Zyl'thara stumbles as her feet hit the solid, rocky ground, her large black eyes wide with disorientation. The world seems to lurch and spin around her, the sudden shift from Fetus's cozy cottage to this harsh, metallic-smelling plain a violent jolt to her senses. Her jade-green skin takes on a paler, slightly clammy sheen.   "Oh," she gasps, pressing a delicate hand to her mouth. "The… the woosh… was… very… wobbly." Her antennae flatten against her head, twitching erratically. The metallic tang in the air and the sight of the strange landscape – so different from the lush jungles of Castrovel or even the relatively tame woods near Sandpoint – seem to overwhelm her.   Her stomach churns violently. Doubling over with a soft groan, Zyl'thara retches, vomiting onto the dusty ground near her feet. She stays hunched over for a moment, trembling slightly, her long black hair falling forward to curtain her face.   She straightens up slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her expression a mixture of misery and wide-eyed bewilderment. "Alessa," she whispers, her voice weak and shaky. "My insides… feel like… fizzy space-bugs." She looks around at the desolate plain and the strange, burning hill, her eyes reflecting a profound sense of unease. "This place… it smells… pointy. And… loud." She leans slightly against Alessa for support, clearly unwell and utterly out of her element. "Is… is this the star-piece place? It feels… prickly."

Alessa stumbles backward, bracing herself against a dry, tangled shrub behind her. As she gets herself up, she grunts in pain as she feels the briars on the bush, pressing her lip against the cut between her fingers.   "Sorry about that! I need to make my teleports more smooth." She looks over with concern at her sister. "Pointy... is right," she says hesitantly. "I didn't know what to expect from this place, but it's..." She gazes off into the vast rocky plain, and slowly turns around to take in all her surroundings. The place is alien, clearly dangerous, and strange metallic scent puts her at unease. But Alessa can't help but be amazed by the landscape as well. Most of all, she's curious, wondering what those enormous metal crags might be. They can't all be pieces of starships, can they?   "Keep an eye out... it might be dangerous around here. We'll be there to protect each other though." She looks again at the hilltop town, gazing upward at the massive purple pillar. "That looks like it might go all the way toward the stars, doesn't it? Let's go into town."

Alessa quickly casts mage armor on herself, a shimmering ball of force materializing around her and reflecting faintly across the metallic plains.

As Alessa and Zyl'thara approach the outskirts of Torch, the sounds and smells of the town intensify. The clang of hammers is louder, the heat from the smithies palpable even at a distance, and the metallic tang in the air mixes with the smells of sweat, coal smoke, and roasted meat of uncertain origin. The track widens into a rough, unpaved street winding between sturdy, functional buildings. Many structures show signs of reinforcement with salvaged metal plates, bolted or welded onto wooden frames.   The people of Torch eye the newcomers with open curiosity, occasionally mixed with suspicion. They are predominantly Kellid humans – tall, broad-shouldered folk with weathered faces, practical clothing, and often intricate tattoos or scarification. Dwarves, sturdy and grim-faced, can be seen working the forges, their skill with metal renowned. A few half-orcs move through the crowds, their green skin and imposing frames drawing less attention here than they might elsewhere. The occasional gnome or halfling darts through the throng, perhaps traders or tinkerers. The sight of Zyl'thara, however, with her jade skin and antennae, draws more prolonged stares, whispers rustling through the onlookers like dry leaves.   The street leads towards the center of town, curving around the base of the black, glassy Torch Hill. The violet flame atop the hill looms larger now, its crackling energy almost mesmerizing, casting an unnatural purple glow on the faces of those nearby. Various smithies and workshops line the street, their doors open to reveal roaring fires and sweating smiths hammering glowing metal. Makeshift stalls sell basic goods – tough-looking jerky, potent-smelling ale, leather goods, and crude metal tools. The atmosphere is one of hard work, rough living, and a constant awareness of the strange power that defines their town.

As Alessa and Zyl'thara navigate the bustling street, a figure steps directly into their path, blocking their way. He is massive, a towering Goliath barbarian easily standing seven feet tall, with shoulders as wide as a doorway. His skin is weathered and tanned, crisscrossed with old scars, and adorned with intricate blue tattoos depicting stylized beasts and geometric patterns. His head is shaved clean, save for a thick, braided warrior's knot at the back, and his eyes, a piercing grey, are narrowed in assessment. He wears practical, heavy leather armor reinforced with mismatched metal plates, and a formidable-looking greataxe rests easily on his shoulder.   He folds his thick arms across his chest, his expression blunt and unreadable. He stares directly at Alessa, ignoring Zyl'thara for the moment.   "You," he grunts, his voice a deep rumble like shifting stones. "You look... soft. Like city folk. This is no place for soft folk." He jerks his chin towards Torch Hill and the violet flame. "This town eats the weak. What business do you have in Torch?" His gaze is unwavering, direct, and utterly devoid of pleasantry. He's not necessarily hostile, but clearly unimpressed and demanding answers.

