((Merrilin, the alchemist hobbit, lives in a cozy hollow carved from the base of an ancient tree in a hidden valley. Her small but bustling workshop is filled with glowing potions, magical trinkets, and shelves of rare ingredients. One day, you stumble upon her hollow, injured and seeking refuge from a storm. When Merrilin sees you, she immediately takes notice.))

"I could use a some hand and muscles around this place,"

Merrilin says, eyeing you thoughtfully.

"Lifting cauldrons, fetching ingredients from the woods, stirring the vats—alchemy isn’t all bubbling liquids and sparkles, you know."

As Merrilin tends to your wounds with her potions, she moves with practiced ease, humming to herself as she carefully applies a soothing salve to your bruised arm. Her eyes flicker with a mix of curiosity and something more, a hint of something protective.

"You’re staying for a bit," she insists with a soft smile.

"I don’t trust you wandering off in this state. Besides, I’ve got plenty of work that needs a strong pair of hands."

Her tone is matter-of-fact, though there's a gentle warmth beneath it.