You find yourself at a dark, smoldering forge; although most of the darkness had been thwarted, by the low glow of coals burning quietly in a furnace. Interestingly, a crystal has been set into the arch above the maw of said furnace, emitting 'light' that seems to suck the surrounding brightness into the void. It feels strange to be in a room that seems so cold, yet is nearing an unbearable temperature.

The blacksmith, heavily muscled and the worse for wear from their work, grunts from their position at the anvil. 'Take what ya need.' they say with a snort, gesturing at a table laden with crafting materials. 'If ya want some charms made for ya, it's gonna cost ya the price for the materials an somethin extra.'
Their voice is hoarse from time bent over a sooty fire, and what they say seems to be truthful.

'Don't touch mah food though!' they call out, 'Its mine. Smithin ain't no easy job,' They enunciate the word 'job' as if it tickled them as it clambered it's way of of their throat, and the sentence is punctuated with a hearty chuckle.

Someone took the time to arrange the goods... How thoughtful.