"Aye, aye, but don't ye let that go to yer head, boy," replied Avar, easily juggling his hammer. "Ye call yerself whatever ye want, fer me ye're still a burly source 'o ale and gold, bahahaha!" He walked over to Keystone, prodding the monk's fists with the hammer and eliciting a dull clang every time. The knuckles seemed to absorb sound with similar effectiveness to light, dampening sounds around them. "This be some of my better work indeed! The material is a special tempered alloy, the exact ingredients o' which are a trade secret me and me kin have. Won't be breakin' any time soon, don't ye worry." Avar stepped back, laid the hammer out onto a stone slab and assumed a brawling position often used by drunken dwarves. "Don't known much fightin' meself, but I'd gather that ye could put a right dent in someone's head with those, boy. Don't ye be putting the blame on me if ye accidentally kill someone, ye hear me!"

"Everyone does, Avar," came the familiar husky voice of Saran, stepping out into the workshop with a wooden tray and two mugs, one filled with an all too familiar brew Avar drank, the other filled with water. "Those look good on you. Planning on destroying more undead constructs?" she laughed, handing Keystone the mug of water. She put the wooden tray down and worked a small enchantment, conjuring up an illusion in front of Keystone. The shimmering form of a dummy took shape where once was empty air, waving its arms menacingly, inviting Keystone to punch it.

The rain stopped by midday, giving space to a watery sun and grey clouds. Patrols around the city intensified again to their usual numbers and the market square flooded with customers. Rocksteady's workshop saw a steady stream of customers, picking up older orders, commissioning new ones, bartering for lower prices or simply arguing. None seemed to ever match the dwarf's negotiation techniques, or Saran's imposing presence when it came to making deals. Tim was working up a sweat running back and forth to handle orders.