《Worth Their Salt [Inhuman Cozy Romantasy]》 Ch 1: Slumbering Apparition In the heat of the summer, the blacksmith was hurriedly crafting parade lanterns. Autumn would arrive soon, and the city¡¯s order of Jack O¡¯ Lanterns was yet fulfilled. Another few, and the smith would be done. The lanterns were to be mounted on a pole, a metal-shelled pumpkin wielded like a shepherd¡¯s crook by children and merry-makers. Even still, the blacksmith added a loop to the metal gourds, protruding from the stem, so that they could be strung up with candles inside later. They would not be called skinflint for neglecting the alternatives, not when every soul in the town wanted a lantern of their own for All Hallows Eve. It was a task unbecoming of the blacksmith, really. A factory down the way already offered cheaper alternatives ¨C machine-pressed and heartless, faces cut out like cookies, edges industrially crimped to make flat seams along the surface. Was that a Jack O¡¯ Lantern, or two cake pans riveted together? The visible seams were a crime of lackluster in the smith¡¯s eyes, though they¡¯d been accused of favoring artisanship over brevity more than once. They finished the patina on their current lantern ¨C internally hand-crimped and riveted, as it was meant to be ¨C and nodded at it in satisfaction. The skies were getting dark, from time and weather, so the smith wanted to hurry along. They needed to check the quality of the last batch, five or so parade lanterns to be hitched to a pole, candle lit within and jostled about. The little ones were not kind to decorations. With candle stubs and matches in hand, the blacksmith hurried outside. They set up a line of the Jack O¡¯ Lanterns in the grass, muttering as the first drips of rain met their skin. This wouldn¡¯t take long. The candles were shielded by the closed top of the stem-studded lantern. The lit match was afforded access through the bottom; the candle on a small holder given breathing room through the gently grim features. The lanterns were slow to light, the blacksmith holding each aloft like the skull from that time-honored play, face-to-face with a pantomime of harvest-festivities. The last light was an obstinate thing. A new candle set in place, the gentle drops of impending rain making the blacksmith rush. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance; it did nothing to temper the smith¡¯s impatience. They struggled to get the match into place, scorching a finger with a swear. The smith angled the creation this way and that, finally holding it up, as if presenting the Jack O¡¯ Lantern to the heavens. It worked. Undoubtedly smaller, more dainty fingers would have no trouble with this task, but the smith was a smith for a reason. They tilted the lantern to the side to try and free their hand, the thing still raised high above in a mockery of praise. A drip of wax fell on their face; the blacksmith flinched, automatically holding the lantern higher, away. The crash of thunder came after the strike, lightning illuminating the Jack O¡¯ Lantern and zipping through the blacksmith. The sudden pain was immediately followed by a sense of nothingness, eternity. The candlelight of four lanterns flickered under a growing onslaught of rain, the final lantern snuffed as it fell. ?? ?? ??
Welcome to your new life in ¡°Aestrux.¡± Due to your [ misfortunate death ] you were chosen for [ soul rehabilitation ]. - -- - - ---
The words faded out, unread, as the blacksmith fluttered into unconsciousness. They caught a glimpse of a field of yellowed grass and rocks. Two people stood there, each looking at their hands, their bodies in confusion. Then nothing once more. Nothing was comfortable, in the sense that the blacksmith lacked the capacity to have jarring emotions. The nothing passed quickly, without room for contemplation. ¡°There it is!¡± A flicker of life came from within. The blacksmith felt like their heart was beating once more, but it lacked the sensibility of a body, of familiar flesh and limbs. It burned, though. An unsteady heat. ¡°Look, isn¡¯t it lovely? This shall be a perfect spot to light the path for the festival.¡± ¡°You want to keep that odd thing? I thought you spoke in jest.¡± They could hear and see people, two men engaged in cheerful banter as they stared down at the blacksmith, who was too weak to speak or call out. The angle suggested they looked upwards at the men, as if buried up to the neck in the ground. What a terrible punishment. Novels loosely based on history books suggested that this torture was common in the wild West, but it was a new and frightening experience to the blacksmith. The men left without acknowledging the smith beyond a pleased nod. Were all such people without honor here? Had the blacksmith been dragged from their night¡¯s rest and thrown into hell? If it was hell, it was a pleasant one ¨C not in experience, but in visage. There were vast mountains overtaking the skyline, a pleasant ruffling of clouds around the peaks like a gentlewoman¡¯s hat. The sun didn¡¯t beam warmth upon the blacksmith, but it lit the autumn-painted woods in a glorious orange-red fervor. Closer by, the grass was gold to match the season. Shadows grew longer as it neared dusk. A curious light flickered on the ground in front of them, drawing out two round dots of light and a long point. As the light began to shudder, the blacksmith grew drowsy, drawn into a slumber by the dimming eve. A surge of warmth brought another waking, but it was night still. ¡°Hurry, we may make it yet to the city before she passes again!¡± They were bobbing along, being waved in front like mermaid on a ship¡¯s mast, utterly unable to move or speak. A sudden stop whipped the blacksmith¡¯s vision to face their captors, the two men. They huddled together under a tree in terror, fear drawn across their time-worn faces. No, just yesterday, they were young and flirtatious. How could this be? The roar of a beast came from all around, echoing like the thunder. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. One of the men yelped, sprinting away, the other ran after. In their haste, the blacksmith was forgotten, dropped like a sacrifice on the ground. It didn¡¯t hurt. It didn¡¯t feel like anything except for indignity, but as the blacksmith gazed up at the stars, their confusion dulled into a quiet understanding. The sky was dotted with bright spots, like flecks of paint on a canvas, swirling and flitting about. The blacksmith did not pretend to be an astronomer, yet they could not find the North Star in its blue-tinged glory, nor did they see the belt or the ladle. This was not home. This horrifying understanding was punctuated further by the broad wings of some beast across the sky, low enough to the ground to blot out most of the twinkling stars. The thundering roar came from the direction of the men, as well as a white-bright flare of light and heat. The blacksmith didn¡¯t know what to think, other than to lay in confusion. They felt paralyzed. No, more than paralyzed, they felt inhuman. No twinges of nerves or touch existed, not even on their face. The heat felt like heat, but it did not burn. The white-bright fire did not make the blacksmith blink ¨C if they even could. A soft click click click sounded, a familiar noise despite the chaos. With a confused unfocusing of their eyes, the blacksmith read the words that slowly printed across their mind, clicking into place by a phantom typewriter.
Welcome to your new life in ¡°Aestrux.¡± Due to your [ misfortunate death ] you were chosen for [ soul rehabilitation ]. Your [ soul rehabilitation ] destined you to the ¡°Kingdom of Kovatelli¡± where you are labeled a ¡°hero¡± i.e. a summoned individual from another realm. Confirmation of transfer --- has attuned you to --- and thereby granted you access to the [ system ]. Next:
  • [ attributes ]
  • [ unique skill ]
  • [ hero skills ]
Parts of the message were blotted with phantom ink, illegible and unknowable. A harsh breeze blew through the woods, smoke fogging up the dim light in front of their sight. The blacksmith shuddered ¨C not externally, but somewhere else ¨C as they felt their consciousness flicker. The tapping typewriter spelled out more messages.
System detecting error in [ soul rehabilitation ]. Please hold for adjustments and skill compensation.
