Blacksmith Pay Novels & Stories

"If you were going to guide him and also be his sparring partner, you must be compensated. The Earl of Silverstone's wife is known for being generous. I'd say you could earn three to five silver coins a month." Travis' eyes were suddenly filled with a compassionate warmth. "To be honest, I don't take on just anyone as an apprentice, nor do I care much for that paltry amount of money. Three or five silver coins isn't much at all. But it seems there aren't many capable people in the Earl of Silverstone's family. I've heard that Oliver's martial arts are just average. If there isn't a rising talent, how could the title be passed on? Bring him to me. Three or five silver coins—it doesn't matter.

“The workers were given 25 silver per day.” Natalia stopped in her tracks. As far as she knew, the pay was supposed to be 1 gold per day. It became very obvious that someone was tampering with the finances of the mining town.

A while later, under Quincey’s guidance, Andrius found a shop. “You want to rent a forge?” The owner glanced at Andrius and said, “A hundred silvers a day, or sixty for half a day.” Silvers... Andrius was stumped. He did not have any silver on him

My task was to add the finishing touches, design the swords, and safely store them. The clanging of metal and the scent of hot iron welcomed me as I entered the forgery. One of the blacksmiths, a burly man with calloused hands and a perpetual scowl, nodded in acknowledgment as I approached. I wasted no time and began working diligently, my fingers dancing across the weapons, adorning them with intricate patterns and symbols.

He spent his days at a construction site on the South Side, hauling bags of cement and iron rebar under a sun that didn't care about his lineage. His muscles ached in a way they never had when they were reinforced by gold-and-sapphire magic. The sweat on his brow was salt and water, not liquid starlight. By the end of the first week, his hands were blistered and his back was a map of knots. He was earning twenty dollars an hour, a "Wage" that felt like a joke compared to the "Emotional Equity" he used to trade in. "Hey, Thorne! Move it or lose it!" a foreman shouted, his voice a gravelly rasp that held more authority than a Council Elder's.

“Three percent, to be precise, it might change at noon.” “Interest is 12, still better than in most places. I must returned 145, 6 silver pieces, not counting tax rates and the cost of transporting the coins, the transfer fee when the king paid us, the silver tax, and the cost of processing the contract.” “True.” “It all sums up to three hundred silver pieces.” “Will you accept?” “I have nothing else to do. We have a deal.” The banker counted the coins and handed them to the woman. The craftsmen stood and waited for the costumers to come to them, most of them were working.

---------------------------------------------- Author's Notes: L: The salary used to be 15 thousand, but I think that's a bit too much for a barista?? So I changed it to 8000. J: I made it 3000, 8000 is still way too much, and 3000 was already for top tiered baristas. It's the kind of price that is higher than normal but still acceptable. (I searched G****e) NOTE: This number is based on where we live :) J: On a side note, Li Zheng is such a scum, so rude and impolite, it makes me wanna beat him up!

Annoyance could be seen on her countenance. "You are working under the chiefs, am I right?" she lazily nodded her head and did not even bother to utter any phrase, "How much are they paying you?" I asked once more and she threw a concerned face at me. "They will be giving me thirty-five silvers once a month," she answered and I nod at her as my response. "... That is surely a huge amount, good for you, Sage."

What if he’d used some other compound and the bullets weren’t really silver at all? She considered what had happened that day so long ago when she’d thought Ragnar was close on her trail and she’d found a smithy working at his anvil, his large, sinewy hands pumping the bellows to heat the fire. The sign hanging above the blacksmith’s shop in the Arizona town proudly advertised his skills: wrought iron work, horse shoeing, wagon fixing, wagon wheels, pulling teeth. But all she’d cared about was whether or not he could make bullets. Silver bullets.

His short-sleeved attire showed his bulked arms, bigger than most, stronger than many. This old man was not just a fine blacksmith, but a master smith at that. No one knew his true name, so they referred to him as so. His skill was all he needed to be known for. Beside him, Bruce Starr sat across them, his expression changed expectedly as he saw Zephyr take out the precious metal. After all, meteor metal was an extremely valuable commodity.