The guild members exchanged unnerved glances throughout lunch as the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer reverberated over the lake. It was a small hammer and a small anvil, so the noise was tinny as it passed through the air and over the water, but it was still nerve wracking to many of the humans present.
Nanazin eyed the half-finished icon of the carved pumpkin over her soup bowl, now slightly splattered with the red-orange of the pork indad. She winced at the disrespect, wiping the sauce off. The spices stained it a lovely orange, however. Perhaps that was a practical option for coloring it.
Given that the saltsmith was not, in fact, a spirit, they were unaware that their icon was treated rudely. Maybe a real spirit would, but the guild had no way of knowing that the haunted lantern that focused intently on crafting objects and providing help to the settlement was not a spirit.
Shockingly, the saltsmith was just some human. Not a particularly talented or impressive one either, or at least in their old world that was true. To be a master of a trade, of a laborious craft, was not as time-honored as it used to be.
The saltsmith lacked education, which meant their prospects were limited. Little career mobility, functioning solely at the whims of the local community, and what metal-thing they needed today.
Maybe that was why the saltsmith craved the attention of the guild. This was a chance to be needed, truly and intentionally. To be invited into a group with a clear and concise set of expectations for their existence, a guideline laid out for how to gain their trust and understanding.
Smith tools and objects for them. Help the settlement grow. Provide their services to the Guild, to the Guildmaster.
That’s why it was so important to follow the strange urge radiating from the boar’s teeth, as uncanny and unusual as that sentiment felt.
The saltsmith unfurled their many arms to place the teeth in a pile on a table scavenged from the dilapidated cottage. It was a small entry table so the teeth were barely contained, teetering on the edge and tumbling to the floor, only to be caught by one of the saltsmith’s hands.
What could they be used for? There was no clear indication, no click-clack of the system’s writing to explain exactly why they felt this strange urge.
It was a subtle but powerful feeling, as if the energy of the land flowed upwards through them and attracted them to the boar’s teeth and tusks. A magnetic pull toward bone, not metal.
That spurred what was an obvious course of action, in retrospect.
The saltsmith went to work, gathering ingots and adding them to the crucible. Their [ skill: temper-aura ] allowed them to control the temperature of a heat source in close proximity – or allegedly, a cold source – without constant management beyond providing fuel and allowing for proper airflow.
They were grateful for the inclusion of magic in this world, as melting the ingots became a simple task of supervision rather than sweating from the heat and hauling coke. The conversion of ore to ingots was almost easier, as their saltsmith subclass converted normal impurities into useable material.
Not every ounce of dross provided benefit to the end-product – not like the pyrite did for their hammer – but the impurities didn’t detract.
The saltsmith wondered if they were capable of standard blacksmithing now, or were their skills as a human metamorphosized into saltsmithing and saltsmithing alone?
They pondered in silence, as was their existence, while they wrapped a few of the teeth in scraps of cloth and laid them across the anvil. A slow rhythm of hammering sounded out, not the bright ringing of metal on metal, but a macabre crack and thud of bone being pulverized.
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Another curiosity struck them. Perhaps if there was leftover metal, they could forge a second hammer. Their prior limitations were set by the simple fact of humans bearing two arms with a hand for each; now they had ten arms. A second hammer seemed more than reasonable.
Regardless, the bone powder was a highly contested addition in blacksmithing. Ancient techniques were oft claimed to have used bones as materials, but common knowledge said that too much carbon would ruin the steel.
Yet, what ruined in blacksmithing empowered in saltsmithing.
They mixed it into the molten metal, listening to the hiss as it turned to ash on contact. The system acknowledged their lack of smell by converting it directly to knowledge; the stench of scorched bone was similar to that of burning hair.
The saltsmith was aware of the smell radiated from the crucible but they were unaffected, as if a telegram was merely passed to them: THE BONE SMOKE REEKS= IT IS REPULSIVE=
They continued working as if that step of the process did not exist. The billet was heated and hammered into a long shape, flipping the blade to even it out and gradually beveling the cutting edge.
Then heating and cooling. Hardening. Tempering. The saltsmith’s [ skill: temper-aura ] helped tremendously, as they could guarantee a certain temperature was met and held on both ends of the spectrum.
There was no system notification, at least not while the knife was still being processed, but the saltsmith could sense… something different about this metal. No label informed them that the boar’s teeth powder altered its attributes, yet a strange energy radiated from the knife.
It wasn’t magic. Though the saltsmith would have called their existence magical, they were not attuned to magic as the system defined it.
Landwise did not engage in magic. They were connected to the energies of the world through roots and leaves, stone and metal, even the weather itself. The soul of the land was what brought them power, thus they were titled the land-wise.
The knife was in the process of becoming. It was slowly transforming from mere metal object to a tool imbued with purpose. It had character beyond aesthetic appreciation.
The saltsmith would have thrown out this animistic sentimentality were they not a Jack O’Lantern imbued with a human soul. It was entirely possible for a knife to hold the essence of the land, of a living thing. Was it ensouled with a fragment of the boar?
Those thoughts could only skim across the saltsmith’s consciousness as they worked, too focused on the making to delve into an entirely foreign spirituality. Perhaps they were raised with the concept of one almighty God, but this world shook up the saltsmith’s understanding of existence enough to permit a knife a whisper of sentience.
They formed the tang before quenching the knife, taking a break to rest from the effort of concentrated coordination. Walking and moving was a little more forgiving to their mind-controlled limbs, as they didn’t need to be incredibly precise to move.
Creating things, however, was as tiresome of an endeavor as the saltsmith could experience.
The handle was next. The saltsmith could make handles on their own, but they lacked the equipment. Saws, woodcarving tools. A manual lathe would be fantastic; there were several young, green trees in the area too, if the saltsmith could find the right one and maybe convince the carpenter for assistance….
They grabbed a metal rod leftover from making nails and heated it up, using the rod to clean out the inside of the hollow tusks where nerves withered and blood congealed.
The silent notice of the stench only brought about a reminder of their inhumanity.
The saltsmith gathered the tusks and the in-progress knife, snagging a scrap of charcoal and a flat rock from the lakeside as they skirted the periphery. Sneaking into the carpenter’s workspace without being spotted would be difficult, but worthwhile.
On the stone, they scribbled a knife shape and a tusk next to a handle shape. It was barely legible, but it would have to do.
The carpenter – called Adderbury or similar – was working on the sole structure in the settlement, finishing unknowable work on the windows. That meant he was distracted, facing away from his workstation.
Perhaps the carpenter would be irritated at this second request, but what could the saltsmith do?
Although the process of making was not complete, the saltsmith was now well-aware that crafting their own tools was not only effective with their lack of communication skills in mind but permitted them to imbue each tool with different attributes.
Perhaps durability, strength… sharpness would be good for a woodcarving set, too. If the saltsmith got their own tools in their belt, so to speak, then those tools would let them make better objects for the guild, starting with the carpenter as a thank you and an apology. It was a waterfall effect.
The goatherd, Varys, caught sight of the strange blacksmith as it wove its way through the trees at a distance. Ze could only make out a faded blue cloak and spindly limbs topped by a round metallic object; the blacksmith was gone before Varys could do anything.
Not that there was anything to do. Ze was uncertain about the blacksmith’s existence, but the Guildmaster had assured everyone that there was no danger afoot.
For now, at least.