Another wind blew through and snuffed out their heart entirely, throwing the confused blacksmith into nothingness once more. The nothing was a blink in time. They awoke to a crimson red world, hot and furious. Vines crawled across their vision, heavy and constricting, large enough to have grown for years yet. It confused the blacksmith, although the red-yellow flames beyond suggested the vines were not the most important thing to consider. The plants began to smoke and curl, turning into embers and ash as they were devoured by the flames. Husks of trees smoldered in the periphery, limbs snapping and crackling to the ground. Would the blacksmith die? The world they once thought looked beautiful now resembled a true hellscape. As if to answer, the patient click of the typewriter drove a message into their thoughts.
System adjustment complete [ unique skill ] has been altered. [ attributes ] have been altered.
System? [ unique skill ]? The words answered, uncaring about the blazing world of the blacksmith.
[ unique skill: forged in flame ] Due to a system error, your [ soul rehabilitation ] placed you into a [ soulbound artifact ] instead of a human form. As a result, your abilities and attributes will reflect your [ soulbound artifact ]. Summary: - Constitution set to UNKNOWN - Health set to UNKNOWN; replaced by Repair Necessity - Class set to Landwise (subterrain) - Subclass set to Saltsmith - Attributes may be improved through [ saltsmith skill: capture ] - Proficiencies added ¨C Resistance (fire), Resistance (lightning), Metallurgy (blacksmithing) Increase the level of your [ unique skill ] by using Saltsmith abilities.
The blacksmith had no idea what was happening. They read the words, but they made little sense. The edge of their thoughts shook and a sense of disapproval washed over them. Was something wrong? Did they think something bad? The message condensed until it was illegible, transforming into a paper tab on the edge of their periphery. If the blacksmith focused on it, the message opened again; if they looked away, it shrunk to the side. A tremendous thump sent the blacksmith flying into the air, ashes strewn everywhere as they popped up like a children¡¯s toy squeezed too tightly. They rolled ¨C rolled? ¨C across the forest floor, coming to rest at the base of a giant green tree whose branches blocked out the night sky. The tree moved. The beast shimmered in the firelight, the red cast of the flames not enough to nullify the vibrant emerald green of the scales. The monstrous maw of the reptile drew close, observing the blacksmith with a gold-ringed eye. The blacksmith could not shrink away, could not run or hide. They suddenly understood what the words meant by ¡°instead of a human form.¡± They lacked humanity, lacked limbs and features, lacked the ability to do anything familiar and helpful in this moment. This was not a prey animal confronted by a predator. This was a predator looking at a stick or a rock, contemplating its purpose. ¡°And what is this?¡± The words had no sound, yet they rang true in the blacksmith¡¯s head. Spare me, the blacksmith thought in the beast¡¯s direction. I have done nothing but exist, and that existence is a paltry one. It became clear that the dragon could not hear the blacksmith, though the beast continued assessing the new treasure. It blew a spurt of flame into the smith¡¯s face; both the beast and the once-human were surprised that they did not melt under the direct heat. ¡°An artifact.¡± With an accompanying rumble, the dragon brought its teeth down onto the poor blacksmith, but like a hunting dog, the beast gently carried its new find. The smith felt a sudden shock as they watched a metal pole fall to the forest floor, two spindly bits of wire caught between the teeth of the dragon. The loss felt heavy, harsh, like having something ripped from them. A notice was typed at the bottom of the smith¡¯s frantic thoughts.
[ repair necessity 35% ]
The dragon took to wing with a heaving lurch; the blacksmith could sense the imbalance even without a human body. The landscape below showed a small forest fire, controlled, contained. The cold, biting wind slipped through the dragon¡¯s teeth, and between the huffing breath of the thing and the outside rush, the blacksmith began to feel faint. The nothing accepted them once more. The absence of sensation felt like a comforting embrace compared to the danger of a dragon¡¯s maw. Perhaps the nothing would keep them, this time. Ch 2: Dragonfire The blacksmith awoke to flames in their eyes once more, surprised to see the haunch end of the great dragon as she rolled in a pile of half-melted coins. What little they knew about dragons was verified. In wonder tales, they were greedy and hoarded wealth. Though this beast before them rolled in coinage, the blacksmith found it hard to believe this was a true hoard. Perhaps a pile. In any case, this dragon flopped around in the metal like a bird in a birdbath, or a white horse let out to pasture the day after rain. The molten metal slipped off the dragon¡¯s scales, drying in cracks and flaking off with movement. While the blacksmith knew nothing of beasts ¨C nothing past the butchershop and blue ribbon affairs at town festivals ¨C but they knew metals. The gold and silver were soft, easily flaking away after they engulfed debris and dirt alike under the dragon¡¯s scales. It was a fascinating cleaning process for such a great beast. The blacksmith couldn¡¯t look away; they didn¡¯t have a choice in the matter, regardless. The subject of their inhumanity was still one left unprocessed, incapable of understanding. With a mirror, things would progress in an instant. Without¡­ the blacksmith retained doubts. Eventually, the beast fell asleep. Small flakes of metal chittered to the ground as the dragon¡¯s breathing expanded and contracted her sides. With nothing remaining, the blacksmith reexamined the message from earlier. Whatever spirit controlled the other end of this communication, it did a good job at assisting the blacksmith in their understanding. [ soul rehabilitation ] was revealed in a convenient diagram. A figure shaped like the blacksmith¡¯s human body was struck by ink-drawn lightning while holding a Jack O¡¯ Lantern. Their soul escaped ¨C bringing up many uncomfortable religious questions ¨C but passed through the electricity-charged lantern. When it emerged, the soul was dragging along a doodle of the same Jack O¡¯ Lantern, both of which combined when brought to a new land. Instead of becoming a person, the soul became a Jack O¡¯ Lantern. Regrettably, blinking wasn¡¯t an option. The bewilderment and uncertainty did not show on the blacksmith¡¯s face as it was, in fact, a lantern shaped like an All Hallow¡¯s Eve decoration and therefore had no facial expressions. The smith felt¡­ numb to this information. It was certainly far-fetched and preposterous; however, their thoughts were punctuated by a dragon¡¯s snore. One could not argue with the fantastical nature of this world. They took some time to grieve and lament. The smith was not one to swear or lambast their station before. Being a pumpkin ornament only slightly changed that stance. The occasional damn could be permitted. After a bout of wallowing and contemplating, the blacksmith reengaged with the typewriter mechanism. Did this concept have a name? The System, they were informed. The tab remained open on the system¡¯s noticeboard, waiting to be read. New words stuttered the blacksmith¡¯s understanding. Landwise, saltsmith, [ skill: capture ]. Click-clack, a series of new messages
Landwise ¨C 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
Saltsmith ¨C noun; a Landwise subclass that focuses on the armament and defense of the user¡¯s body by manipulating natural elements, primarily (but not exclusively) metals, minerals, salts, and ores. Saltsmiths can create armor and weapons directly from natural elements (ex. bone sword) without the use of crafting benches; however, most Saltsmiths carry their materials as wearable armor until they can use them as forging materials. Saltsmiths are rare due to the requirements to unlock the subclass. As the requirements mirror the Artisan subclass Blacksmith, the majority of interested parties choose the Artisan: Blacksmith route rather than waiting for an unknown subclass to unlock.
[ skill: capture ] - active skill (level 1 of 5); As a [soulbound artifact], you gain the ability to incorporate new materials into your being. Capturing the essence of an object allows you to manipulate it as a detached, floating limb. Captured objects augment your base stats and provide you with temporary status changes, such as more magic or stamina. Captured objects: 0/1 Practice Completion: 0% Level 1: Range (short), weight (tiny), control (weak), persistence (weak) Capturing & Practicing with 10 objects of Level 1 class will randomly increase a category of that level.
