Thorvaldur Hrolfsson's page

The blacksmith nods. "I've saved up some pay, I can rent an anvil and buy some good steel. It'll take me a few weeks, but we can do it."

There is now a small pulley set into the cliff, yes.

The dwarf pores over the other stones you retrieved, squinting and nodding.

"This one," he says, holding up the reddish geode with silvery streaks, "is a very fine piece of silver ore. Silver and mithril tend to be found together, which is why we call it by the Elven word for dawnsilver."

He holds up the yellowish geode. "This contains brimstone and antimony, and will be useful to an alchemist."

Finally, he holds up the dull brown geode. "And this is just a rock."

“This is mithril, all right, but not just any mithril. It’s absorbed energy from Saramir, the Realm of Metal itself. It will be incredibly hard for a normal smith to work, and is far beyond my ability, but someone skilled in magic could make something truly fantastic from it.”

The Captain motions to the blacksmith, who sidles over to you as you uncoil the rope harness. At the sight of it, he blinks in stupefaction for several moments before regaining his wits and eagerly inspecting it.

“This is mithril, and of incredible purity. There’s something odd about it, however…” He furrows his brow in concentration. “Let me take this to my workbench back in the tent. I’ve finished my soup anyway.”

Minutes later, you stand gathered around him as, with a little work from his pick, he pries open the geode and separates the mithril from the rock, revealing an ingot of prodigious size.

The blacksmith grimaces as he contemplates the mast's armature. "Not good. But not fatal."

He kneels, retrieves a chisel from his belt, and scrapes at the corrosion. He pinches the red metallic dust between his gloved fingers and rubs it.

"It's only surface level, thank the gods. But Hodak and I will have to scrape off all of this rust to keep it from spreading, which will take half a day at least to do a right job of it."

He turns to the party. "Good on you for acting so quickly; whichever of you did that, you saved the ship."

"To treasure!" cries a middle-aged, distinguished looking dwarf. You recognize him as the blacksmith who fired the cannon earlier.