Poem Village Blacksmith Novels & Stories

Outside the armory for Elderwood Village stood both Kirou and Old Wolf. As usual, Kirou went up to the door and gave it a firm knock. "Come in," came a voice from the inside. Both Kirou and Old Wolf recognized the voice as it belonged to Bladesmith, the Weapon Master Instructor. Both men entered the building to find Bladesmith hammering away at another piece of metal. This time, however, Bladesmith stopped on his own as he noticed that along with his usual visiter, Kirou, he was now graced with the presence of the village head, Old Wolf.

The village blacksmith waited for the farmer to inspect the newly healed metal, accepted payment with a courtly bow, and watched the tractor growl away. Ancient though the equipment was, the blacksmith was even older, and more machine than man. Marcus Doug Douglas had played many roles throughout his long and rather productive life, including those of son, brother, husband, father, uncle, friend, industrialist, politician, strategist, artist, and for the last six decades, village blacksmith.

By midday, after an uncomfortable amount of jolting in a cart disguised as a traveling merchant’s wagon (with Norma snoring in the back like a war beast in hibernation), we reached the village tucked at the bottom of the ridge. It was small. Poor, yes—but not broken. Stone homes with moss-covered rooftops lined the winding main road. A single windmill spun lazily to the west, overlooking golden fields of wheat, swaying gently like dancers after wine. Chickens ran free like they paid rent, and the blacksmith’s forge glowed with slow-burning pride. Smoke curled from chimneys like the town was trying to pretend rebellion wasn’t knocking on its front door.

It was only an illusion that there was actually a giant building there. However, what laid before them was not an illusion. On both sides, as far as she could see, were little shops. It looked like a town from the middle ages. To their right, was a blacksmith's shop. A man with a gray beard and a black apron was busy clanging away on what appeared to be a sword. He'd just pulled the piece of metal out of the fire and had it laid against a giant anvil. It was red hot and sparked with each strike of his hammer.

Eirlys POV: By noon, the village had almost convinced itself that yesterday's chaos hadn't happened. Almost. Children were running through the square again, their laughter bouncing off the walls like it always did. The baker had reopened his little shop, even though one window was still boarded up with rough wooden planks. The blacksmith's hammer rang out steady and strong, filling the air with that familiar clang that said life was moving forward. Fear had a way of gripping tight, but people here were stubborn. They always found a way to keep going.

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 scent of blooming lavender wafted through the air, soothing the senses. Cedarbrook was a close-knit community, where everyone knew their neighbors, and life moved at a gentle, unhurried pace. Villagers were known for their craftsmanship, from artisans who crafted delicate pottery to bakers renowned for their crusty, golden loaves of bread. The village square served as the heart of Cedarbrook, a gathering place for festivals, markets, and joyful celebrations that brought everyone together.

One the blacksmith had referred to as 'beautiful'. Next was the forging. Under the guidance of the blacksmith Sethlzaar spent the rest of the day shoveling coke into the furnace while the man hammered away at his work. The smoke threatened to choke Sethlzaar and the sound of the hammer against the anvil left him with a constant ringing in his ears.

The seam in the sky healed by a breath. A fisherman’s lantern burned steadily. A pup on Blackthorn’s ridge learned to say no without fear. A woman in the market changed her price and hated neither number. I laid a palm on the warm ash. “Begin.” The Hall obeyed. And the heartbeat-that-isn’t lingered in the air not a promise, an option.

Yet one day, they would be her subjects. The blacksmith stood dutifully at the anvil, his massive frame silhouetted against fire. His ashen, both by colour and the ashes of the coal, made some sense as to why his hair was tied back. Revealing a face lined with soot and scars. His arms, corded with decades of labour, swung a huge hammer, as though it were weightless, in a rhythm that seemed to shake the very ground. Sparks leapt like dying stars around him, but he didn't once flinch. This forge, like all forges, was run by the Wingless.