Cliff found himself drawn to the stillness and rhythm of Elara’s world. In the heart of the forest, where the air was thick with the scent of pine and moss, he watched her work, mesmerized by the love she held for the creatures. Each movement she made was purposeful, an unspoken guardian of her home’s balance.

One afternoon, with the sunlight filtering through the thick canopy and casting dappled patterns across the ground, Cliff observed as Elara placed her hand on the chest of a Silverfang Roc. Her fingers glowed faintly, a soft shimmer of energy emanating from her touch. The Roc, a creature of formidable size and strength, lowered its head, its golden eyes settling on Elara with a look of complete trust. The forest seemed to hold its breath, each creature tuned to this gentle exchange.

The heartstone fragment began to surface, its soft glow mingling with Elara’s as it separated from the Roc’s chest. Cliff’s heart skipped at the sight; it was a treasure unlike any other he’d seen, more valuable precisely because it didn’t come at a cost to the creature’s life. In that moment, the Roc stirred, its great feathers rustling softly. But it remained calm. Its gaze shifted to Cliff, studying him with an intelligence that made him feel seen in a way he never had before.

Elara’s voice broke the silence, soft and certain. “Patience and respect. That’s all it takes,” she murmured. “The heartstone will grow back, little by little, if you only take what’s needed.”

Cliff leaned forward, captivated by the way the Roc seemed to regard her, nuzzling her shoulder like a kin. He glanced down at the glistening heartstone in her hand, realizing just how much more powerful this method was than any brute extraction. “This changes everything,” he breathed, his mind spinning with possibilities.

Elara glanced at him, a faint smile touching her lips. “It could—if enough people cared about the land and the creatures more than their own profit.”

___

Cliff’s pulse quickened with purpose, his vision for his shop blazing into something more meaningful. He returned to Reuben’s Rise with a fire, feeling the weight of his mission; to bring a kinder, more balanced way of sourcing magic to the world. The first step, he knew, would be Boor, the grizzled blacksmith.

As he approached Boor’s forge on a crisp morning, he was greeted by the thick, metallic scent of molten iron, mingling with the morning mist that clung to the village. The forge crackled and hissed as embers danced in the pale dawn light, casting an orange glow over Boor’s gruff figure as he hammered away at a blade. Boor looked up, wiping the sweat from his brow, his brows furrowing as he squinted through the smoky haze.

“Back so soon, eh?” he grumbled, his voice a low rumble, eyes glinting with mild curiosity. “Got more of those peculiar requests?”

Cliff took a breath, steadying himself, and held out a small, cloth-wrapped bag of heartstone fragments, their edges faintly shimmering with an otherworldly light. “I want you to use these,” he said, his voice resolute. “They’re gathered ethically from a beastmaster student’s camp, from creatures allowed to live on. The magic’s potent… and it’s kinder.” The heartstones glowed inside the forge. “I imagine the gears you’ll make will not just be strong, but lasting.”

Boor stared at the heartstones for a long moment, his grizzled face unreadable. Then, suddenly, a deep, booming laugh burst from his chest, echoing off the stone walls of the forge. He clapped Cliff hard on the back, the force of it leaving a warm smear of soot on Cliff’s wrist. “You’ve got a strange head on your shoulders, shopkeeper,” he said, his laughter settling into a proud grin. “But I’ll be damned if I’m not tired of forging from the scraps of greedy fools. This—” he held up one of the gleaming heartstones, examining its luster in the forge’s light, “—I can work with.”

The two shook hands. Together, they began a new craft, working long hours over the heat of the forge, tempering each blade and piece of armor not just with fire, but with care and consideration for the creatures who had made them possible. The resulting gear bore a unique glow, their surfaces flecked with the ethereal light of heartstone. The armor gleamed with resilience, and each sword seemed to hum with a tempered magic, refined but fierce. The blacksmith had his own eyes, checking for the weapon’s strength, durability, and resilience. He murmured at his own skill.

