Chapter 30

I took the ingot in my hands, and turned it over this way and that. I tapped at it, trying to visualize what to make. A dagger? A sword? A hammer? I needed to make some kind of weapon, but what would I use? I didn’t have any real weapon proficiencies to boost my abilities – or narrow my range of choices – and I didn’t really have a propensity toward any particular style of fighting. What could I even make that would help me fight?

I stared at the ingot in contemplation for so long I was sure the blacksmith was going to say something about it, but instead he just watched me. While I was focused mainly on the steel, I could see the way he stared at me when he thought I wouldn’t see; his fixed expression, cold eyes. He was sizing me up like I was a piece of metal to be beaten into shape, wondering where he’d have to strike to mold me. I returned my attention to the metal, visualizing what I wanted from the steel, mentally apportioning it, separating it into steps, knowledge I know I didn’t have before shaping my process. It was less like I knew how to do blacksmithing, and more like a series of templates had been wired into my head, and I could simply fill in the steps from a guide. Nonetheless, I could see where I could include my own personalization, places where I felt almost a sense of ambiguity; I could leave it as is, or do something else. While I didn’t have the experience that the Blacksmith certainly had, judging by his comfort with his hammers, I had an entirely different skillset to draw upon.

I set the ingot down on the anvil, and placed one hand atop it, the other hand pointing toward the forge. I poured will and intention into both, drawing the forge down to embers and pouring the heat into the steel, careful to spread it out over the whole body of the ingot, letting the heat seep down into its’ core. I twisted some of the extra flame, pulling it up toward the blacksmith’s hammer in my hand, empowering it with every bit of leftover energy.

"Well, that’s unexpected,” Talyssa purred, perched once more upon the edge of the balcony, taking a moment to watch the procession of building-size birds floating lazily by, their brilliantly-colored feathers standing out in a cacophony against the silver-gold of the clouds below them. “I never knew my disciple had interest in things like that. He’s wasting his time,” she whined, dismissively, the dancing flames of her hair dulling in annoyance, shortening nearly to a bob cut.

“He is not wasting his time,” Guroug answered her, giving her a professorly look. His two upper arms crossed over his chest in studious disappointment, muscles rippling with the gesture. “Anything you pour your soul into is a worthwhile investment. Besides, it is important to take breaks to re-center oneself. While his power may be great, his foundations are weak. Perhaps a little time will allow him to temper his own mettle.” His lower pair of arms continued their work, massaging a piece of steel as if it were clay, stretching and shaping it, absently toying with the metal.

Talyssa was not nearly as entertained by the scholarly giant’s wordplay as he was. “Or it’ll dull his edge. An unused blade will rust in its’ sheathe, won’t it?”

The giant rumbled a laugh back at her, and reached out one enormous hand. His fingertip gently brushed her cheek, the stone-like nail nearly the size of her head. “Perhaps you can learn, yet, tempestuous Talyssa. There might even be hope for your disciple.”

“And yours?” She asked, kissing the fingertip with a little heat behind the movement, causing him to draw his hand away and rub at the small blackened impression of her lips.

“I think that he is also learning an important lesson. Perhaps one that will serve as the crucible he requires to finish reforging himself.” He sounded thoughtful, eyes briefly flitting out over the endless expanse of clouds and other floating islands. His tone changed when he spoke again, soft, as if afraid to speak the words. “Do you really think it will be enough? It is no small task we have set upon.”

She shook her head. “No, it isn’t. But I have other… Irons in the fire. Isn’t that the saying?” She gave him a positively mischievous smile, and he gave a good-natured laugh in return. He smiled, but concern still touched his eyes. Be careful, my love.

I could feel myself sweating, sodden with it, my mental energy taxed to the absolute limit. The process was moving slower than I’d expected, and the hammer felt like an immense weight in my hands, even my superhuman muscles straining to keep lifting it. Steady, steady, I thought to myself, humming along to an old song to keep my rhythm and determination up. The last known Survivor stalks his prey in the night, I hummed to myself, going into a brief staccato flurry of strikes. The implement was taking shape beneath my hands, pouring my magic into the forge to keep its’ temperature up, burning coal at a prodigious rate, then stealing the flames it created to pour into my work. The metal glowed a solid cherry red everywhere there was work still to be done, the haft nearly four feet long already, the head taking shape under my careful strikes. I shaped the metal head into a brazier, an iron cage wrapped around a hollow space within where the fire would dwell. It was impossible to create such a shape with just a hammer, but my knowledge and magic – and some level of System meddling – allowed my strikes to hollow it out and draw the metal upward.

