Solitude Blacksmith Novels & Stories

It might look random to others but Kirou could tell that each strike the man-made was done with sufficient strength and each location hit was done so with purpose. As a fellow blacksmith himself, Kirou could tell that this Lycan blacksmith can craft any melee weapons he is tasked with given the right amount of time and materials. And like that, Kirou spent the next half hour admiring the man's work while he made the finishing touches on the weapon. When the Lycan was done, he set the hammer down and finally turned to face Kirou. "Sorry for the wait. Now what can I do for ya lad?" asked the man asked while moving over to the rest area of the cottage.

“The blacksmith was over joyed for he had though he had been forgotten. He immediately went back to work again. On his second attempt he better prepared as he had time to contemplate possible solutions. He had made a mold out of fresh clay. When the crystal was heated up again he placed the clay mold. He laid in the fire and smoothed it out. Finally the crystal had been molded. The black black smith quickly went to plunge the mold into the water. All was going as planned until the blacksmith retrieved the mold from the water. Once the crystal hit the air it shattered into dust.The black smith had an idea as he took the smallest piece and redid the process. This time he left the crystal in t

I asked him as I scanned his clothes. “No, this is how I usually dress.” He shrugged and started walking, making me run a little to be on the same stance as his. “I think this is new pants and boot -” “No, they’re old!” he insisted so I just laugh and didn’t add any comment about his lavender scent. Vol’s workshop is located at the heart of the forest, near the smiths and the butchery. Vol is the best blacksmith we have in our tribe and he is passing down his legacy to his son, Coll.

They were huddled together around the campfire, looking up at the shattered sky with expressions of profound, unscripted terror. "Look at the Blacksmith," Marcus whispered, pointing. Standing near the anvil was a massive, bearded NPC named Brog. In the base game, Brog existed solely to repair player armor for a small f*e of copper coins. His only line of dialogue was, "Steel wins battles, but gold wins wars. Need repairs?" Brog was not offering repairs. He was holding his heavy forging hammer in a two-handed combat grip. He was pacing furiously back and forth, muttering to himself, his pixelated face contorted in a very real expression of panic.

His eyes wandered around the circle. "Perhaps we were right." A pause. "Perhaps we were incomplete." The young man in the silver cloak remained unmoved. "Incomplete ideas destroy worlds." The blacksmith shook his head. "No." "They build them." His scarred hands rested upon the table. "I've forged thousands of blades." "But I've also forged plows." "The fire was never the enemy." "It depended on what we chose to create." The musician quietly touched the strings of the silent violin. No sound emerged.

Until tonight, nobody else in the northern pack territories had ever come close to touching his record. Who would have guessed that the plain, heavily masked male rogue they all treated like an ugly, unbonded nobody was actually the legendary shadow smith who could arm an entire rogue rebellion? Knowing I can never reveal the bloody truth of how my inner beast survived those early fighting rings, I keep my tone flat and defensive. "I simply spent my childhood sketching titanium blueprints and experimenting with silver alloys in the dirt. I never thought much of it until a family friend, Leonel Norris, snatched my concepts and smuggled them into the underworld competition."

“I can work on any kind of manual labor.” The man looked at him from head to toe, assessing his form. He then nodded. “You’re in luck. The blacksmith has been looking for a replacement for his striker.” He turned away from them and waved at the guard atop the tower. “Come,” he beckoned them. “I will have you settled inside.” “Thank you,” Archibald said. “This is a huge help.” “We can’t thank you enough,” Selene added. The man sent out a humorless laugh, like an obligatory ha-ha. “Oh, and one thing,” he turned back on them. “Don’t mind the rumors flying around. The people are just bored out of their mind.”

Each swing I made felt less like I was forging a blade, and more like I was being forged with it. And yeah. It got me hard. Didn’t take long before they told me to piss off. No one wants a smith groaning at the sparks like some drunk at a brothel. So now it’s just me. No guild, no workshop. Just my own tools, my own corner of land, and my own shame. I gather my own ore, chop my own wood for the furnace, haul water from the river, everything. Adventurers call it “independence.” For me, it’s the only way I don’t have to explain the look on my face when the steel sings back at me.

At the blacksmith shop, I was reluctant to approach Amos about my concern. Currently, he's refining another dagger in front of the refiner's fire. I notice his eyes are stuck still on the heat while picking the tools beside him without looking at them. He's so occupied that he didn't notice my presence behind him. I had my hands on the back whilst watching him, and I saw his right hand searching for something while his left was busy with the refiner.

Lots of tools lay abandoned and scattered across the floor that were going to gather dust and never be used. The cabin was a work in progress but, until tonight, was always going to be finished within the next fortnight. Now, there is no one left to finish building. It was a gift from one half of a soulmated pair to the other, tucked away into a clearing in the woods. It was hand-built and hand-carved, a symbol of their love, their dedication to each other despite all adversaries. An incredible little cabin. Beautiful. Quaint. Made with love. It was a home, or at least, it should have been.