Blacksmith Quarters นิยาย & เรื่องราว

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.

“If you’re to make good on our deal, I need to be able to find you.” Kizwat was staring lovingly at the spike. “I will head to Dargot. It is the city in the north. They had a silver blacksmith there who died recently.” “Won’t his apprentice inherit his hammer?” “Silver hammers can’t be passed down, they must be earned. Come find me there in a couple of months and I should be ready to make you whatever you wish.” Seemed like a good plan. The blacksmith returned carrying something wrapped in green cloth. He opened it to reveal a short sword, about the length of my forearm.

Although the Shadow-moon pack was bigger, many people live there unlike Damien who only has two main quarters, the first one was called the Alpha’s quarters according to him. It was on opposite sides with hallways separating them, the other quarters were split in top two, one for the workers and the others for the guards off duties as the ones one duty sleep on their post. I didn’t think there was anything left to see until Damien led me outside the back of the house. I drank in the beauty of the environment as he led me down another path that looked just like the one we drove through on arriving here. After walking on foot for about ten minutes, we arrived at another gate. It wasn’t as big

She caught me watching and narrowed her eyes before hurrying after the others. I watched her walk. No limp. But she favored her right side. Just a little. Anger simmered low and hot. Questions crowded my mind. They would wait. People were stepping out of buildings now. Smiling. Waving. Too many. Too calm. What kind of place was this? The Timber Quarters were rustic but well-built. Thatched roofs. Glass windows. A rough path winding between them. Gardens heavy with food. Cows, goats, chickens. Two vehicles parked at the edge of the road.

I was shoved inside a building by one of the guards. It was the blacksmith's dwelling place. The blacksmith forged and repaired weapons for the pack's warriors, ensuring they were well-equipped for battle. It wasn't just for the warriors alone. The hunters, gatherers, and even craftsmen were included. I had been here on several occasions, running errands. But each time, the heat from the furnace was hotter than the last. "She's here," one of the guards with me said to the head blacksmith, Benjamin Robinson. A man in his early forties, maybe with balding hair and wrinkles at both sides of his eyes.

The air inside the lower forges was a sweltering suffocating wall of sulfur, coal smoke, and radiating thermal heat. Down here, deep within the subterranean roots of the Obsidian Hold, the rhythmic thud of heavy iron hammers striking anvils echoed like a frantic metallic heartbeat. But as Silas and I stepped off the stone lift, the sweating blacksmiths and forge masters immediately ceased their labor, dropping heavily to their knees on the soot-stained floor.

+500 XP] [Smith 2 has leveled up! Smith 4 has leveled up! Smith 3 has leveled up! Warlock 21 has leveled up! Warlock 4 has leveled up!] [Please allocate attribute points.] [The rest of your army have received +1 Int.] The rest was easy: they created a "bucket" out of rubies and strapped a thin rod made of Sapphire. After a couple of minutes, they retired the molten copper from the forge and poured it on a mold carved in the dirt after compacting it with earth magic.

Storytellers claimed corners, weaving tales of old battles, old curses, and new beginnings. At the edge of the square, near the smelting pit that had been set up for the collar‑melting, a quieter line formed. People came forward with objects. Some clutched tags and restraint rings. Some held folded contracts. One woman brought a length of chain, so worn, the links were more rust than metal. One by one, they cast them in. The fire there burned hot and bright, kept carefully in check by a team of smiths and ward‑workers. As each piece of metal fell into the coals, sparks jumped. Shapes warped. Edges blurred.

This has the effect of increasing the clock speed by 2/5 of a second in a 24 hour period. The other two weights are responsible for ringing the bells that mark the quarter hours, these bells are seven different which sound together giving a harmonious tune, each one is made of a different magic metal being these, Cold Iron, Mithral, Adamantite, Uru, Celestial Bronze, Meteoric Steel and Marine Silver, on the other hand, the last bell made of 15 tons of Orichalcum is the only one that is touched every hour, marking the end and the beginning of an hour.

The blacksmith stall smelled like smoke and iron. I loved it immediately. Heavy tables were covered with tools, horseshoes, nails, and rough chunks of raw ore that glinted under the hanging lanterns. A few finished blades sat further down the display, their polished surfaces reflecting the warm festival lights. Bjorn wasn’t there tonight. Instead, a broad older shifter worked the stall, carefully weighing small chunks of ore for another customer. I hovered near the end of the table, studying the raw metals laid out on a cloth.