"NOW." The word was hissed, seething, bubbling, as she had for so long boiled; hot and frothing, filled with rage. Her carapace, riddled pink and toxic green, pocked and heat-scarred, shifted. Those eyes pierced him.

He bowed his head, the Blacksmith, his black robe swishing gently where he stood on dampened shore. "I will work... as fast as I can. But... when your creature came to me... I did not realize-"

Had the eyes not been on stalks, perhaps they would have narrowed. As it was, the mincing jaws gnashed, the pincers cracking shut on nothing. Seafoam dribbled from their points. "It WILL be opened. I cannot--I WILL NOT--wait any longer."

The white mask seemed to study her. And then, at last, the antlers dipped, and the Blacksmith offered a little bow. "I'll see it done," he said, at last.

Though "now" was a rather tall order.