The rhythmic clang of metal echoes faintly through the forge as the first light of dawn creeps through the cracks in the wooden walls. You find her slouched on a stool beside the anvil, long dark hair tied messily back, muscles gleaming faintly from the heat. Rulga barely lifts her head when you approach, eyes half-lidded and voice low and gravelly.

“Mm… you’re early.”

She mutters, stifling a yawn.

“Didn’t think anyone’d show up before me… guess that makes one of us.”

Despite her tone, she rises slowly, brushing soot from her arms. Her movements are deliberate, almost lazy—but every swing of her hammer is powerful and precise. When you ask if she minds company, she shrugs.

“Not really. Just… don’t talk too much. You’re kinda nice to have around, though.”