The blacksmith failed to understand everything once more, but they left the tabs tucked into the corner of their mental desk. They could review the words later. They were clever and good with their hands ¨C but smarts were not their strongest suit. Studying was hard because reading was difficult when the letters refused to behave. The smith learned enough to keep their books and stay afloat, but no more than they had to. Now, they had no hands to speak of, but that [ skill: capture ] suggested that they could acquire more limbs over time. With an imagined intensity, the blacksmith concentrated and tried to cast [ skill: capture ]. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. There was a reaction from the ground. A small, square copper coin with a hole in it began shuddering. Shocked, the blacksmith accidentally released the skill.
Captured objects: 0/1 Practice Completion: 1%
That 1% was enough for the blacksmith to continue, even if it took all night. They had no awareness to contemplate why they were awake for longer this time, why the nothing didn¡¯t claim them after an hour as before. Inside the stationary Jack O¡¯ Lantern, a small candle sat, lit by magical dragonfire. The flames produced by the sentient beasts could reduce an adventurer to ash with ease, but the system ¨C or, rather, the magic itself ¨C was capable of picking and choosing what to destroy and what to maintain. Candles, books, and enchanted objects all remained untouched by dragonfire unless the dragon itself specified it wanted everything to burn. The magic wanted this candle to remain lit, without the wax burning low and throwing the blacksmith into the nothing. And so it would remain flickering while the smith practiced their new skill, flame secure until snuffed by wind, water, or beast. ?? ?? ?? When the beast awoke, the blacksmith froze. The she-dragon stretched and shook, scratched and yawned. In time, she flapped her giant wings and grasped the exit of the cave above, a crevasse that only she could reach. With the scraping of scales, the blacksmith was left alone in the dragon¡¯s lair. A gentle beam of light broke the vast emptiness of the stone cavern, casting a glimmer on the fragmented coins below. The blacksmith made significant progress while the beast slept. It was tedious to work until their practice completion counted to 100% ¨C repeatedly, as they now possessed 5 captured objects ¨C but this accursed form did not require sleep. They had no other tasks to occupy their thoughts. A new missive awaited on their internal noticeboard.
NEW! [ skill: convert ] - active skill; Convert captured objects into repair material, decreasing the repair necessity. Captured objects will be lost. [ repair necessity 35% ]
Tentatively, the blacksmith drew one of their few copper coins closer. The coin rotated idly in the air ¨C the smith had yet to learn how to precisely control the captured objects. Upon the use of [ skill: convert ], the coin melted into red-hot metal, applying itself to the blacksmith¡¯s¡­ form like a coat of paint.
[ repair necessity 35% ? 32% ] Captured objects: 4 / 5 Practice completion: 76%
The blacksmith refused to complain about the small size of the change. It demonstrated that improvement was not only possible, but easy to achieve. Presumably, the better quality the captured objects became, the better [ skill: convert ] would become at repairs. Perhaps in this world, they might have a different body, but the blacksmith¡¯s mind remained. They were well-known for their determination in their prior life. Not stubbornness, not unyielding and defiant pride, but the will to achieve their goals through hard work and effort. The blacksmith would persevere, but not out of spite. For the promise of hope and hope alone. ?? ?? ?? After 10 objects were captured under the blacksmith¡¯s control, something changed in their internal paperwork.
improvement to [ skill: capture ] Level 1: Range (short), weight (tiny ? small), control (weak), persistence (weak)
The coins flitted around in the blacksmith¡¯s invisible grasp like hummingbirds, zipping this way and that. It was difficult to control them now; practice was needed to avoid throwing the tiny objects about when concentration lapsed. But, as the smith strained to re-capture a coin that flew out of their magical reach, they discovered something new and exciting. The Jack O¡¯ Lantern wobbled. Their [ soulbound artifact ] lay between small and medium in size, therefore the smith¡¯s meager abilities could barely move it about. It couldn¡¯t float like the coins, but¡­ with enough wobbling and a concerted effort, the blacksmith turned their round lantern on its side. The world spun in a slow carousel of motion as they methodically rolled along. The cave became a place of wonder now that they were no longer stuck to one side like an ornament. The pile of half-melted coins sat in the middle, a makeshift bath and bed for the dragon all in one. As the smith rolled over a large flake of precious metal, they pressed their [ skill: capture ] into use once more. It assimilated easily; the smith applied it to repairs.
[ repair necessity 32% ? 31% ] Captured objects: 10 / 11 Practice completion: 12%
The coins jingled loudly within the lantern, stored there for safekeeping, but the weight slowed the blacksmith down. It was slight, but an anchor nonetheless when every wobble cost so much effort. They applied the objects to repairs as well, feeling¡­ sturdier, almost tougher from the magic.
[ repair necessity 31% ? 1% ] Captured objects: 0 / 11 Practice completion: 12%
Their explorations were very fruitful. Perhaps this part of the cave was reserved for sleeping and gold-bathing, but behind a cluster of rocks lay a hidden passage. The walls of the hallway were carved from stone and, presumably, human-sized. The constant rolling of their view meant the blacksmith had to stop and truly assess the world in order to understand it. They meandered down the hallway, examining open rooms lining a winding passage. A bedroom, decorated beautifully. There was a gently coating of dust on the floor, but only at the edges of the room. Someone maintained it well; the blacksmith had the experience of being at insect-level, they presumed, which was an angle no maid considered. A kitchen. Fresh herbs hung from metal beams, a pile of wood near the doorway for cooking. Someone lived here. There were several rooms whose contents the blacksmith could not directly see, as a magical barrier was set in the doorframe. No push, no matter how determined, would break through the barrier. Something more readily guarded than gold and silver? Their curiosity was directly rewarded.
improvement to [ skill: capture ] Level 1: Range (short), weight (small), control (weak ? low), persistence (weak)
What was once a wobbling, staggered roll became more smooth and intentional. The blacksmith couldn¡¯t maintain the control over the motion for extended periods of time, but each sprint of motion felt easier to direct now that the smith wasn¡¯t constantly fighting their trajectory. Their motion down the hallway rang out with a thin rolling noise, the resonance of a hollow metal lantern amplified by the uneven stone floor. They clanged out of a storage room filled with crates and sheet-covered furniture, bumping over a piece of wood in the way and paused in the doorframe. Something caught their attention in the periphery. With a swivel, the tilted Jack O¡¯ Lantern made questionable eye contact with a humanoid figure at the end of the hallway. They stared. She stared back. Gathering all their might, the blacksmith began rolling, trying to escape the figure. A low hiss came from behind. In their sick-making swirl of vision, the blacksmith caught sight of a beast the size of a lion, green and wingless. Claws outstretched in a pounce. Ch 3: Rolling with the Pounces The rolling pumpkin had no chance of escaping the bounding drake, instincts set afire by fleeing prey. The blacksmith could feel the damage as broad, clawed paws slammed into their metal hull. The force sent the round object skittering across the floor and bouncing off the stone wall, only to roll down a sloped portion of the continuing hallway.
[ repair necessity 1% ? 22% ]
The drake yowled, its glittering green scales the only thing the blacksmith could see as they frantically rolled along. The goal was to escape; they didn¡¯t care where. The great paws smacked into them again, like a cat with a mouse. It threw the Jack O¡¯ Lantern further down the hallway. Doorways flashed through their vision, but not long enough to save them.