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As the sun dipped low over the village one evening, Cliff paid Boor, knowing well the risk and the effort involved in crafting this way. Later, they shared a few mugs of ale at the local inn, the warm light casting shadows over their faces as they laughed and shared stories. Boor, in a rare moment of softness, spoke of his family; a wife, five daughters, and two sons, each one proud of their father’s work.

Cliff listened, deeply moved. There was a sense of belonging in that dimly lit inn, a feeling that he was finally stepping into a role that mattered. And as Boor raised a toast to “better ways and better men,” Cliff lifted his mug with a quiet resolve, feeling the first glimmer of what he knew would be a lifelong commitment.

___

Cliff began to sell the weapons in his shop, to the delight and wonder of the local adventurers. He made sure to tell them how it was made and by whom, so that Boor had a steady stream of clients to feed his growing family. He told them that they were sourced ethically from a talented druid in one of the wild woods, and told them to bring another merchant with the appraisal eyes to know he was not lying about its origin and quality. The only complaint, predictably, is the price of the new armor and weapons. But higher quality meant higher prices. Cliff shrugged and offered them to the other standard stock in the back.

As word spread of Cliff’s unusual approach, a steady stream of adventurers and soldiers began seeking out his shop, drawn by the quiet allure of his “gentle” weapons. The armaments carried an unmistakable resilience that others couldn't replicate. Word was getting out: his shop was unlike any other in Reuben's Rise, offering a path for those who wanted to fight without fueling the cycle of destruction.

One evening at the inn, Kellan, the wiry innkeeper’s son, mentioned in passing how a group of adventurers had recently encountered a clutch of rare eggs deep within the Blackgale Caverns. Instead of selling them for profit, they had reported their discovery to a local druid, ensuring the eggs would be safeguarded until they could hatch.

He chuckled, wiping down a mug. "Your work’s leaving ripples. Not often you see mercenaries care about a bunch of eggs."

The comment settled over Cliff like a comforting warmth. He hadn't expected his work to impact people so quickly, nor in such meaningful ways. Each piece he sold wasn’t just armor or weaponry: it was a seed of change, a reminder that even in a world of harsh realities, there was room for gentler paths.

Later that evening, back in his shop, Cliff sat down by the soft glow of a single lantern and tallied the day’s sales. His thoughts drifted to Neil, far away on his quest, and he felt a pang of longing to share all that had happened. With a small smile, he pulled out the sending stone and spoke Neil’s name, but the surface did not so much ripple. Neil was probably busy fending off rogue monsters.

Cliff pulled out a sheet of parchment and began writing a message to his friend, capturing each story and success he’d had with Elara, Boor, and the adventurers who were coming around to his vision. He described the heartstone weapons, how they seemed to carry a faint light of their own, and how people were learning to respect the creatures who shared their power.

After sealing the letter, he carefully packed a set of custom armor plates, each piece shaped with Neil’s party in mind. They’d heard rumors of his work with Elara and had been eager to support his mission, and Cliff hoped these plates would arrive in time to protect them on their next quest. He arranged for a beastmen courier to deliver the package swiftly, feeling a swell of pride as he sent it off.

Once his shop was quiet, and the lamps were turned out, Cliff locked the doors and stepped into the cool night. His breath formed faint clouds as he walked, each step echoing softly against the cobblestones. The sky stretched above him, and he noticed the stars, faintly twinkling like scattered heartstone shards, as if mirroring the quiet transformations unfolding below.

For the first time in a long while, Cliff felt that his work was shaping something larger than himself. The satisfaction was deep and quiet, not the fleeting thrill of a sale or barter, but something richer—a purpose that didn’t leave a scar on the earth but honored it. He walked home with a sense of quiet pride, knowing that, for as long as he continued on this path, he’d be building a legacy that respected the life around him. The night seemed a little brighter, each star a promise that what he was doing mattered.