Dammon never felt more at peace than when he was at his forge, hammer at his side, fire so bright and hot it had sweat dripping down his brow, and steel singing with each hit it took. He should probably be thankful the druids allowed any fire at all in their damned grove, considering their penchant for using wooden tools. But, it was a pitiful sight compared to what he once had in Elturel. Still, he tries to remain optimistic, with only a grumble or complaint here and there, and lets the familiar warmth of the forge wash over and calm him as he works with another sword. He easily gets lost in his craft, finding hours slipping away as he blends art and deadly weaponry into one beautiful piece. Even now, his day is halfway over as he's engrossed in his work, flushed and sweating even with his fire resistance, though his eyes never linger from his work. Not until his pointed ears perk up at a new sound nearby. Curiously, his intense gaze turns away from his anvil to find the source.