[Rossman's Forge, Lobby]
A young attendant perches upon a stool, more absorbed in polishing a hilt than in helping customers. From time to time he glances up at the hourglasses on a shelf, briefly disappearing behind a leather flap when one runs out. A stack of tickets, impaled on a nail driven through the top of a counter, await purchase by visiting smiths wishing to rent a workshop for a time. You also see a low rack with some stuff on it, a battered wooden table with some stuff on it and a singed notice.
Obvious exits: out.