What's the update on Hargrave?

Aside from wrenching herself free of an aventurine chrysalis in Orion, very little. Self-immolation in conjunction with the corruption making itself home had been too much for her body to bear, and—as much as she did not want to leave Null alone once again—she could not help falling into a healing slumber. She'd awakened with charred scraps of leather, a starry sapphire, and her frigid blade nestled against the remains of her shell; like a shrine to some fallen hero.

If she had inflicted so much damage upon herself, if she destroyed one of the last things that Master Jupiter had had, she did not feel like much of a hero.

The monochromatic canine had mourned the loss of the worn leather bag, as much as she'd claimed it for herself. She did not fully know what that Hand's purpose was, why she had been attacked and why she'd commanded the shadows to devour her. It'd been a memento, at least, of something—someone that'd once lived.

She'd tied one of few somewhat intact scraps around the gemstone (a rather difficult task, seeing as she had no thumbs or dexterity) and then tied that around the hilt of her sword.

Now, mouth nearing frostbitten, Hargrave carried the weapon through a sweltering haze. Smoke and sizzling oil hit her nostrils, and she half-coughed, nearly dropping her sword. Fiery eyes watered.

There'd been rumors of this place, this forge and the imposing silhouette that drifted around its various implements. (Hargrave'd heard, too, of a similar figure haunting Canis, but she was not inclined to go near Hydra again—even if she had survived and held her reward for it.) Someone skilled in working metal and leather and whatever else lived here. Her gaze flitted from discarded piece to discarded piece, noting all of their sheer size and the craftsmanship involved in them, if any.

Of course, Hargrave lacked the critical eye to make any real analysis or pass any legitimate judgment.

Sword growing heavy and yet-colder in her teeth, the dog set it on the floor and sat so that it was lying just before her paws. Tongue snaking out to lick at her chops—and stimulate some semblance of warmth, blackened and deadened as it was—she belatedly wondered on what she had to offer, if she were to… ask for some method of carrying this accursed weapon—or for even a different one.

No… she couldn't ask for a different one. Sentimental value, and all that.

Hargrave lifted her head from where she'd been staring down, and woofed, "hello?"

As the call of her voice faded, the echo seemed to reverberate--no; no, this was no echo. It was something else, more metallic than her cry: a distant hammering of steel-on-steel.

It paused, after a moment, and a tremulous voice--unsure, as though it was by no means certain it had truly heard another call out--came in answer.

"Hello..?"

Should Hargrave follow this voice to its source, she would find the Blacksmith at his anvil: the enclosed forge beside him, its red glow illuminating black cloak and mask-face in an eerie gleam.

@Hargrave