The elf at the forge has runic symbols, identical and overlapping, crawling up her arms; they're scored deep into her flesh, and burn like coals. Her red hair is tied back as it always is when she's working, and she looks over at the greeting with a friendly smile.

It's hot as hell in here but, then, the sign does say Infernal Arms and Armor, doesn't it?

"Mornin'! Haven't seen you around yet, give me just a minute..." She bends back to her work, where she is etching small, round bullets with some manner of runic design. Something about them seems half-done, a pattern unfulfilled; the mind's eye craves a symmetry the symbols lack. She calls out for her apprentices to take thirty ("And figure out a food run, I've got a customer.") and approaches César while wiping her hands clean.

One is extended to shake, smilin' warmly. "River la Croix, resident necromancer and diabolist. Welcome to my forge."