Seattle Blacksmith Novels & Stories

(Eliza's POV) I stared at the blacksmith, surprised by his eager recognition. His professional demeanor had vanished. "Your designs," he explained, pointing to a workbench. "I've been waiting for more. The dual-purpose dagger blueprint was extraordinary." Relief washed over me. For a moment, I'd feared he recognized me from somewhere else. "I hadn't realized my design was so impressive," I said, maintaining my male disguise. The blacksmith's eyes lit up. "In thirty years of smithing, I've rarely seen such innovative work. My master was particularly intrigued."

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.

The woman instructed, whilst giving up a suggestive smile at her last sentence. Accashia breathed in deeply as if air was scarce. Then she lets out a loud — “EH?!” The man who was standing on the sidelines and was listening to them stopped wiping the wooden headstone for a while, then he looked at the couple and said, “We also give out couple rings.” He nonchalantly said. “I was a blacksmith before I retired and became a baker. The ring was made from the deep olden cave metals from Shaldan. But now that cave no longer exists since the great decimation from way back… There’s only a few rings like that. Would you like to buy it?”

"It only knows the strike. It only knows the truth of the metal." He looked at the front row—a group of blacksmiths and silversmiths. "You know my father's name. Thomas Silas. You know the House of Aris has been selling you brittle steel and hollow gold for three years. I am the man who stayed in that 'dirt' to make sure the work remained true, even when my name was stolen."

Now here he was a full grown man of probably twenty five now trying to get me in better shape than I was when I was his age. Marius returned, his facial expression had changed… it was tighter and even more focused than he had been. He nodded once at Damon. “We’ve got a possible lead. There’s a low profile blacksmith in Amber Brook reportedly sold a batch of trinkets to a rogue five days ago. The same style. No permits.” Damon’s gaze sharpened. “Trinkets? They’ve never used trinkets before, do you still think it’s a part of the ring?”

They lift heavy objects. Ragnar was speechless. It was clear that the old man would speak no more. Ragnar Lanek's iron amulet must have symbolized powerful magic, no matter what the wolf priest said. They walked down the street and passed an open shop. When Ragnar looked inside, it was a workshop full of blacksmiths. Their inner shadows glowed in the light of the hot metal. He hears hammers from other places and knows that in these places the products of the blacksmith are made. "You still haven't answered my first question." Ragnath said, surprised at his carelessness. — I don't know if I understand if I can leave. 'Why not?'

I question. “You’re upset about something,” he suggests gently. “My mother is really sick, and everyone’s saying she won’t live much longer, I’m scared because I don’t want to be alone. But your story did help me to not feel so bad,” I say with a small smile. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You never told me your name,” I say carefully. “My name is Neron Black. I’m a blacksmith who works in the city. What’s your name, little man?” He asks, bending down to my level.

[System Message: You have watched Old Copper's display of the hammering technique ] [Due to your affinity for blacksmithing from the 'Crafting Master' Class, you have learned the skill ].

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.