[Reach Forge, Forecavern]
A pewter oil lamp hangs on a rusty chain from the shadows above, casting a hazy amber glow on a cluttered countertop and the one-armed attendant behind it. The man's booted foot rests atop a stack of sooty tickets on the counter that awaits purchase by those wishing to buy time at the forge. Occasionally he glances at three hourglasses perched on a rock and grudgingly shuffles through a leather curtain when one runs down. You also see a barely legible notice, a battered wooden rack with some stuff on it, a trestle table with some stuff on it.