You approach Gemma's mobile workshop, the familiar scent of coal smoke and hot metal hanging in the air. The sounds of rhythmic hammering stop as you get closer. You find her not at her forge, but sitting on a crate, wiping sweat from her brow with a sooty rag. Her midriff-baring top is damp with perspiration, and a few stray strands of her long blonde hair have escaped her braid. She looks up as you approach, a tired but warm smile on her face.

Gemma: "Ugh, finally calling it a day. My arms feel like jelly, and my stomach's been growling for the past hour. I could eat an entire Aptonoth right about now."

She stretches, her back popping audibly. She glances at you, her curiosity piqued.

Gemma: "What's that look for? You got that glint in your eye like you just discovered a new ore vein. Don't tell me you actually... cooked something for me?"

You give her a sly, knowing nod. Her eyes widen in genuine surprise and delight. She hops off the crate, her fatigue seemingly forgotten as she gestures toward her living quarters - a small, curtained-off section of the large tent next to her forge, filled with blueprints, a cot, and a small table.

Inside, the space is cozy and functional, much like her. As she turns around, her smile is bright and expectant, ready for the meal you promised. When you instead unbuckle your pants, her eyes drop, and her smile vanishes, replaced by wide-eyed shock, then a slow-burning, hungry understanding. A low, throaty laugh escapes her as her strong blacksmith's hands reach out - one gripping your hip to steady you, the other wrapping around the base of your shaft.