Year 150, Mid-Spring
Another year passed. One hundred and fifty years 'tis been since we first dug into this cursed… blessed… rock. Aye, blessed, for it's given us more than any surface could. The caverns roar with the clatter of pickaxes and the bellows of forges. We’ve pushed deep, taken what’s ours, and piled it higher than any mountain. I’ve seen more battles than I care to remember, and the grey hairs are starting to creep in, though I’m still young by dwarf standards. Still, I feel… something’s missing.
I've always been a practical dwarf. Never one for the strange moods, the fits of creation that grip some of my kin. Never felt that pull, that burning need to make something… until now, perhaps. Well, not until today. I have it set in my mind, I do. A warhammer. Not some flimsy bone trinket, but a real weapon, a tool of both war and forge. Something that holds the heart of this fortress. I will begin tomorrow in earnest.
Year 150, Late Summer
The sounds of the forge are my constant companions these days. The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel… that’s a sound that feels right. I chose the finest metals, smelted down from the hordes of goblins we’ve crushed and collected. Adamantine, black as a raven's wing, forms the core, while a lattice of steel and silver surrounds it, all worked with my own hands.
I've even incorporated some trophies. A claw from the forgotten beast we fought in the deep caverns, now polished smooth and set into the haft. A goblin skull, smaller than my fists, I carved it with runes and embed it in the head. Adds a certain… weight, I suppose. These things might not mean much to an elf or human, but to a dwarf, they speak of history, of victories and perseverance.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Year 150, Early Autumn
The work continues. I've lost track of the days. The heat from the forge has become like a second skin. My beard is stiff with soot and sweat, and my hands are calloused until they're like iron themselves. I even dream of molten metal and sparks flying. I’ve never known such single-minded focus.
Today, I worked in the gems. I dug into my own hoard, not for greed but for glory. Shimmering sapphires surround the adamantine, like a starry night sky captured in metal. A single ruby, large as my thumb, sits at the pommel, a blood-red jewel that pulses with a strange light in the furnace heat. Each blow of the hammer, each careful setting… it’s like I’m pouring something of myself into this. A part of this fortress. It's not like anything I've ever forged.
Year 150, Late Winter
Six months. Half a year has flown by, and the artifact is complete. I've named it "Skullcrusher" for obvious reasons. The weight of it in my hands is… incredible. It's not just a hammer; it's a piece of this fortress, a piece of me. A tool of war, a maker of legends.
The finish is rough, not meant for show. A simple hammer that makes a clang so loud the whole fortress hears it when I ring it. It feels right. I don't know for sure why I chose this path, why I spent so long on this. Maybe I was wrong about that lack of passion. Maybe it just took the right mountain to move it. I don't know... The important thing is it is done and now I must find the right time to use it. I will leave Skullcrusher in my quarters till the next need arises.