In light of their (perceived) tenuous survival, the saltsmith performed more experiments with their winnings. Although the conflict itself was petty and dangerous and not worth the reward, perhaps something decent could be brought out of it.

The bones of the boar tail and vertebrae seemed to have the same effect as the teeth and tusk when produced as nails. The beast itself could be transformed via saltsmithing into resistance from stress or torsion, when applied to tools.

From their limited experiments with pyrite previously, the saltsmith learned that the results varied depending on if the object produced was armor, a tool, a weapon, or some intermediary thing, like a nail.

Their next question was whether the smelt would retain these properties if turned into an ingot and left to rest, rather than forged into an object immediately.

While the results were pending – the saltsmith couldn’t expect a few minutes to establish a change in properties, rather than a few hours – they took stock of their materials.

The ore was nearly depleted, which meant that the saltsmith had to go… mining, or whatever inconceivable name one might give to their entirely inhuman process.

[ skill: resonance ] directed them to a nearby deposit of iron, coloring their curious internal map like a rutile drip of ink on paper.

As the saltsmith skirted the lake to find their bearings, they noted the older gentleman working in the small farm toward the back of the settlement.

He was preparing the land to be sown, picking up rocks and ambling along, poking holes in tidy, orderly rows.

The saltsmith knew how farming worked. There was a tool, usually wood with an indented section like a slide, or merely a metal formed pipe, that after all the holes were prepared in the ground, one could allow a single seed to slide down into the hole to be planted.

It was much easier than using a bag and a spike, that was for certain, which is what the farmer was doing.

The System permitted the saltsmith to receive information a hero could ordinarily only learn from reading or research, as it was entirely the system’s fault that the once-human was no longer so.

The necessary information was, however, a repeat of one previously given. The system wasn’t entirely cheating, if it was capable of the concept.

The click-clack of the system’s message interrupted the saltsmith’s observation of the farmer.

Landwise – noun; a class that focuses on developing their relationship with the natural world and environment. Landwise are commonly farmers and agriculturalists; however, Landwise is a mixed-type class with both labor and combat applications.

Further: grovetender, stormcaller, putrescient, wildstriker, saltsmith*

* unlockable subclass that is not commonly known to the public

Ah, yes. The saltsmith was grateful for the reminder. This person was called a landwise, in the same manner that they were a landwise, but also a saltsmith, and that there were mages and adventurers and such.

It was difficult to know what things were called without socializing more.

The landwise-farmer left after being called for lunch; the saltsmith took that cue to leave on their original trajectory.

The mining was repetitive, simplistic work. Harsh labor, yet the saltsmith only required rest to recover stamina, not to allow sore muscles to relax.

They spent a majority of their time contemplating the landwise and his work. Surely, the saltsmith could make a seed… placer? – a seed planter out of easily gathered materials.

Perhaps not fully metal, as that would be a heavy tool to bear, but wood with an iron tip would be of assistance.

They had a rough design in mind by the time they hit iron, curious to see if their [ hero skill: drafter's eye ] would allow a newly formed thought to take the place of an established schematic.

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The sun fell and dipped well into nighttime before the saltsmith was finished with their work. A massive pile of stone sat to one side, the useable ores piled nearby.

Iron, yes, but as the saltsmith dug and removed stone, their subterranean landwise instincts informed them that iron was often found in the same geological mixture as copper and gold.

After following the vein here and there, the saltsmith was thrilled to actually find copper – naturally formed – and gold.

These piles of ore would be heavy, difficult to move, but the saltsmith could do it. The repetitive task took nearly another day to complete.

By now, the saltsmith was used to working alone, but also working in silence. They did miss the company of others – it was a longing that wouldn’t disappear – yet there was no socialization to be borne from moving ores, not unless the saltsmith wanted the humans to complain of sore backs.

On their last handful of ores, the saltsmith ambled as much as one could with spindly arm-legs, looking here and there for a specific type of stick.

They’d borrowed a handaxe from the sleeping carpenter, using the light of the moon to chop down a few of the straighter limbs from bushes, trees, and shrubs alike.

When they were finally able to settle back at their cottage – roofless, still in the process of being made – the saltsmith was feeling like a dwarf from a folktale. Mining, being underground, hauling back timber and stone and ores alike.