Alessa glances nervously around the streets of Torch. She can tell that she and especially her sister are being looked at by the locals here with great suspicion. Though she figures she can defend her with magic if necessary, it wouldn't bode well if someone were to get the drop on her. Even still, she can tell much of the metal used to form the makeshift houses and shops has a strange glint to it... a promising sign that some of it might be usable to repair Zyl'thara's vessel.   She takes a step back when confronted by the towering figure who blocks their path on the street. His expression is impossible to discern, as much like granite as the shade of his skin. Being called a soft city girl, Alessa thinks for a moment that in comparison to this man, he may not be too far off. Knowing this, though, she decides to at least try and use her unassuming innocence to her advantage.   "We're... we're a little lost," she says with a pout. "Almost couldn't find our way here. I know we need to be careful around these parts but... it'd be wonderful to have someone to help show us around." She looks up toward the pillar of purple light. "That's the forge where they refine the skymetals, isn't it? We would love to see it. Especially if they have..."   Alessa turns back toward Zyl'thara and whispers. "What kind of material is the Starfire made of?" She gives a nervous chuckle, realizing she probably should have written this down before.

Korgoth stares down at Alessa, his stony expression unchanging for a long moment. He seems to consider her words, his grey eyes lingering on her seemingly innocent pout. Alessa's attempt at diplomacy, surprisingly genuine in its apparent vulnerability, manages to penetrate his usual gruff suspicion (DC 20 Diplomacy check succeeded). He doesn't smile, but the hard line of his mouth softens fractionally.   "Lost?" he repeats, the word a low rumble. "This path leads to the center of town. Not difficult." He gestures with a thumb towards the towering violet flame. "That is the Torch. It burns hot. Melts metal fallen from the sky." He seems unimpressed by her interest.   He glances briefly at Zyl'thara, his gaze lingering on her antennae for a moment before returning to Alessa. "Help you? Why?" He pauses, then seems to relent, perhaps sensing less guile and more genuine bewilderment than he initially suspected. "Fine. Town is simple. Forge is there." He points again towards the hill. "Market is that way." He gestures down a side street lined with stalls. "Tavern is down there." Another gesture. "Stay out of Scrapwall on the edge of town unless you seek trouble. Stay away from the Black Hill after dark unless you wish to be ash."   He shifts his weight, his greataxe scraping slightly against his leather armor. "You need skymetal?" He raises a thick eyebrow. "Not easy to get. Smiths guard their findings. Technic League spies watch everything. What kind do you need?" His tone remains blunt, but there's a subtle shift – he's moved from suspicion to a grudging, practical form of assistance. He still thinks they're soft, but perhaps less of a threat than he initially assumed.

Zyl'thara, still feeling slightly unsteady from the teleportation and the unsettling atmosphere of Torch, leans closer to Alessa, listening intently to Korgoth's blunt assessment. When Alessa whispers her question about the Starfire's composition, Zyl'thara's brow furrows slightly, her antennae drooping in thought.   "The Starfire…" she murmurs, her voice barely audible over the clang of nearby hammers. "It is… complex." She touches the side of her head, as if accessing a mental database or perhaps her datapad's information wirelessly. "The hull… it is primarily a… composite weave. Like… like strong spider silk, but… made of light and… condensed nebula-dust." She pauses, trying to find Golarion equivalents. "There is also… Glaucite. Yes, that sounds right. A metal that is grey, very strong… perhaps like your… 'steel'?"   She looks up at Korgoth, her large black eyes wide with earnestness. "We need the grey kind," she explains simply, pointing vaguely towards a piece of salvaged metal on a nearby building. "The strong grey kind. For the Starfire's… outer skin. And perhaps… some of the… coppery shiny one? The one that… smells like time?" She seems unsure if "smelling like time" is a normal way to describe Orichalcum, but offers the description with complete sincerity. "For the… the engine bits. The parts that make it go whoosh!" She makes another, slightly more energetic whoosh motion with her hands.   She looks hopefully at Korgoth, then back at Alessa. "Do the smiths here have the strong grey metal? Or the time-smelling coppery one?" Her naiveté is evident; she seems to assume these rare and valuable skymetals might be readily available, perhaps just needing a polite request or another smooth river stone in trade.