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Even though the body was finished, I still had work yet to do; I poured magic into the forge once more, the flames burning so bright and hot that they shaded blue and white at the base, clawing at the stone with long fingers of flame, the coal turning to ash even as it blazed up. I grabbed for it, and poured that flame down into the staff, hammering along its’ length in strategic places where I saw the energy gather. Instead of hammering flat, it stamped runes I didn’t understand into the metal, binding the fire into the metal itself. I felt it drawing upon my Crystalflame, sheathing the steel in a layer of transparent ruby, hardening into twisting ridges down the shaft itself, layering into delicate ornamentation that marked the length of the staff, studding the bars of the brazier cage.

The final strike rung like a gong, the hammer falling from limp, exhausted fingers. Every muscle in my arms, shoulders and back ached, tense to the point of agony. The weapon laid before me, glimmering as if I had trapped the fire itself within it, thin ripples of flame wriggling up and down the shaft, sinking into the blackened metal of the cage at its’ top. I stared down at my new weapon in wonder, and felt the pressure of a notification in my mind.

Quest Complete

[The Professional]

You have successfully forged your first weapon under the supervision of your Master. You now have the knowledge to learn from them further, or strike out upon your own path.

Profession Evolved

Blacksmith -> Forgeflame Smith

No longer content to limit yourself to the merely physical tools of the trade, the Forgeflame Smith has the power to summon and create tools as needed, imbuing flames into their work. Such power, however, comes at a cost; such creations consume a little of their crafter’s life-force, powering innate enchantments in their works. Such tools are rare, but highly sought-after.

[Level up! You are now level 21. +10 Free points gained from Race and Class.]

[Level up! You are now level 22. +10 Free points gained from Race and Class.]

I sat back, eyes heavy-lidded with exertion. I thought for a moment about the various attributes at play in the forging process, and perused my attributes. With a half-awake flicker of attention, I poured all twenty free points into Presence, shoring up one of the weakest attributes my skills drew upon.

I cradled the staff in my lap, the metal still warm to the touch, stroking along the fine markings and engraved runes with curiosity. Finally, I opened my inner sight to it, reaching out with Forgesense.

[Staff of Willshaping (Rare)]: This staff was forged by the newly-minted Forgeflame Smith, David Miller, and is his first creation. While the enchantments are strong, they are also unfocused; this staff acts as an amplifier for the magic of its’ user, but possesses little magic of its’ own. The enchantment is powered by David’s own life-force, and will likely persist long after his own death. Enchantments: Amplifier, Fire-attuned, Self-Repair, Attribute Bonus: +10 Presence, +10 Wisdom, +30 Willpower.

I stared down at the staff in confusion, turning it over in my hands. My head was spinning, not the least of which because – according to the quest clock – I’d spend some ten hours working on the staff. Like a broken clock, my mind kept coming back to the same thought, however. Such creations consume a little of their crafter’s life-force. How much? What did that mean? Was it years off the end of my life, or did it actually drain my attributes somehow? I pored over my sheet obsessively, but didn’t see any negative changes; only the attribute bonuses from the staff, and my two level gains. The change to Forgeflame Blacksmith hadn’t come with any changes in the attributes that it gave me, which I found a little disappointing, but it seemed to have given me a different ability instead. I reached into the air and grabbed, imagining my blacksmithing hammer, and a bolt of energy drained from my core, mental energy wrapping it into shape; I was so low on both resources that I nearly toppled over from the expenditure. A blacksmith's hammer sat in my hand, a near-replica of the one that sat on the anvil before me, except more ornate, the head wrapped in spiraling runes of some kind.

I looked around to speak to the Blacksmith, but there was no one there. The shop was empty, the forge cold, no sign of the other personal tools that had laid strewn about when I arrived. The only thing remaining was a simple-looking bedroll against the back wall; never in my life had a simple bundle of cloth looked so appealing.

I smoothed it out, and simply dropped bonelessly onto it, sleep nipping at my heels like a pack of wolves.