|Residence||A room at the Screaming Goblet presently, although he hopes to at least be able to afford a home in Lowtown eventually and work his way up or leave Kirkwall someday.|
|Class||He can use a sword but he much prefers to make them.|
|Gear||Most of Harmon's tools were lost on the run, traded, or sold. He still has the hammer passed down to him from his father, but otherwise it's what he's been able to get together|
|Behind the Mask|
Harmon has short, dark brown hair and thoughtful grey eyes which have a whole world written behind them which is rarely spoken. He's 6'1" tall with the brawny arms and chest from his trade. Usually he prefers loose fitting clothing, but when he works, it isn't for fear of catching it on something. He'll also don a heavy leather apron while at the forge, and gloves.
Harmon is a gentle tempered man who is slow to anger, but very serious about his trade. He seldom jokes, but isn't without a sense of humor. Overall, he's quiet, although not shy, and as honest a man as anyone could ever hope to meet. He'd never cheat anyone on a sale, and is particular about all his craftsmanship. If it isn't done properly, it goes back to the fire to be made all over again - from horse shoe to plow blade to breastplate.
Harmon is a man who keeps his own thoughts most of the time, but his story would never be one worthy a bard in any tavern. It’s so common that not even a few coppers would be put down on a table for it unless the bard themselves could make the mundane seem fabulous. He was a blacksmith before the Blight struck Lothering, and worked with his hands every day on plow blades, horse shoes, shovels, picks, and the tools of common day farmers. Occasionally he had a sword on the anvil, and with measured, deliberate strikes he’d see to it’s creation. Like his father, grandfather, and generations before, he knew his metals, their heating points, and just the right color it had to be for purest strength and integrity. He never cheated a man who came to him in honestly, and was just as quick to settle his large frame down in the dust next to the children to play marbles than he was to overindulge inside a tavern. When the Blight came, however, withering the land and threatening everything with its corruption, the gentle smith found his services leaning more and more toward weapons and arms. When every able bodied man of age was called to Ostagar, he didn’t want to leave his home, but he was needed for armor repair and to join a number of other smiths who were supply swords and armor as fast as they could drag metal to the forges.
Day and night his anvil rang as the darkspawn hordes got closer. His short, neat, dark brown hair was almost black with sweat and soot. The stubble which usually squared off his jaw got a good start into a beard, but it was the fact he wasn’t on the front lines which ultimately saved his life. He was able to retreat when Cailan was betrayed, amidst the confusion and soldier units who managed to keep themselves togther and fall back in retreat.
His story, like so many others, was bleak from there, because even though he survived, he had nowhere to go. The Blight dogged at his heels, and finally he found himself aboard ship, going toward Kirkwall. The giant statues alone were enough to make his spirits flag, because it seemed a hard, lonely place in spite of all the people packed inside of it. At least, because of his trade, he had been lucky. Almost any city could use the handiwork of a good smith, and he had enough coin to get him inside the city. Unfortunately, he was not alone in plying his trade, and there were others who’d have pulled him in. Some of them he wasn’t foolish enough to let himself get snared by, like the thugs who controlled things from behind the scenes. They, more than anyone, would have liked to have his talent under their thumb and to call. Harmon was no Wade from Denerim, but he had generations of teaching behind him.