[ repair necessity 22% ? 31% ]
The hallway ended. The blacksmith¡¯s hollow shell smacked into the stone wall with a loud clang. They could see the drake growing closer, yet a dark rectangle in the corner of their vision suggested that this might not be the end. With great effort, they rolled along the edge of the wall toward the dark spot. The drake¡¯s claws barely missed the erratically moving lantern. The smith willed themselves to keep rolling, feeling the lip of the spot beneath them. Then a sudden drop into near darkness. The blacksmith crashed against a stone table then to the floor, taking severe damage. The irritated yowling and hissing of the drake sounded from above. As the smith rolled over to face the stone grate ¨C missing its bars from age ¨C they watched the great beast throw its paws into the room, scrambling to catch the now-distant lantern. They were safe, for now. Unless the drake could become much, much smaller, the smith doubted even something of human form could fit down that grate.
[ repair necessity 31% ? 57% ]
They needed to find metal. With a shaking that could only indicate stress and difficulty, the lantern rolled onto the side. There was a gentle glow of a light ahead of them, cut out into the shape of the Jack O¡¯ Lantern¡¯s visage. The smith drew the only conclusion available. The reason fire featured so heavily in their waking moments had to be because a burning candle meant consciousness for the lantern. They sat still, taking stock of this realization. If their candle was blown out, then they would go unconscious. A span of time that could last forever, in fact. Especially if they were buried in this dragon¡¯s lair deep underground. The blacksmith began moving without further despair, reticent to waste time pondering what could be instead of what currently is. They would find no value in plotting for a future that didn¡¯t exist yet. A slab of stone was half resting on a table, half on the floor. It was enough of an incline that the smith thought they could manage to roll to higher ground to scout their surroundings. It was dark, lit only by the grate up above and the candlelight of the blacksmith themselves. The incline was steeper than predicted, taking all of the blacksmith¡¯s limited willpower to mount the hill without rolling backwards. As soon as they reached the peak, the smith felt the world fall out from under them. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. A clatter of metal against metal sounded as the smith dropped a foot or two into an unseen trench. They clanged here and there, trying to set their eyes upon the ¡°table¡± instead of the ceiling. To their surprise, the low candlelight illuminated an old breastplate, metal intact but leather straps dry-rotted in place. To the side, bones lay preserved in eerie finality. A crypt, a sepulcher, a mausoleum. This was the final resting place of the dead. With a plea for forgiveness, the blacksmith began their [ skill: capture ] upon the breastplate, in its tarnished gold and silver glory. The armor shuddered but did not move.
Captured objects: 1 / 11 WARNING: Object size is beyond capability.
That was fine. The smith did not need to throw about the breastplate as they did the coins. [ skill: convert ] provided the repairs necessary for survival; the blacksmith was pleased to learn that good steel lay under the decorative plating. They watched as the breastplate was reduced to half its size, fragments fizzling away like soda pop bubbles rising to the top of a glass. That still left the blacksmith resting on top of a corpse, one long dead, but a corpse nonetheless. They noted a sword to the side, long with a curved blade. A scimitar or a saber. During their prior life, the blacksmith was primarily a maker of functional things. Tools, horseshoes, nails. They knew something of swords, but their world had shifted to guns as a primary weapon in most cases. With that acknowledged, the presence of a dragon surely suggested that swords were a necessary part of life. The blacksmith did not want to use the sword for repairs, but perhaps if they could build a makeshift body, then¡­ having a sword would be of great use. The blacksmith could handle the morose and morbid nature of the world; for every spark of hope and bright days, there were disconcerting and difficult choices. This was one of them. Graverobbing was not their first choice, yet¡­ They activated [ skill: capture ] and began to practice using this strange magic given to them by the System. Perhaps this sword could serve another owner, in a new life. ?? ?? ?? Time did not exist here, nor did the lantern experience exhaustion, so the blacksmith worked until there was no longer work to do. Hours turned to days, possibly weeks. If the blacksmith rested, it was to recharge their stamina and magic. They silently sung songs to pass the time as they listened to the sounds up above. The arrival of the dragon to the cave echoed with a scratching sound down the long, winding stone hallway. Each time, the blacksmith stopped and listened, as if the beast was around the corner instead of a half-mile away. Sometimes, footsteps were heard, but the blacksmith never saw the humanoid figure pass the grate. She was merely a phantom haunting the smith as they worked. Unseen, therefore nonexistent. They wiggled the breastplate and sword about until an improvement gave them the ability to move the items fluidly. Desperation and determination led them to do the unthinkable. The breastplate fizzled into nothing as the blacksmith ¨C the saltsmith, now ¨C applied the steel in a thin later over the arm bones of the unfortunate dead. The arms reanimated with rough movements, jerking about as if puppeteered by an impatient master. The saltsmith learned that if they magically affixed their captured objects to their lantern shell, the point of ¡°connection¡± would hover an inch or so off their body. It allowed for free movement of the limbs, but still lifted and held the lantern upright. By the time they were done looting the crypt ¨C opening up every stone casket, examining every shelf for metal and bones ¨C the saltsmith¡¯s attributes and skills were nearly unrecognizable.
NEW! [ skill: chain ] - passive skill; Permanently connect captured objects together to form one cohesive unit. Can be adjusted to maintain rigidity or fluidity.
Level 2: Range (short ? bodily), weight (small ? medium), control (weak ? low ? bodily), persistence (weak ? low) Captured chains: 12/12 Captured objects: 302 / 302
The saltsmith no longer had to roll. They waited until they were certain the dragon was not present before scuttling up the walls of the crypt, metal-coated limbs gripping every crevice and notch in the stone. With ten metallic arms and two matching swords in the place of legs, the saltsmith was beginning to look vaguely human. An insect¡¯s dream of a human, perhaps, but people-shaped nonetheless. They scurried out of the crypt into the long hallway, wasting no time at all making their way to the exit of the dragon¡¯s lair. It was time to face this world. Ch 4: Secondhand Humanity With their low persistence, the saltsmith was unable to scurry along in the manner of insects, all limbs and frantic speed. Instead, they meandered with intentionality moving a few feet at a time before resting. Every time the practice completion hit 100%, either the saltsmith was able to add on a new captured object or stockpile the success for later. They watched the percentage rise slowly but surely as they explored the outside world. They did not know how long it took to capture 302 objects, only that each full arm contained 30 bones that needed to be chained together. If the saltsmith focused, the chains were visible ¨C not literal chains, but thread-like magic that served as tendons and muscle. The next practice completion needed to be stockpiled, in the hopes that enough training would lead to higher persistence or better control. If the dragon returned and saw this Jack O¡¯ Lantern with pilfered bones and stolen weapons, she could easily crush them beneath her claws before the saltsmith could scurry away. But¡­ their attributes were, indeed, better than before.
