Jasira Fireblood

You've wandered into the nosiy thrall of the Repubic's market district. Here, there is a designated section of the city where the crafters live and work their trade and goods. This is the last known stop before entering into the wilds of the continent beyond to prepare and equip oneself. You hear the barks of vendors like dogs fighting over a scrape of meat, hungry for the clinking of coins in the pockets of promising clients. Calls for potions, balms and components. Others call to arm and protect with only the finest of weapons and armor. The sharpest blades, most hardened shield and arrows promised to pierce most any armor. You know it to be part truth and part lie to try to catch the attention of those combing the store fronts.
As you think you've escaped the chaos, you begin to pass a building at the end of this seemingly endless row of shops. This one, from the weather beaten facias and roof with patches and mistmatched tiles, seems to be the oldest. Possibly the first one to be built. The standard that was originally set here many centuries ago. Now it seemed to be a small residence but at the side, which is what caught your eye, is a small outdoor forge.
Unlike the vendors to the interior of the Merchant's row, this forge is outside. It huffs and puffs plumes of black smoke into the overcast afternoon. Soot mixes heavily with the well beaten dirt making the ground almost black around the forge. Apart from the forge itself, the yard contains multiple benches, the anvil, and large cooling trough. Though the equipment clearly isn't the most modern or updated to the standards of the current age. The wares laid out on the vendors stall seem unique and like none you've ever seen before. A menajerie of weapons and armor are strewn about, thrown onto wooden table tops or shoved into barrels.
Amongst them are beautiful silver swords, their hilts worked with elegant fligree, swirling like vines or smoke, interconnecting and looping until finally reaching a leather wrapped pommel. This is just one of the many intricate blades you lay your eyes on.
You see a bow whose grip is covered in leather that has been dyed a dark sapphire and trimmed with what seems to be gold thread.
Finally, you notice a dagger as sharp as sin and black as night, born from some impossible material of shadow and midnight sky. The sheath the dagger calls home is just as dark, the thread holding it together sporting the color of freshly spilled blood.
For whatever reason, this stall pulled no interest despite it's beautifully crafted inventory. Not one person gawked over the items laid proudly upon fur pelts.
Perhaps it was because of their crafter.
As you find yourself now standing before the table, your fingers hover but are almost hesitant to touch the near priceless art before you. You pick up on a strange harmony of noises. Clicking and whirring, and the occasional clink of metal along with the familliar sound of footsteps. But the cadence sounds off. Strange... almost as if....
From the back of the building, a woman with skin the color of rich soil walked into the heart of the forge and threw a fresh armful of chopped logs into the monster she crafted from. Her hair, a shock of wild black ringlets, currently held back by a strand of worn leather. She moved around the forge and opened the flume to give life to the embers who had began to darken. The forge fills with smoke, clouding your view of the woman, but after a minute or two, the smoke clears. The woman has one hand up to her face, holding a cloth over her mouth to keep the soot from entering her lungs. That's when you notice she's not whole.

From her right elbow down, there is no flesh. Instead, a complex combination of pistons, gears, wires and bolts. They move together so intricately, as seemlessly as meat, blood and bone that you overlooked it at first. As she steps around, you take notice that this is the same for the left leg below her knee. The pant leg above it seems to be pinned in place and the boot below is cleverly positioned, creating an illusion. But there's also a stiffness to her movements. Her augmented limbs are nearly perfect, But not yet.
The woman takes the cloth from her mouth as she assess the coals now bright with life once more. Then she notices you, standing there, gawking. She looks at you with eyes the color of bronze and in the emberlight. Her skin seems to be kissed with gold. Covered in soot and sweat from head to toe, she strides forward and presents you with the brightest, warmest smile. A smile as warm as the forge behind her. She then holds out her hand, her metal one.
"Welcome, to the Bronze Dragon." she says, her eyes not leaving yours. "You my hapless customer, have entered my lair."

Jasira, was adopted by her Dwarven father Torrik Fireblood. His original plan was to look for an able bodied young boy in order to take on and learn the trade, but when he'd entered the orphanage and saw the small tiny toddler missing an arm and a leg, his stone-hardened heart cracked a bit. He took the small tot back to his home and began his crafting. He created her smaller imperfect versions of limbs and actually enjoyed the challenge of this new, unexplored area where it combined forging and mechanics. As she grew and her body changed, and her abilities changed with her milestones, Torrik revisited the challenge of refurbishing the outgrown prosthetics for his daughter. Fitting her with new materials, learning what did and didn't work. What was strong and weak. What rusted and what discolored.
As Jasira grew, her schooling was all from her father. Her letters and numbers, her languages. But she was also taught in the science and art and mechanics of her father's craft. She found herself transitioning being ontop of the workbench- watching him work not only on her own additions, but other weapons and armor to the finest of jewlrey pieces, to standing beside him at the bench. He taught her the name and function of each tool in his arsenal. Basic engineering and science and how when the two combined, the wonders they'd create.
From her own wanderings down Merchant's row, Jasira added a new chapter to her lessons. Herbalism. And soon thereafter, Alchemy. As it was a more dangerous practice, she kept her dabblings small and usually away from the shop to make sure nothing caught fire or exploded. Especially since the Bronze Dragon was basically COATED in flammable material. Soon, she found herself thinking beyond just one over the other. Forging or Alchemy. She began to combine the two. Specifically, she began to combine them on herself. Tinkering and trying on her arm and leg.
She may just be the apprentice to the forge, but she is far more like a walking arsenal than the weapons her father sells for purchase. Apperance: A young woman in her mid 20's with a prosthetic arm from the elbow down to her hand, and a proshetic left leg below the knee. She has tan to dark skin and medium length black hair of wild curls around her head, just brushing the tops of her shoulders. Despite the lack of limbs, she is well toned with muscle all over her body from heaving and hammering. Her eyes are bronze colored ringed with gold and she has a bright clever smile. Her skin is freckled from hours in the sun and in front of the heat.
She wears black pants that are adjusted on the left sid so that L.E.G. is exposed. She wears worn boots to just below her knees to make sure she can still walk and work but also to provide stability. While she's working, she wears a loose linen shirt hidden mostly by her thick heavy work apron covered in soot, cuts and burns. When she's not manning the forge, she wears a tunic of cornflower blue, embroided with the sharp geometrics of her father's people. The tunic hangs off her shoulders but crosses in an x to expose her throat.