Blacksmith Forge Novels & Stories

We passed by hefty men carrying heavy loads, blacksmiths forging weapons around a furnace and people making large bomb balls from gunpowder that had been imported from over the sea. I stood for a long time, watching men yell over their heads as they practiced division of labor. I heard another clang of metal and turned to see a tall man, taking out white hot steel from the fire with a wood holder. He had a heavy hammer which he used in beating the metal till it was forged smoothly and once he finished, he soaked it into the water. I watched as fire and water reacted, sending hit splashes out of the metal bowl as the iron cooled down. He took it out and wiped it up before he began to file it

The heavy hammer came down on the glowing iron, sending a shower of brilliant, dancing sparks cascading across the dirt floor. Kat moved the bar a fraction of an inch with her tongs after every blow, guiding the hot metal as it wrapped neatly around the hardened steel eye-form. Kat’s smaller forge hammer struck the secondary face, directing Marcus’s heavy strikes with precision. Together, they worked with the fluid, synchronized rhythm of smiths who had shared an anvil for years, shaping the raw iron into a broad, sweeping felling axe, the first of twenty tools forged specifically for the coastal trek to Port Mercer.

The smell of hot metal and lubricant filled the air, promising industry and opportunity. At the heart of the park, I met Ronan Highforge, once a celebrated blacksmith in the coastal town of Shark Harbor. His forge had produced exquisite swords and ornate fittings—each blade passing through his skilled hands. Now? He stood beside the monstrous assembly line for agricultural plow gear, observing robotic arms lift cast-blades and slot them into frames. “I never thought I'd leave the anvil,” Ronan admitted, his rough hands folded behind his back. “But here… a single automated press can stamp out fifty plow arms in the time my forge took to hammer one.”

Ribs pressing against his skin like a washboard. The blacksmith was a one-eyed old man with a vicious temper who forged blades that never broke. Every soldier in the camp came to him for repairs. Rex crouched outside the smithy for three days, watching the old man work the iron. The metal in the furnace bloomed orange-red. The old man pulled it free with tongs, laid it on the anvil, and struck. Sparks burst with every hammer blow. Burn scars covered his hands, layered over each other like the bark of an ancient tree.

The kind of tension born from months of relentless training. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, big man. Yeah, your muscles show you’re a fighter, but your demeanor doesn’t.” I stare at him, trying to understand where he’s coming from. “Get the hell out!” he roars to the prisoners expecting a second drama. The prisoners scatter, leaving just the two of us… and a few of his men. “I said leave!” he barks again, and the remaining ones disappear from the bathroom. “This prison is home to murderers, rapists, and violent offenders of every kind. Blackridge is a fire meant to purge them of their iniquities… or burn them in it.”

"It's not that simple." "Make it that simple." I stepped closer. "Someone built a cage for me, Brian. Someone is planning to use it. I need to know who." Brian's face was gray in the streetlight. "There's one person who might know," he said quietly. "Who?" "The forger. Silver cages of that quality require specialized work. There are only three smiths in the world capable of producing something like that." "Where are they?" "One is dead. One works for the Court."

They were huddled together around the campfire, looking up at the shattered sky with expressions of profound, unscripted terror. "Look at the Blacksmith," Marcus whispered, pointing. Standing near the anvil was a massive, bearded NPC named Brog. In the base game, Brog existed solely to repair player armor for a small f*e of copper coins. His only line of dialogue was, "Steel wins battles, but gold wins wars. Need repairs?" Brog was not offering repairs. He was holding his heavy forging hammer in a two-handed combat grip. He was pacing furiously back and forth, muttering to himself, his pixelated face contorted in a very real expression of panic.

Hopping to her feet, Charlotte led the children outside and began touring them around the large city. "This shop here belongs to the best blacksmith there is, a reputation so famous that people from all over the empire come just to make a request!" Charlotte brought the children inside the store that exclusively sold weapons, which were out on display. The weapons displayed were arts of crafted beauty, decorated with gems and crystals, forged into existence using rare high-grade materials. The doorbell jingled, signaling the arrival of customers. Maria saw a broad, tall, muscular elf appear. The man carried more of masculine vibe than the regular gentle attractiveness seen in elves.

“Can you destroy the forge?” “No,” I answer, and it comes from a place deep within my soul. “I can’t.” “Why not?” “Because it's… It doesn’t need to be destroyed. Its job is already done.” “I don’t understand–” “The objects. Ryatt’s sword, your blade, Aunt Ella’s mask and the like… each Forge, according to legend, was built to craft specific items. This forge… I assume it made the bow, and Aviva wields it. But she isn’t like us–or, at least, she wasn’t like us, until yesterday. The forge’s job is done. Its power… pretty much dried up after she came out of it ,and Ryatt was able to bring back here from within its resting place. It’s just… water now. Like the falls in Maatua.”

he grins. The acrid smell of fire hits my nose as the forge doors are pushed open. The smoky scent burns my lungs in a way I never knew I'd miss. Tools of all different kinds hang from the walls, many of which I've never seen. In the back of the room is a large furnace. Sitting in the middle of the room is an anvil with a hammer sitting atop it.