The Hammer That Listens

The forge never truly cooled. Staltz spent the day hauling sack after sack of raw iron from Don’s vast underground stockpile, an endless cavern of ore that made his earlier mining expedition feel like a cruel joke. With each batch smelted, the experience bar for Smelting crept upward: Rank 6 → Rank 7 (81% filled) and seven full character levels, pushing him to Level 11. The gains slowed predictably with each tier, yet the rhythm became meditative: feed fire, flux, pour, repeat.

By late afternoon Don inspected Staltz’s novice hammer, shook his bearded skull, and began the first true crafting lesson. Under the master’s exacting eye, Staltz reheated an iron brick, folded it twelve times, drew it out, and quenched it in chilled grave-water. The result was heavy, brutal, and perfectly balanced.

Item Created: Heavy Iron Blacksmith Hammer

Quality: Good

Damage: 8-14 blunt

Bonus: +1% quality to items crafted with this hammer

Don gave a single approving nod, the closest thing to praise Staltz had yet received. Together they turned to mass production: military longswords for the Nocturne Veil city guard, hammered out in relentless tandem. Sparks flew like angry fireflies; the air thrummed with the song of steel.

Just as the eighty-eighth blade slid hissing into the quench trough, the clatter of iron-shod hooves and the creak of a prison wagon announced visitors. Don had been working on the blades for awhile now and thanks to Staltz was able to put a sizeable dent in the **** order.

Six city guards in blackened plate dismounted, their captain’s nameplate reading Sergeant Valthor <Nocturne Veil Militia>. His gaze swept the clearing and settled on Don with cold familiarity.

“Delivery day, outcast,” he sneered. “One hundred longswords, as ordered.”

Don’s voice was flat iron. “Eighty-eight are ready. The remainder will be completed by dawn. My apprentice will deliver them personally.”

Valthor’s eyes widened in mock delight when they landed on Staltz. “Well, if it isn’t the Naked Prodigal himself. Lord Alaric’s failed experiment.” A mailed boot caught Staltz in the chest and sent him sprawling into the soot. Laughter rippled through the guards.

“Tomorrow night,” Valthor spat, “or we come back with chains for both of you.”

They loaded the eighty-eight blades and departed, leaving only hoofprints and contempt.

Don stared after them, then lifted his left leg. A glowing silver cuff, etched with binding runes, encircled the ankle bone. “Servitude without term,” he said quietly. “Some crimes even **** cannot wash away.”

Staltz brushed ash from his ribs. “We’ll finish the swords.”

They did, completing the final twelve as the eternal moon climbed high. Don retired to his small bone-and-timber cabin with a curt nod. Staltz, however, lingered.

“Mind if I use the forge a while longer? Got some old reclaimed iron I want to experiment with.”

Don’s crimson eyes searched Staltz’s empty sockets for a long moment, then he simply said, “Keep the fire hot,” and closed the door.

Alone under the violet-black sky, Staltz opened his inventory and withdrew the two forbidden chunks of Eldritch Ore. They pulsed like dying stars.

He worked in total silence.

The first chunk went into the crucible alone. The forge-fire, normally orange, turned a sickening violet-green as the ore melted into liquid night. The second chunk he alloyed with mortified yew and grave-iron for the haft. Folding, drawing, quenching in a trough of captured moonlight; each step accompanied by whispers that slithered against the inside of his skull like silk ribbons.

They were not frightening. They were… funny, in the way a starving wolf laughing at a campfire is funny.

At 1:11 by the in-game clock, the hammer was finished.

Item Created: Eldritch Blacksmith Hammer (Void-Touched)

Damage: 15-25 blunt

Quality Bonus: +25% to all crafted items

Special: High chance to induce insanity (NPC only)

Special: On completion of any item, small chance to violently shatter the product and all attached enchantments

Durability: ??? / ???

Flavor text: It listens. Sometimes it repeats what it hears in voices that were never born.

Staltz turned the weapon over in his hands. The head was blacker than any shadow in the Pale Forest, veined with slow-moving violet light. The whispers rose in a playful chorus:

…little king of broken bones…

…hammer us a door…

…we miss the screaming…

He grinned (an expression that required no lips) and slid the hammer into his inventory before the sound could wake Don.

Then he logged out, the Void’s laughter echoing pleasantly in the hollow of his skull.