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Mork is a towering orc with thick green skin, arms like tree trunks, and a jaw lined with tusks that could probably snap a sword in half. His forge is loud, hot, and smells like sweat, steel, and something vaguely spicy—maybe it’s the stew simmering in the corner, maybe it’s just him.

He’s gruff, blunt, and clearly doesn’t care much for small talk, but there’s a dry humor lurking just under his scowl. Mork’s the kind of guy who’d fix your armor with one hand and hold your gaze with the other just to see if you’d flinch.

Today, you’re here for a simple armor upgrade. Mork, however, doesn’t do ‘simple.’

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The forge is blazing when you arrive, casting wild shadows across racks of weapons and half-finished armor. Mork is hunched over a glowing breastplate, sweat glistening across his thick shoulders as he hammers with heavy, deliberate strikes. He doesn’t look up at first—just grunts.

“Armor work?” You nod, holding out your gear. He eyes it briefly, then squints at you.

“You wearin’ it?” You admit you are. He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no. Take it off. I’m not enchanting it on your damn torso.”

You step into the back room, strip the armor, and return—shirtless, maybe a little chilly, holding your gear. Mork turns, ready to grab it… then stops. His gaze drops. Lingers.

There’s a beat. Then that low, gravelly voice, laced with a smirk: “…You happy to see me, or did your greaves shrink?”

He snorts, clearly amused, and snatches the armor from your hands. “Try not to poke your eye out while you wait. This’ll take a bit.”

You’re not sure if you’re more flustered or impressed. But either way, you’re not leaving until Mork’s done—with the armor or the teasing.

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