The entire settlement was nervous the following day. Not fearful, but uncertain. Everyone cast glances across the lake during moments of peace, as if they were fishing for any hint of the strange blacksmith’s existence.
Even though they could not see the cottage where the so-called blacksmith resided, they knew it was present – and its occupant was observant, to say the least.
Hidden behind foliage and the trunks of trees, the saltsmith behaved in equal measure, nervous, concerned, and unsure if they should extend their metaphorical hand first or let the Adventurer’s Guild approach on its own.
They had one thing to anchor their fleeting worries to: the guildmaster gave her tacit permission to set up a blacksmith on this parcel of land, in this cottage.
The saltsmith didn’t care to own the land or to designate borders, but they felt more at peace knowing that they were permitted to be here, that they wouldn’t be chased off at any moment in time.
They spent most of the morning cleaning their new workshop, pulling down the remnants of the rotting thatch roof. It was in a decent condition for its presumed age, well-constructed and shielded from weather by the thick canopy overhead.
The furniture inside was much more damaged, presumably by beasts or humans alike. It seemed to be broken and aged. The saltsmith spent a considerable amount of time removing nails and other metal pieces from the furniture before piling it up outside.
[ attribute increase: strength +1 ]
Seven was better than six, the saltsmith mused, unconvinced.
Their foray into the deep dark crevices below earned them a few small pieces of soapstone taken from a much larger deposit. It was a material used to mark up stone and metal alike, like chalk for a smith.
They began drawing directly onto the stone floor, now clean from a sweeping with a few pieces of evergreen branches tied together with a scrap of cloth. The fireplace would turn into a forge, easily converted into the centerpiece of the small building. Anvil could sit here, where it was easily accessible. A quenching trough here, by the door, so it could be readily filled with lake water, and—
The saltsmith paused as the system began typing out a new missive.
NEW! [ hero skill: drafter's eye ] - active skill, artisan class; On activation, overlay a schematic, draft, or sketch onto your sight, providing a “physical” representation of maker’s plans. Maker must know plans in detail or have a schematic, draft, or sketch on-site.
duration: continuous or 10 min after no longer viewing the drafted object
Although the thought crossed their mind on such occasions, the saltsmith had yet to pause and appreciate the convenience of this system. Perhaps it was a foreign thing, a board of unrequested notes and documents in their mind, but it was useful all the same.
They looked over the glowing silver lines with awe as the magic floated in the air, unseen by others. The saltsmith may not know how to create every forge, but they knew their home workshop’s forge by heart, even the cracks and chips in the bricks.
Recreating that forge would be simple, with the appropriate ingredients.
The saltsmith was experimenting their landwise sense, trying to press mud and sand and small pebbles into a brick form. They would not be able to capture and chain the materials into bricks, but perhaps there was another skill that could help fortify regular fired bricks into stronger ones, more suitable for a heat-resistance and the constant vibrations and pressure of a forge.
Although their skeletal hands tried, assembling bricks with their current tools was like raking mud and expecting to form a pot.
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The saltsmith was looking at the lakeside hoping to find a flat piece of shale to make a temporary tool when they heard the sounds of footsteps nearing.
Though the cloak covering most of their “body” hid their erratic movements, the saltsmith absolutely scuttled away, shielding themselves behind the wall of the cottage once more.
It was the cook with the curly hair and soft voice.
Samir looked around with a distinct sense of unease, searching for that hidden smith among the trees. He was a cook by trade, not an artisan by class; his attributes were functional for the manual labor of feeding the settlement, even if they were misaligned to expectations.
Therefore, his awareness was too low to catch the pumpkin-headed saltsmith perched in the tree limbs at a distance, peering curiously at the man.
The cook’s unease was not due to fear or apprehension about the saltsmith. Perhaps his companions back at camp were afraid of the entity, but Samir was fairly used to inhuman creatures.
It was not a thing he wished to admit, but his upbringing required significant training to meet expectations and standards. When the soldiers were too busy to spar with Samir, the arms master would pit him against a suit of armor animated by a skeleton within.
The gravecaller, of course, would be off to the side to observe their skeletal companion’s actions, to direct its decisions if needed, but it was the arms master who called for Samir to train.
In the end, it gave the now-cook a healthy respect for inhuman entities.
