Poem Village Blacksmith Novels & Stories

The village was quiet, and the person guarding the entrance of the village was dozing off, so she successfully sprinkled the powder into the well. By the next morning, the people in the village woke up and drank water. An hour later, they would have an attack. After leaving Butteriron Village, Zoey arrived at Blackmere Village. To her surprise, Blackmere Village was brightly lit, seemingly filled with a joyful atmosphere. She hid behind the tree, observing the situation inside. There was singing and dancing inside, as if celebrating some kind of ceremony. Zoey suddenly had a bad guess in her mind. Are you suggesting that we held a wedding?

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.

Tears burned my eyes as I waited…holding my breath fearfully. Then I felt it. A tiny, fluttering rhythm beneath my palm. I let out a long sigh as relief crashed over me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered around the knot lodged in my throat. I pushed myself up, ignoring the pain screaming through my body, and ran set off again. The blacksmith’s forge loomed ahead, dark and silent now, the scent of soot thick in the air. Beyond it, just beyond, I could see the jagged outline of the old hole in the outer wall.

“There is, go north, to a small mountain village, there you will find the smith.” Yanta turned. He set immediately for the castle, he had business there, the smith can wait. Poor Tom, he thought. Finally, he started a business. Then, a flood happens. Drinkwell’s been busy. His second tome? A second tome! He said that there will be only one tome. A third book on the horizon. Who would have thought? No doubt that the title would be something short. People don’t like long titles. Will it be poetical? I don’t think so.

Corvu nods at me, I suppose trying to reassure me it was okay to follow him, then grabs the reins on the horses to walk them. The village was different, to say the least. It seemed everything here was built with the aid of nature. Even the blacksmith we passed used an open hut and a firepit. Children seemed abundant here but the main thing I noticed above all else...they were all human. Gecko didn’t seem to mind but Corvu’s ears hang low. Was that an indicator of him feeling uneasy? Or sad? I can’t tell. Gharp leads us to a small wooden house that is attached to another one. He opens the basic wood door with broken panelling and holes and lets us inside.

Yes, quickly. The sorcerer was bitter and hurt for the absurdly dead blacksmith, who, apparently, was mourned only by children, while his wife was burdened by the need to grieve. From the indifference of a good-for-nothing woman, from such obvious neglect, something black rose in my soul, learning. Going up to the mistress of the house, he squeezed the collar of her shirt and, looking into her eyes wide with fear, said:

My village community was small, with only around two thousand people, and we were what outsiders considered old-fashioned and self-sufficient, which meant that everyone worked, regardless of age but like all old-style villages the men had their place and so did the women, we all travelled by horse, horse, and cart, or on foot. We have the fundamental stores that any country town has or requires in the village’s main centre, including a seamstress for our clothes, a butcher, a bakery, and a market for all the fresh fruit, vegetables, dairy, and any food for the village’s animals. In addition, we have a small school, a blacksmith, and a healer. The blacksmith and the healer are the only ones w

The silver thread was there, hanging in the night air like a spider's web, stretching away from the fortress and down into the village below. I climbed down the trellis, a feat I hadn't attempted since I was a rebellious girl in the South and hit the snow-covered ground in silence. I followed the thread through the darkened streets of the Thorne citadel. The thread didn't lead to a monster. It led to the village schoolhouse. Inside, the air was freezing. Sitting at one of the small wooden desks was a boy, the blacksmith’s son, no older than seven. He was staring at a blank piece of slate, a piece of chalk in his hand.

The sun rose for what would be the last morning the Zlona-Sintar Village would see. The village was bustling with life. Young children were playing in the cobblestone streets, their older peers were off to their day spent at the Schola. Adults were preparing for a day of work. Blacksmiths were preparing their forges, shopkeepers opened their shops, the warriors of the village were awaiting for their orders while milling about the gray stone barracks. All except one.

The last time he had been here was when he had flown in seeking out a human he needed to talk business with. It was rectangular in shape with a row of shops leading to the village center where the Elder resided with his family, the wooden houses of the population beyond the Elder’s. Among the shops were a Butcher, Tannery, Spice Trader, Blacksmith, and food stalls where farmers sold their crops. Freja made her way to the Blacksmith, Zarek in tow.