str 0 (4) ? awa 5 ? cha 5 (2) agi 0 (5) ? con UNK ? int 5 dex 0 (7) ? end 10 ? luc 0
The system had to explain the concept of attributes in multiple ways before the saltsmith could process what, exactly, the numbers referred to. In fact, multiple tabs were lined up in the saltsmith¡¯s mind waiting to be relearned and understood. The unmodified numbers were the attributes of the pumpkin-shaped lantern, with no augmentations. Constitution referred to health and wellness of a living being, therefore the saltsmith¡¯s unknown designation meant they were immune to disease, poison, and bleed afflictions. The system provided a range of normal expectations for each attribute. It seemed that 0 to 5 were low numbers, reserved for infants, children, and particularly awkward preteens. Those members of society who struggled with socialization or had a disability might dip into such a range, by no fault of their own. 6 to 10 was the range of adults, particularly those adults who did not try to better themselves or were unable to specialize in any one type of thing. A scholar who spent all their time reading books could have a perfectly normal 7 as an agility score, and no one would question it. Meanwhile, a day laborer who was keenly uninterested in socializing could maintain a 6 with some social difficulty, but not enough to be a true hinderance. The saltsmith fell onto the low end of every category, sheerly because they lacked a body. Their dexterity 7 was due to the number of hands they had, but the low persistence and bodily control meant that the saltsmith struggled to manage each limb in a coordinated, consistent manner. The docked charisma reflected this. The Jack O¡¯ Lantern itself was endearing and harmless. When the metal-coated arms were added ten times over, the charming decoration became haunting and terrifying. A fa?ade of humanity, all crooked and jolting. They folded up the extraneous arms, forming a chest-like ribcage of elbows so that the limbs were out of the way while climbing. The saltsmith rested on the high limbs of an evergreen tree, peering out over the world below. It was nighttime once more, nearing the break of day with a touch of watercolor hues on the horizon. They marveled at the colors of the world, the bright sparkling diamonds of stars, strung up like twinkling fairy lights in the inky expanse of the night. Behind them, far beyond the dragon¡¯s lair, the massive mountain range faded into the clouds while wisps of green and blue danced near the peaks. The colors wavered like nothing the saltsmith had ever witnessed before. Not here, not in their prior life. They were like beautiful, inverted shadows of a tree in the breeze; bright sunlight passing through a glass of water to ripple on the floorboards. The saltsmith didn¡¯t really know what to say. They watched the rolling tide of the colors until the sun began to chase them away. In contrast, the forests below were dark, green-hued spikes covering every hill as far as they could see. A cluster of round-topped trees lay in the far distance, and beyond that still, the faded dot of a light. Some town or village, perhaps. The dragon¡¯s lair assured that no human would live too close, or else the beast would eat them. That was how dragons worked in every world, every story. Perhaps dragons could speak in this story ¨C or shapeshift ¨C but regardless, one did not build in their shadow. They scaled down the tree with a few arms, their faux legs tucked away until needed. The saltsmith wasn¡¯t sure why they took the swords, only that it seemed prudent. Could they wield them? Or better yet, could the saltsmith reproduce them in steel and bronze? The time moved as slowly as the saltsmith did. An unnoticed function of their queer body was that they naturally made no sound, only dulled taps when metal-coated bone touched another accidentally. The saltsmith subclass was fortunate to have self-spacing armament, so no ores or metal slag or crystals slammed into each other and damaged the samples while merely walking. It startled many a deer-beast in the early morning as the saltsmith gazed over a rocky-shored lake, approaching near-soundlessly in awe of nature. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. The deer weren¡¯t¡­ deer in the normal fashion. They had antlers that rounded out above their head like an arch or a halo, connected by dotted growths akin to knots on an oak tree. Still, they fled with their split tails raised high, in fear of the Jack O¡¯ Lantern. The saltsmith watched the lake for an hour or so, wandering out into the shallows with their arms for support. They knew the water was cold, but they couldn¡¯t feel it. At least, not in the sense of flesh and blood. It was as if their mind received a typed report. Weather, slightly cloudy, clean, chilly. Water, cold, refreshing, wet. Wind, pressing, northward. Forest, smelling of recent rain and evergreen needles, of foliage and decay. It was a secondhand experience of humanity, of personhood. And it was strange. The saltsmith did not want to linger too long on the negative aspects, but it was hard to come to terms with their new reality. Frustration and anger had its place, but that place was not here, in the middle of the forest, struggling to survive. From another treetop, they navigated their way. An idle wish for a map prompted a note from their internal desk. The imagery of an accordion-folded map pushed into their thoughts, unfolding to reveal a thin section of the world drawn in ink pen. Ah, so they could see where they had already been, but not the path ahead. That was incredibly helpful, regardless of its flaws. They climbed high above to pick out the smoke plumes in the distance from a settlement. The gentlebeasts of the forest spooked at the sight of the metallic being, and those who would consider hunting found the saltsmith lacking in meat or flesh to eat. Therefore, they travelled safely across the land, out of sight of the dragon, eager to find humans. ?? ?? ?? Every fatesworn day of work, Atteberry wondered why he agreed to this job in the first place. He knew why, even as he huffed and puffed and pretended it was a massively inconsiderate offer. Guildmaster Yianna paid the carpenter more than a year¡¯s advance to travel with her to the new Adventurer¡¯s Guild site after her very public spat with the Governor of the Sovereign City Corcyra. It wasn¡¯t embarrassing for Yianna, per se, but it certainly affected the guild. The Governor wanted more taxes from the guild, specifically noting various apartments of guild members as ¡®guild property¡¯ which increased the tax way higher than it should be. Atteberry was just a carpenter, and he knew all this in detail, because the first few days of their journey here, it was all Yianna mentioned. She wasn¡¯t a ¨C well, no, she was indeed a spiteful person, but she was also calm, collected, clever, and generally amiable to be around. To make Yianna mad about expenditures ¨C Yianna of noble heritage, who wore gold daily as an ornament, who had more coffers than she knew what to do with? That was an impressive amount of stupid. Juniper, the guild¡¯s odd jester-figure, told the carpenter that ze once saw Yianna pay a full mark for a tea imported from Staareaux in the far west. The carpenter couldn¡¯t remember the last time he spent a full mark on anything other than building supplies; nothing he owned cost that much. With that in mind, Atteberry couldn¡¯t imagine the amount of unnecessary taxes that would send the guildmaster over the edge. Regardless, he¡¯d been hired to do a job. Since the Sovereign City Corcyra would no longer work as a base for the Adventurer¡¯s Guild, Yianna chose to pack up shop and move farther north. That meant she needed a host of new employees, temporary or otherwise. Atteberry was here to build cabins and shelters for permanent or visiting guild members, as well as residences for staff. The guild hall itself was important, but it required stonemasons and tile and an architect to make it work like Yianna truly wanted. She was paying an exorbitant amount to bring in her own experts from afar, ones that would not arrive with materials and goods for a few months. Building a new guild was not a brief event, let alone establishing a village around it; Atteberry expected to live here for years, if not forever. A carpenter could always find work when people were around. The land for the primary guild hall was cleared and demarcated, but Atteberry passed it without a glance. He walked along the shoreline of the great lake ¨C one of several that dotted this part of northern Kovatelli ¨C and made his way uphill to the only building in the entire compound. It was still in-progress, partially completed with help from various beasts of labor and Atteberry¡¯s stubbornness. A small building with room for the guild staff to congregate, perhaps in close quarters, but congregate, nonetheless. There was a table to serve as a desk, and even though no system mage had made it to this new location yet, some adventurers were serving double-duty as guild staff to help the random adventurer wandering through. Because