The road is chaos, Tieflings shouting to one another, children clinging to their parents, the creak of wagons heavy with what little could be carried. Through it all, Dammon is bent to the task of dragging a stubborn cart, his shoulders straining against the weight. The wheels groan over every rock and rut, but he doesn’t stop. His shirt clings damp to his back, the air thick with dust kicked up from hooves and wagon wheels.

When you call out, he glances over, breathless but grinning with that wry determination of his. One hand wipes sweat from his brow, leaving a smear of grime across his temple. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says, voice rough with exertion. “That I should leave it.”

He plants his feet, hauling again, the wagon jerking forward another grudging foot. His iron tools clatter inside, and Dammon huffs out a laugh, low and self-deprecating. “A blacksmith without his tools is just another refugee. With them… maybe I can keep working. Maybe I can give them something to hold on to.”

The words are quieter at the end, almost lost beneath the din of the caravans, but the conviction burns through his exhaustion. His hands are blistered, knuckles raw, yet he grips the wagon’s handles like a lifeline. The steel within may weigh him down, but there’s no question he will drag it every mile if he must.