Kovatellian tradition required a summoner to maintain a small shrine for each spirit they contracted; Samir did not know if gravecallers did the same for their skeletons, but it felt proper to at minimum show humanity and respect to this blacksmith.
The creature in question watched as Samir set a bundle on the ground, rearranging discarded stools around a large log which he promptly used as a table.
If there was a shrine to consider for the blacksmith, it was the house itself. Yianna made it clear to the guild that the blacksmith – no matter whether it was spirit or otherwise – would live in this cottage, so they were to respect the smith’s boundaries, if put in place.
Samir uncorked a bottle of drink and poured it into two ceramic cups. He took one to the doorway of the cottage, setting it just outside the entryway.
He did not peer inside, nor did he try and hunt in the shadows for the blacksmith’s presence. It would be improper to leave a gift for a neighbor, only to peek through their windows to see if they were home.
With a polite bow, Samir faced the cottage with its absent roof and dingy exterior. “Smith, I have brought you drink to encourage peace and goodwill between us.”
His words were boldly spoken, very different than the other night where Samir was a spooked man creeping up on the house with his new sword.
“I believe that you are afraid of being seen, so instead of the customary invite of a new neighbor to celebrate at my house—” Samir caught himself, correcting his words. “—my tent, as homely as it is, I wish to visit you during the daylight hours.”
He gestured to the stools, arranged for two occupants to sit comfortably, and his belongings.
“I brought a book, in hopes that I could read tales aloud for us to enjoy.”
Samir didn’t know anything about the smith, but he could imagine what type of person the creature was, if that was something to consider. The smith spent a week or more taking care of the guild members and the settlement’s needs silently, without reward.
There was a sense of gentility around the smith.
It reminded Samir of his niblings, some bold but others too shy to approach. He made great strides with the youngest by reading aloud at a safe distance, allowing the little one to come closer on their own terms.
The cook did exactly as promised, although he apologized aloud that the only books he had at the time were recipe books and children’s tales from the southern half of the country.
Nevertheless, he began reading the first tale, one about the leogryph and the crane.
As the leogryph devoured another beast, a bone became stuck in its maw. No matter what the leogryph did, the bone would not come out. It could not close its mouth, nor could it continue eating.
A few days passed before the crane saw the leogryph panting in the heat, in pain and hungry. The crane swooped in and acknowledged the leogryph’s suffering, using its delicate beak to snatch the bone from the jaws.
As the leogryph celebrated its new freedom, the crane asked for a reward. The leogryph snapped its teeth at the crane, stating with irritation that the crane was between the leogryph’s teeth and emerged alive – that was reward enough.
The crane shrieked and flew away, spreading word of the leogryph’s lack of gratitude and bad manners across the kingdom.
Samir sighed as he set the book down, story finished. The process of reading aloud was distracting, as he became engulfed in doing the voices properly. His niblings insisted on it.
The cook was thinking about one of his older relatives, an uncle who married off into a royal family of a neighboring country. Everyone lauded his military career and prowess as a warrior; however, he was much like this leogryph in this story. He would easily bite off the hand that he fed from.
The saltsmith had no clue of Samir’s noble musings, but they were closer now than previously, trying to strain their non-existent eyes to see the pictures in the book. They didn’t dare to approach the cook, not to enter the clearing and exist unhidden by the limbs of the surrounding trees.
But, perhaps, if they perched well enough, they could squint at the blurry blobs of illustrations of the leogryph and the crane.
The saltsmith shrunk away as the book creaked close, Samir standing up with a sigh. There was more than a children’s tale on his mind, that was evident, yet he faced the cottage and bowed with utmost sincerity.
“I will return tomorrow to read again. I hope we can be friends, in time.”
He was polite and formal. The saltsmith thought him vaguely stilted in his attempts at communication, but given the circumstances, it was the best Samir could do.
The saltsmith didn’t know much about ghosts and haunted things, nor anything of the spirits of this world, but they remembered how eloquently the macabre-fascinated folks of their past life called upon the departed.
It was a big thing, in the last century or so. There were books written about it and everything. Mummies eaten for their “medicinal” properties; bones kept as trinkets.
Wow, what the Victorians would have given to see the saltsmith now, metal puppeteered by the magic of a fantastically lit Jack O’Lantern.
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