Korgoth stares blankly at Zyl'thara, his stony expression betraying no hint of comprehension regarding "condensed nebula-dust" or metal that "smells like time." He processes her words literally, his brow furrowing slightly deeper.   "Grey metal," he rumbles, his gaze sweeping over the town. "Strong. Yes. Some smiths have 'Numerian steel'." He points a thick finger towards a particularly busy forge belching black smoke. "Adamantine. Hard to work. Expensive."   He then considers her mention of the "coppery shiny one." His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something – perhaps recognition, perhaps suspicion – crossing his features. "Coppery… time-smelling?" He shakes his head slowly, a low grunt escaping his lips. "Never heard metal described so. Sounds like... foolishness." He dismisses the idea outright. "Orichalcum is legend. Rarer than dragon teeth. Not found here. Not for sale. Not even for... smooth stones."   He looks back at Zyl'thara, then Alessa, his expression hardening slightly. "You need adamantine? Go talk to smiths. Bring much gold. Or prepare for pain." He gestures again towards the forge. "Khonnir Baine at The Foundry might listen. Maybe. If he is not busy."   He doesn't leave, however. Instead, he folds his massive arms across his chest again, his grey eyes fixing on Alessa and Zyl'thara with renewed scrutiny. Perhaps their strange request, their alien nature, or maybe just Alessa's earlier, successful appeal has piqued some dormant Goliath curiosity, or maybe a sense of protective obligation he wouldn't admit to. He remains silent, a looming, granite presence observing them, seemingly waiting to see what these "soft folk" will do next in his town. His stance suggests he might intervene if they cause trouble, or perhaps, just perhaps, if they find themselves *in* trouble.

Zyl'thara's antennae perk up slightly as Korgoth confirms the existence of the strong grey metal. "Oh! Adamantine!" she repeats, the word sounding slightly strange but exciting on her tongue. "Like Numerian steel! Yes! That is the one!" A bright, hopeful smile spreads across her face.   Her expression falters slightly when he dismisses the "time-smelling coppery one." "Oh," she murmurs softly, her antennae drooping a little. "No time-smell metal? Just... foolishness?" She accepts his statement at face value, looking a little puzzled but not argumentative. "Okay. No legend metal then. Just the strong grey kind for the Starfire's skin!"   Her attention immediately snaps back to the positive news. "But the smiths have the adamantine! The strong grey one!" She beams again. "And you said... Khonnir Baine? At... The Foundry?" She points enthusiastically, mirroring Korgoth's earlier gesture towards the smoky forge. "He might listen! That is good!"   She turns back to Korgoth, who is still standing nearby, observing them silently. Her large black eyes look up at him with wide-eyed earnestness. "You will come with us, yes?" she asks, her voice full of simple, trusting expectation. "To see Mister Baine? You know where The Foundry is! It would be very helpful! We might get lost again." She gestures vaguely at the bustling, confusing street. "And... you are very big. Very strong-looking. Like a... like a friendly mountain!"

Alessa listens intently at the stranger's words, hanging on every warning. She hangs her head a little when hearing about the absence of orichalcum, but reassures herself that the adamantine alone should be worth the trip here. She laughs at her sister's compliment to the goliath. Until now, she hadn't considered that he might accompany them any further, but looking up at both Zyl'thara's wide-eyed optimism and the slightest hint of softening in the stranger's grimace, she decides that it is at least worth a try.   "To Khonnir we go then!" she says excitedly. "We could certainly use some company... we make no demands, but this place can be... harsh. It helps us to know there is someone who can look out for strangers in need."   Then she sets out for the Foundry, again keeping a watchful eye on the hardened Kellids eyeing them from the streets. "So who is this Technic League?" she asks curiously. "I've read a little about them in Absalom, but the information was sparse. They say the League keeps their records secret, even put in mechanisms to incinerate them whenever the wrong hands touch them."

