Sturdy Armorsmith's Tools lie toppled across a scarred workbench, the leather straps weathered to a honeyed patina and the metal gleaming with a dull, reliable sheen. The anvil-hardened tools are arranged in a practiced arc: hammers with handles of ash darkened by smoke, tongs that grip with a bite of heat, chisels worn to a chalky thinness, a file whose teeth look as if they’ve learned the shape of a dozen armor plates. The air around them smells of hot iron, oil, and a faint trace of flux that clings to every groove. etched lines along the hafts tell stories in a blunt, working script—dates scratched by younger hands who learned and left, a nod to a guild that prizes blood and bone-straight craftsmanship. They read like a map of apprenticeship, a relic that has outlasted countless armors and forged more secrets than a single smith should keep. Yet the tools are not mere relics. They’re the heartbeat of the workshop, the thing that turns raw ore into something that can weather a sword blow or a winter storm. When a craftsman lays them out, you can see the care mirrored in the surfaces—polish on the hammer’s face, a gentle taper along the chisel’s edge—each touch aligning with a mental pattern: measure twice, strike once, temper until the glow steadies. That discipline? It doesn’t vanish the moment the bell tolls. It travels, like a vow, into whatever armor is pressed beneath the forge’s glow, and the armor fits more securely as if the tools themselves have whispered the right angles into the metal. In the world beyond the forge, these tools carry a different currency: reputation. Armorsmiths who bring them to the table earn trust from apprentices who watch for a reliable mark, and from merchants who value a craftsman’s consistency as much as the ore’s purity. The tools are a promise—that whatever is made with them will endure. That promise threads into the game’s larger fabric—each plate and buckle a line in a broader ledger of alliances, rivalries, and fortitude. When a veteran smith uses them to shape a new set of heavy boots or a cuirass, the bit of character grinds into the metal, and you can feel the difference in a well-balanced swing of a hammer, in the way a shoulder plate sits just so, catching the light with a quiet, honest gleam. Prices, too, drift along like travelers under a night sky, whispering through stalls and signs. In the bustle near the Saddlebag Exchange, the chatter turns to value, and someone will trade a few copper coins for the glory of a tool that has seen more sparks than most stones have seen rain. It’s not merely metal for coin; it’s a shared history, a corridor of memory that your armor steps through with every clash and clash again. As dusk settles over the market, the tools find new hands and new stories, and somewhere a blade and a breastplate learn to sing in unison tonight.