(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

Kitla was a tall, striking woman who stood staring at the walls of the tavern
without seeing them, her hands slowly curling into fists and unclenching.
When she saw me her eyes darted across my scant clothing and gear, and
then back to my eyes; a sardonic smile crossed her face, and she looked
away again.
"Greetings."
She looked back at me and scowled. "Do you always make a habit of talking
to strangers?"
"If I need to ask them questions, then yes."
"What a fascinating life you must lead to do such things. Sadly for you, I'm
busy. I'd appreciate being left alone."
My finger tapped impatiently on her table, "I understand you're the next
person I'm to talk to about this key."
"About the key, hm?" She arched an eyebrow at me. "You want to know
what you have to do for it, don't you? It's easy enough, friend. Interested?
Of course you are; you've come to talk to me about it. Are you ready to
listen, I guess, is the real question."
"Tell me what I have to do."
"There are two men here, named Crumplepunch and Kester. Crumplepunch
is the smith, Kester the distiller. They both owe me a lot of money. One of
them owes the other as well, though, and so neither of them is paying me.
They're arguing about an inheritance; get me the legacies they're holding on
to. I can bargain with them very effectively, then. Failing that, get them to
solve their problems with each other - or kill them - and I'll give you the
second part of the Key."
~~~~~
He was bent over the anvil, tongs in one hand and a hammer the other, with
a face that looked like it'd taken a few poundings itself. Small brown scars
flecked his skin: burns from stray embers and sparks accrued over the years.
A sweat-stained leather apron was bound tight against his bare torso, and
he glistened with the sweat and the glow of the forge. His face twisted into a
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