guilds needed adventurers, who in turn needed pay, which Yianna was more than willing to do. The requests came from local cities, each a short ride away on the other side of the lakes. Inconvenient but entirely manageable. Most adventurers in Kovatelli were used to traversing the vast plains and grasslands that occupied the southern half of the continent, or the rocky forest-sea of the north, near the nigh-impassable Staargraaven. Even still, the eastern border of Kovatelli was all wetlands and marshes, one of the worst journeys imaginable on foot. Walking around a few big lakes, tiptoeing near the Verdant dragon¡¯s territory, all in order to go to the guild? That was a rite of passage in the making, as anyone who wanted to be a successful adventurer needed guts to face potential danger. The carpenter circled his near-finished creation, eyeing the seal of the windows and considering filling the gaps with sifted lake mud or baked moss, just until he could find a better solution. Lack of supplies was his primary hinderance, as he needed to wait for orders to arrive to work. He waved at Samir in the distance as the cook left his Yianna-provided tent to begin lunch work. Samir was too handsome to be here in the woods, really, yet for some reason this encampment life appealed to him ¨C one of no public baths, a large, four-posted, waxed canvas tent for privacy, and maybe a dozen companions in total. The other man shifted to return the wave then stopped cold, halted as if he was terrified. It was hard to read Samir¡¯s expression from a distance, but Atteberry felt like his gaze was looking elsewhere, not at the carpenter. With a sudden fear, Atteberry whipped around, peering behind him into the treeline. Many beasts made these woods their home, and that wasn¡¯t to mention the [ territory ] to the west and its infinitely renewable resources. Had a gryphon wandered this close to the dragon¡¯s land? That was one of the main appeals of living this close to a dragon¡¯s lair, that large beasts rarely took up residence here. Maybe a few Tawha wolves or a kjerrborn. The latter was rarely deterred by anything, neither dragon nor human, but it also wasn¡¯t aggressive unless provoked. Nothing. No movement in the gently swaying branches of the fir trees, no ruminants hiding in the shadows with their mottled coats. Atteberry watched the trees for a while longer, just in case he was wrong. No. No beasts emerged. He turned back to Samir who hesitated to continue his way, shrugging an apology and giving a wave back to the carpenter. Less enthusiastic, but who could blame him? High up in the branches, far above where the humans¡¯ eyes searched, the saltsmith observed the encampment with great interest. Ch 5: The Cleaver This was a settlement, the saltsmith decided after some time observing. Not a village, but something new. Their count could not be presumed accurate from high up in the trees, but it seemed there were at least eight people who continuously worked in the area. A few more came and went down a packed dirt trail, made flat and cleared of trees to accommodate wagons. Tents were set up on the low hill of the lake, while a large open area on a high spot rested untouched near the road¡¯s entrance. A planned city building, perhaps. The tents all faced the lake, as if they were watching over the serene landscape. It was beautiful, just like the first lake the saltsmith found but smaller. A perfect place to begin a settlement, full of lumber, close to the mountains for access to stone and potential mining, and with plenty of fish for food. The gold-wearing lady flashed even in the cloud-dimmed sunlight as she checked the camp. Everyone greeted her, leading the saltsmith to believe she was in-charge. She looked impossibly familiar; the saltsmith dismissed the urge as remembering an actress from a theatre performance who wore similar bangles and braids. Next, a pair who slept in the same tent, husband and wife assumably. One attended to the cleared-out patch of land further inward, with beast-tilled rows and delicate sprouts; the other went to tend to the goats that wandered around the encampment, each beast with a bell on their neck. They watched the farmer plant seeds then he¡­ prayed over them. The dirt rustled as little seedlings pushed forth. Satisfied, the farmer drizzled water over the new life, humming a tune. The herd-lady, for lack of a better term, tended to a few horses in the stables before calling out for a goat. Rose was her name, and she was called impossible, a menace, and tomorrow¡¯s lunch by the beast keeper as she hunted around the settlement. The saltsmith knew where the goat was; they watched her wander off earlier in the day. She was far, far down the shoreline, around the curve of the lake. The beast seemed to be keeping the settlement in her sight, but she certainly was not afraid of the woods. As the beast keeper became more agitated, asking others where Rose went, the saltsmith slowly climbed down their tree. They were careful to stay in the shadows as they circled the lake, just behind tree trunks and bushes, never letting the metal of their limbs touch the sunlight. Rose the Goat chewed on some ferns near a dilapidated structure hidden by time and overgrowth. Another cabin? The saltsmith looked over the lake at the distant settlement, ensuring they weren¡¯t being watched. Their awareness attribute was too low to determine whether or not this was actually true, but regardless, they felt safe enough to reveal their presence. It took the goat mere seconds of beastly horror to see and process the tangle of limbs and ember-like eyes that creeped her way, after which she shrieked and bolted back to safety, her long ears flopping as she ran. Her bleating fear and clanging bell signaled her presence to every human she ran past, finding the leader of her small herd for protection. The goats circled together in worry even as the beast keeper chased them to calm them down. Run home, the saltsmith thought, and stay safe. Even in their own world, there were plenty of wild creatures willing to snatch livestock or children out on their own. The presence of the dragon had taken a toll on the saltsmith¡¯s mentality. This world was dangerous, as dragons could not exist without all manner of smaller beasts to feast on ¨C predator and prey. Maybe the saltsmith had not been witness to anything more threatening than a deer-beast, but they knew such animals existed. This settlement wasn¡¯t theirs to claim, yet¡­ the saltsmith needed a home, needed somewhere to linger until this world began to make sense. Even without a claim to humanity, they could find some purpose here in the shadows of these hard-working people. ?? ?? ?? Dinner was never a small affair with this many people to feed, but Samir felt that it was made more manageable by the lack of meat. The guild brought root vegetables and dried beans from the city, some to plant, some to grow. Between that, the goat milk, and spices from southeast Kovatelli, it made a decent curry. No meat meant easier cleanup. The chef boiled lake water in the pot to remove the stuck-on remnants of the curry, dumping it over some rocks as to avoid accidentally cooking the wildlife. He cleaned the knives, bowls, utensils in boiling water once more. The entire process was hot and literally steamy, mildly frustrating without a proper kitchen. When one of the mages stopped by to say hi, Samir tried to smile at her and be polite, but he was dripping in sweat and his rolled sleeves felt too tight as he scrubbed away. She lingered, saying goodnight to the tired chef after offering to help him take his wares back to the cooking table near his tent. ¡°No, thank you,¡± Samir had said, lifting and pouring out a full cast-iron stewpot worth of boiling water with some effort. ¡°I¡¯ll need to dry and oil the pans before I can rest. You should get some sleep.¡± Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. The mage Nanazin lingered for a few minutes longer, admiring the sweaty and oblivious man before she left for bed. None the wiser, Samir continued his work, oiling pots, storing them under the open-air cooking tent, cleaning knives, taking scraps to the goat pen and chickens. He ordered his knives on the table, grumbling as he looked over a cleaver with irritation. Even if he wanted to prep meat, the blade was damaged from travel, slightly bent and badly chipped along the cutting edge. He sighed and set the tool down. He would have to wait for the next shipment to order another. As Samir disappeared off into his tent to sleep, the magical torchlight flickered off movement in the near forest, dimly lit metal among bark. The saltsmith approached cautiously, having watched each human retire to their tent for the night. They didn¡¯t need high awareness to feel a pang of disgust at how badly the cleaver was damaged. In silence, they used [ skill: capture ] on the blade, floating it safely into the makeshift ribcage at their imaginary chest. The system typed a notice into their mind as they wandered around the camp; their natural locomotion was sneaking by default.