Korgoth lets out a sound that might be a sigh, or perhaps just air being forced from his massive lungs. Zyl'thara's comparison of him to a "friendly mountain" doesn't elicit any visible reaction, though one of his thick eyebrows might have twitched slightly. He remains a stoic, granite figure.   When Alessa voices her decision to go to Khonnir Baine and subtly extends the invitation for him to join, Korgoth remains silent for another long moment, his grey eyes fixed on them. The sounds of Torch – the clang of hammers, the roar of the violet flame, the shouts of merchants – seem to fade slightly as he considers.   "Hmph," he finally grunts. "This town... is not for the careless." His gaze sweeps over Alessa and Zyl'thara, a silent, uncharitable assessment of their preparedness. "You two... will likely find trouble. Or trouble will find you. Easier if I am there to... prevent unnecessary noise." It's the closest Korgoth will come to saying he's concerned or willing to help protect them. He frames it as a matter of minimizing disruption in *his* town.   He then turns his attention to Alessa's question about the Technic League, his expression souring visibly. "Technic League," he rumbles, the name itself tasting like ash in his mouth. "They are... a sickness. They came long ago. Found the big metal mountain." He jerks his head towards the direction of Starfall, though it's not visible from Torch. "Silver Mount. They burrowed into it. Like maggots."   "They control much of the skymetal. Hoard it. Decide who gets it, for what price. They use... devices." He spits the word out as if it's distasteful. "Trinkets. Glowing things. Not like honest steel forged in fire. Their power comes from these... toys. And from secrets."   He nods slowly at Alessa's comment. "Secretive. Yes. They guard what they know. Incinerate records?" A flicker of something unreadable passes through his eyes. "Sounds like something they would do. Cowards hide knowledge. True strength needs no such tricks." He pauses, then adds, "They are dangerous. More than just greedy. They have eyes everywhere. And their 'gearsmen'..." He makes a dismissive gesture. "Metal puppets. No soul. They enforce the League's will."   Without another word, he turns and begins to walk towards the direction of The Foundry, his massive greataxe still resting on his shoulder. His pace is unhurried but purposeful, and he clearly expects them to follow. He hasn't explicitly said "I will join your party," but his actions speak louder than his grunts. He's going with them, at least for now, perhaps to ensure these "soft folk" don't get themselves immediately killed or cause a mess he'll have to clean up.

Korgoth leads the way through the bustling, smoky streets of Torch, his massive form parting the crowds like a boulder in a stream. Alessa and Zyl'thara follow in his wake, drawing curious and sometimes wary glances from the townsfolk. The rhythmic clang of hammers grows louder as they approach a large, soot-stained building from which billows particularly thick black smoke and the intense heat of multiple forges – The Foundry.   Inside, the air is a chorus of sound and a blaze of heat. Sparks fly from anvils as sweating smiths, predominantly dwarves and heavily muscled humans, hammer glowing metal into shape. The roar of bellows and the hiss of cooling steel fill the cavernous space. Piles of raw ore, mundane iron and steel, and a few tantalizingly dark, dense-looking ingots (possibly unrefined skymetal) are stacked in corners.   A figure stands overseeing the work near a large, central forge, occasionally offering curt instructions or inspecting a newly forged blade. He is a man of middle years, with a sturdy build that speaks of both physical labor and a life lived in harsh conditions. His dark hair is streaked with grey, and his face, though smudged with soot, has intelligent, discerning eyes. He wears practical leather and a heavy apron, but there’s an air about him – perhaps the way he carries himself, or the glint of keen intellect in his gaze – that suggests more than just a simple smith. This is Khonnir Baine.   As Korgoth, Alessa, and Zyl'thara approach, Khonnir turns from inspecting a piece of glowing metal, his gaze sweeping over them. He nods curtly to Korgoth, a gesture of familiar, if not overly friendly, acknowledgement. His eyes then linger on Alessa and particularly on Zyl'thara, his expression shifting from professional focus to cautious curiosity.   "Korgoth," Khonnir says, his voice surprisingly even and articulate over the din of the forge, though still carrying a note of authority. "Bringing visitors to my humble workshop today?" He wipes a soot-stained hand on his apron. "And who might these two be? Not often we see faces like yours in Torch, especially..." He trails off, his gaze briefly on Zyl'thara's antennae before returning to Alessa. "What brings you to The Foundry? Looking for work? Or perhaps something... more specific?" He raises an eyebrow, his expression inviting, yet shrewd.

Alessa is still put on edge by the stranger's heavy voice. She's faced many monsters with more warmth in their disposition. Even so, she can't help but look up at his stony face. For a few moments, she can feel what seems like at least an air of concern behind those eyes.   "People's things getting taken, what else is new?" she replies with a carefree tilt of her head. After hearing the rest of the goliath's warnings, though, she bites her tongue; she can tell the gravity of Korvoth's fear, and anything he is afraid of is something for her to take concern with as well.   "We should keep quiet around strangers," whispers Alessa to her sister. "If the Technic League ends up in our way, we shouldn't let them find out about us first."   She follows Korgoth through the foundry door, immediately struck by the huge volume of metals and bustle of the smiths. She spots a few pieces of metal that look like they might shine as Starfire does, and almost stops to ask, but decides to quietly follow Korgoth. The smith, Khonnir, has what might be a look of suspicion in his eyes. Alessa keeps a watchful eye, wondering the possibility that he or someone else here might have a connection to the League.   She hesitates for a moment before speaking, and speaks quietly when she does open her mouth. "Actually, we're looking to make a purchase." She glances back at her sister, jogging her memory of what she needs. "Do you carry glaucite and orichalcum? Or do you know where any might be found? We need some... to get home."