Well, there were several good things that came from this adventure.

Hauling the ores increased their strength to 8, while hauling stone so that they could add it to the forge increased the attribute once again to 9. They were beginning to function more similar to a human adult, despite the many-limbs and other factors.

After an extended break to rest and watch the sunrise, the saltsmith examined all their sticks to see if any of them worked for the seed planter concept.

Most of them were very woody, but two had an exceptionally spongey pith – exactly what the saltsmith wanted.

They formed a leftover portion of an ingot into a thin rod, heating up the end and pressing it intently against the spongey pith which burned to ash after a few moments. The season meant many of the surrounding flora were dry, so the saltsmith didn’t have to worry about fighting the water content of the stick that much.

Because of their circumstances, the saltsmith had developed what could easily be called a saintly patience. It took the better part of an hour to burn out the pith from the stick and clean it up, using sand to scour the insides and the borrowed-and-yet-returned handaxe to forming the end into a point.

They set aside the wood to fire up their crucible, using the rod-fragment as a source of iron to make the metal tip for the seed planter.

The metal could not be flattened into a sheet properly with the tools at hand, but the saltsmith could certainly make something thin enough and shaped appropriately to secure on the end.

Once more tools were secured, they could replace these crude instruments, but for now? It would work.

The saltsmith found themselves emboldened by their invention. Even if it was copied from their world, it was still a device they had to make by hand.

Azhar the landwise was back to planting, having done another few rows after lunch – cleaning up rocks, making the holes, planting the seeds, patting the soil down, and watering the plants.

It was tedious work, but work worth doing. Winter was on the way. The guild would not have a full harvest, but what the landwise could produce would offset costs and minimize travel.

Azhar only hoped that a couple buildings would be standing before the worst of cold Kovatellian winter arrived.

He was from Northern Kovatelli, and it truly was the wind coming off of the Staargraven that made winters harsh. The rest of the country was tolerable, moderate in its winter, but this close to the mountain range…

Azhar certainly hoped the summoner packed thicker clothes, or else the lovely Nanazin would find herself huddled by the fire all winter.

The old landwise caught movement in the corner of his eye, turning to chat to one of the goats or his wife, but instead he was greeted with an odd figure.

Ah, the mysterious blacksmith. It had to be. The thing had a metal gourd for a head, with eyes and mouth carved out so the magical fire shone through. It stood still, blue cape gently swaying in the wind.

Azhar was not afraid. He was too used to the land and the world around them to feel afraid. A charging beast was something to be feared, not one that avoided being spotted entirely.

The blacksmith moved forward slowly, nonexistent gaze locked onto the landwise, who leaned against his shovel. From under the cape, the curious being produced a shaft of wood, tipped with metal.

Two skeletal hands placed the point of the tool into the dirt, directly into an indentation meant for seeds.

A third hand emerged from under the fabric, pointing at the bag on Azhar’s side. It took the landwise a moment to process the number of hands, but he followed the pointing finger to the seed-bag.

He passed over one of the round seeds, finding the touch of the skeletal limbs to be surprisingly cold. Was he expecting the warmth of a hand?

Slowly, as to demonstrate, the blacksmith pushed the seed into the upper end of the stick. When the being lifted the tool, they pointed at the dirt.

Azhar took a few careful steps forward to glance downward, his long grey hair falling over his eyes.

The seed was in the hole.

Oh, that would be useful indeed, no more bending with each seed. The man began looking over the tool, which the blacksmith handed over readily.

Azhar peered through the hollow middle, shutting one eye and holding the tool out in front of him, but by the time he stopped to thank the strange being, it was gone.

The landwise didn’t call out any thanks. Azhar knew many people like this strange blacksmith, people who hated to be praised so directly, disliked being looked upon publicly while they performed some kind task.

It was as much of a merit as it was a flaw. To be humble to the point of denying your appreciation was not a good way to live.

Regardless, Azhar was not capable of chasing down this blacksmith to chide it. He would discuss at lunch what they could do to help the being, as a token of gratitude.

If the blacksmith refused to accept words – spirit or not – it had to accept gifts.