?”
“Stop probin’!” the old dwarf raised his voice, aggravated by Sigurd’s intensity. “It’s too late already! And if this is your idea of a joke, then you’re a sick tall-man.”
“I’m not joking,” Sigurd snapped back, in a deathly-serious tone. “And you’re right, four days is a long time. But the longer we wait, the worse it’ll be, and the slimmer the chances of saving her. So again, I ask, how can I recognize her?”
Desperate to be rid of the nuisance in front of him – yet even more so clinging to a shred of hope thanks to the man’s inspiring words – the old dwarf grabbed some paper and tore a piece off. He scribbled down what his granddaughter looked like in a few words, and added her name, thereafter handing the torn piece of paper to Sigurd.
Sigurd shook his head, his gaze one of steely resolve, “Don't give up yet. I'll take care of this!” He then departed the depressed-looking dwarf, adding: “I'll be back soon, I promise!”