[ attribute increase: agility +1 ]
They borrowed a hammer from the carpenter¡¯s workstation near the sole building. It was the wrong kind, but it would have to do. It was much harder to find a scrap of leather, but eventually the saltsmith returned to the hidden cabin on the far end of the lake, rooting through debris to find an old piece of leather armor. From the cabin land, they used their stockpiled progress to capture several rusted, bent nails, nibs from ink pens, a bell without a clapper, multiple horseshoes in the yard. Their materials were stored easily in their core, with five pairs of arms arranging and re-arranging until things were comfortable. There was no proper place to work, not without cutting down a tree nearby, so the saltsmith wove their way through the moonlight to a tree stump near the road. It had a flat plane, which was all the saltsmith needed. They used [ skill: repair ] on the cleaver, pulling steel from the spine to repair the blade. When the edge was properly fixed, albeit not sharp, the saltsmith turned their attention to the leather armor. They used their skills to remove all the rivets and small nails, chaining them to the rest of the iron and bronze scraps to form a junk pile. The saltsmith wrapped the largest piece of leather around the blade of the cleaver, then affixed a smaller one to the head of the metal hammer. They would be a pillock to use a bare carpentry hammer on a fine tool such as a knife, even if the blade was of a sturdy cleaver. The saltsmith drew the hammer up high in their skeletal grasp, bringing it down on the blade to begin leveling out the bend. They lacked the strength to simply manipulate the blade by force, but a hammer could do the work that muscles could not. The mere attempt to use their strength earned them a new attribute point, bringing them up to strength 5.
[ attribute increase: strength +1 ]
Ah, to be as strong as the strongest child. Their work took an hour or more, just to fix the cleaver. By the time they finished, the blade was straight, pocked with shallow ¨C yet clean ¨C dents from hammering. The leather couldn¡¯t prevent every mark, but a little texture on a blade did not mean it had to be retired. Unsatisfied, the saltsmith continued until every inch of the cleaver was textured in a similar manner. They didn¡¯t have a body, but they refused to perform shoddy craftmanship because of it. They returned both cleaver and hammer to their rightful place, adhering the leather scraps to the junk ball with rivets. The saltsmith mentally listed out hammer-smithing on their future chores; they had plenty of metal, a haft of wood would be easy in this forest, but it was a matter of melting an ingot and shaping it over an anvil or a hardwood stump. Perhaps the saltsmith couldn¡¯t make one of those fancy automobiles that were driving down the horseshoe business, but they certainly knew how to make a smithing hammer. They scurried to shelter as the sun began to rise, watching the humans move about from across the lake, perched on the rooftop of the abandoned cabin. Their endeavor did help more than the cook; the saltsmith¡¯s attributes and abilities were increased overnight, to their great pleasure.
str 0 (5 ? 6) ? awa 5 (5 ? 6) ? cha 5 (2) agi 0 (6) ? con UNK ? int 5 dex 0 (7 ? 8) ? end 10 ? luc 0
Level 2: Range (bodily), weight (medium), control (bodily), persistence (low ? bodily) Captured chains: 13/13 Captured objects: 320 / 325
While the system seemed to avoid giving the saltsmith any direct answers as a human could provide, it did suggest that bodily persistence was the ability to move all captured objects as if they were part of a singular body. Fates, that¡¯s what the saltsmith needed. With this new form of capture persistence came a need for rest. Not sleep, rest ¨C as if the chains were indeed muscles and their stolen limbs were their own. Previously, their stamina was merely a meter by which to measure distance, how far the saltsmith could travel at full speed without being forced to stop by a total loss of control. Now, it felt more human, physical. The saltsmith was no longer stopped mid-step for recovery, but exerting unseen force to pull themselves upwards steadily drew from their stamina. With an internal sigh of relief, the saltsmith settled down on the roof of the cabin. They couldn¡¯t sleep, but they could watch the world pass by for some time. The humanity of needing to rest was, sadly, the most comfort they had experienced yet in this world. It took Samir until mid-afternoon to notice the repaired cleaver, longer still to thank the guildmaster for the replacement, even more time to realize the scratches on the blade¡¯s handle were the same as the old, broken one. It became a mystery within the guild settlement, a curiosity paired with Samir¡¯s sighting of a strange spider creature. But it was just gossip, right? Ch 6: Roots and Boar-ies Even as she climbed rocky hills and wandered past shadowy copses, Nanazin was determined to look pretty. She had her pride as a southern Kovatellian, a pride that insisted she continue wearing her traditional clothing rather than shift to the tightly fitted tunics and breeches of the north. The southern edge of the nation was warm and humid more often than not; this afforded fashion to lean toward loose, flowing clothing that breathed instead of allowing moisture and sweat to cling to the skin. Although pride was the correct word, it didn¡¯t feel entirely accurate. Nanazin wasn¡¯t so prideful as to let herself freeze or make her work harder than it needed to be. She wore a dhoti and kurta set in red, dyed beautifully by berries local to her home city, with small dots of yellow along the edges. That wasn¡¯t entirely enough ¨C a golden yellow shawl with embroidered teal and red flowers kept her warm as she scaled closer toward the Staargraven. She was a long way off from the high, cold mountains, still in the rocky foothills. To Nanazin, who grew up among grasslands and wet, vibrant forests, the foothills were mountains. They were steep and difficult and frustrating, yet Nanazin refused to go back to the guild settlement empty-handed. Pride still wasn¡¯t correct. She was¡­ stubborn, yes. Strong-willed was a nicer term. She knew exactly what she wanted and how she intended to get it. In all things, this was true. Today, as usual, she wanted vetta root. The material was one of the most prized ingredients in the entire continent, as it was a primary component of healing potions. Without vetta root, healing potions simply did not exist or work. They were one of the unique flora of Aestrux, in that their propagation and growth was entirely controlled by the System. Usually, the system only interfered with the natural environment in select [ territories ], broad circles of land that were constantly renewed by the system in set increments, replacing plants, minerals, ores, and beasts alike. [ territories ] were the lifeblood of any Adventurer¡¯s Guild, as most highly prized materials could be found there in quantities whose renewal did not rely on a Landwise¡¯s propogation or a Beastmaster¡¯s breeding efforts. Vetta root, however, grew solely underground as the root system of small, spindly trees with grey, stripe-like markings on the bark. These trees died once the roots were removed, so the system regularly replaced them. But it never put the replacement vetta tree in the same spot. Sure, each vetta hunter had their own checklist of requirements ¨C near a body of water, hidden from any roads, surrounding trees must be 30 ft tall at minimum, etc ¨C but those requirements were more superstition than fact, as vetta trees were found in many biomes across the world. This meant people like Nanazin ¨C vetta hunters ¨C could become very wealthy with only a few good finds. In most of Kovatelli, the root sold for almost double what it did elsewhere ¨C if there was one superstition that proved itself true, it was that vetta trees did not like growing in grasslands and open spaces. The predominant theory from well-traveled naturalists was that the fragile-looking branches with their sparse, hair-like leaves were remnants of the development process, whereas the primary vetta was the root system itself, not the tree. And the root system often relied on surrounding flora or fauna for nutrients, quite literally absorbing life and magic without destroying its neighbors. Therefore, grasslands were too shallow to properly feed the subtly vampiric vetta tree. Here, in northern Kovatelli, there were trees, shrubs and bushes, and plenty of magical plant-life to sustain vetta trees. Even some of the magical ores could be beneficial, too. Nanazin wore leather armor under her lovely shawl, protecting her from the rare beast that wandered this close to the dragon¡¯s lair. On her belts hung a handaxe, mattock, and trowel, all entirely necessary for cleaning out and removing the parsnip-sized chunks of root that were required. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. She paused in her hiking, leaning on her tall wooden staff as she did. Something felt different in the distance, something distinctly magical. She possessed a detect magic skill like many mages, but as the System customized each person¡¯s class and abilities to the individual, Nanazin¡¯s skill was to detect magic at a distance, as if looking through binoculars. If it was within her distance to distinguish with her eyes, it did not register as magical. However, a flicker of something in the far trees was indeed magical. Nanazin tilted her staff in front of her, a bronze ring with a red jewel swinging from a white, wooden jaing-ram¡¯s head on the end. ¡°Run, Var¨¡za, break the stones!¡± she called out. The invocation brought forth the summoned spirit with a burst of magic. As all spirits did, Var¨¡za seemed to be made of glass, transparent and shiny in the scattered sunlight. It was a large boar-like beast, with multiple curved tusks adoring its bristly face. The spirit ran on all fours, its limbs longer than a pig should be, almost ape-like in nature. ¡°Var¨¡za, go forward and find the source of that magic, then return to me if it is safe to move.¡± Nanazin was an amateur summoner. This was her second spirit that agreed to respond to her call, which meant she had to give it very specific instructions. The boar spirit collided with a tree. Its eyes were dotted along its sides, like little gemstones mounted under the ridge of its back. That did mean that Var¨¡za had terrible frontal vision. ¡°Move left, then proceed,¡± Nanazin called out, trying not to laugh. The spirit did wonderfully in grasslands, but such densely populated forests were still new to the creature. It snorted off into the distance, circling the magical thing then running back with gleeful kicks. ¡°Oh, did you find vetta?¡± Nanazin continued onward with a smile, unhooking a net-like bag from her shoulders as the spirit ran toward the tree once more. Spirits were difficult to train, but when a summoner was successful at building a relationship, the spirits shifted from emotionless recipients of commands to mirrors of their summoner¡¯s personality. Nanazin herself was honorable, considerate, and caring, yet she was prone to loud and large emotions ¨C glee and anger alike. Var¨¡za had begun to show signs of reflecting its summoner, in how it conveyed success (passionately, such as kicking, jumping, spinning) or how it communicated refusal (turning its back on Nanazin, as to pridefully ignore her). The bristly spirit waited by the tree for the mage¡¯s order, expectant. When it came, Var¨¡za began to dig deep trenches in the dirt with its tusks, creating furrows as it unveiled the thick roots underneath. They looked like long radishes, but with the same subtle stripes of the bark. It took an hour or so for the pair to gather all the pieces ¨C a lot quicker than many vetta hunters who had to uncover the roots by hand ¨C then Nanazin strapped the bulging netted bag onto Var¨¡za¡¯s back. The clock was ticking; vetta roots went bad if they sat around for too long. Not rotten or poisonous, but unusable in healing potions. The summoner had grown up with an alchemist father and an herbalist papa. She had a workstation outside of her tent too, much like Samir, except this one was a little more reinforced as some of the glass equipment was delicate. The pair began making their way back to the guild settlement, Nanazin eagerly telling Var¨¡za about her plans to make potions. Even if the roots somehow went off on the walk back, they were still good for lesser potions ¨C ones that healed slowly over time, rather than all at once. Once the sound of Nanazin¡¯s bell-cheerful tone faded in the distance, the saltsmith lowered themselves out of a nearby tree. They felt a little guilty for stalking the woman, but not enough to stop. They had no purpose in this world other than a mindful curiosity, one that was sated by keeping an eye on the mage from a distance. The glass-bright beast was one of those curiosities. It didn¡¯t seem dangerous, but it took orders from the woman, so perhaps it could be use for fighting? It reminded the saltsmith of little glass figurines popular in the last decade or so back home. The smith¡¯s father suggested trying their hand at those, especially with a preexisting forge, but then again, their father was a farrier whose labor was diminishing in value under the heavy gaze of the automobile. His views on maintaining relevancy changed rapidly in less than a decade¡¯s time. The tree, however, seemed of good wood. The saltsmith examined some of the broken pieces -- the boar¡¯s enthusiasm toppled the trunk and split a few limbs, allowing some examination of the grain. While they knew little about all types of wood, the saltsmith knew what types were good for making tools. In particular, a straight grain was best for hammers. They examined the tree to find that this grain was close enough to correct, with tight growth rings and nearly invisible cells. They didn¡¯t have an axe, but the carpenter did. Perhaps tonight, the saltsmith could do some work. In the morning, Atteberry found a strange thing on his workstation. A large piece of vetta wood lay across the table, splintered on each end as if it was broken by hand. The carpenter was focused on a smaller piece of scrap wood nearby with a crude drawing of a hammer, clearly made by charcoal from the fire. A small arrow pointed at the handle of the hammer. Atteberry furrowed his brow at the drawing, but he cleaned the edges of the vetta wood out of a sense of due craftsmanship. He set the pieces aside for later; the carpenter had to finish up the first building before the rains set in, but maybe if he had time, he could fill this cryptic request. It was strange, though. Atteberry thought that the guild staff would have just asked him for this task instead of leaving a note. Ch 7: Resonance This was the saltsmith¡¯s first attempt at exploration on their own. The escape from the dragon¡¯s lair had been exactly that, an escape, fleeing from danger to whatever safe space they could find. Now that they had a home ¨C in the loosest, most inhuman sense of the word ¨C the saltsmith could begin to gather resources. They knew exactly what they needed, but crafting everything would be the difficulty. The subclass of saltsmith was, in vague summary, a parallel function to blacksmithing where magic altered the basic principles that they knew and understood. The system used sulphur as an example. In regular smithing, it was a contaminant that would damage the final product. In saltsmithing, sulphur could be magically added to products for increased resistance or to enhance certain types of damage. The possibilities were endless, although the system did mention that saltsmithing was considered much more difficult than standard blacksmithing due to tenuously balancing the effects of irregular materials. They needed a hammer, which required a handle, an ingot to make the head, and a wedge. The ingot was optional; they had no hammer with which to form the ingot. But, if they could get a makeshift crucible and enough fire, they could use a mold to get the head of the hammer close to specifications. That required sand and resin, which could be drawn from the lake and trees respectively. None of this fixed the primary problem ¨C a lack of an anvil. It was a head-scratcher, a chicken and the egg situation. The saltsmith conceded their inability to make progress and chose to explore. The mountains could have caves and other structures that produced ore, which was necessary at any step of the process. Perhaps some mining would let the saltsmith internally solve their forge problems, like waking up after a sleep with your mind reset and inspired. As soon as the saltsmith climbed further out of the treeline and onto rocky terrain, dotted by scraggly pines and scant bushes, they began to feel something strange. It was a pull, nearly magnetic and rooted in their soul. With a body, they would have described this feeling as coming from their heart or their core, an irresistible urge to chase a wild idea for creation. Now, they were nothing but a soul in a Jack O¡¯ Lantern. Perhaps it was the flame that was pulled along by magic, drawn to some unknown place. The saltsmith¡¯s curiosity led them to follow the insistent impulse, limbs slowly crawling over rocks and sheer stone cliffs to find the point of magnetism. They stopped at a small crevice, big enough to fit the saltsmith¡¯s round head but hardly large enough to call a cave. The system typed out a notice for their mental workdesk.
NEW! [ skill: resonance ] - passive skill, landwise class; You are aligned with the subterrain facet of the land, therefore while seeking out the subterrain, unoccupied pathways underground will make themselves known to you. While focusing on a specific material, only caverns or mines with that specific material will resonate.
Oh, fascinating. Without hesitation, the saltsmith maneuvered their way into the crevice like a very strange insect. They lacked the fear humans normally would have due to concerns like venomous creatures or becoming trapped. It was much easier to escape when you were both metal and a functionally floating object. Far underground with only a few inches of clearance, the saltsmith¡¯s glowing face caught a glimmer of something, a vein running along the wall. With [ skill: capture ], they broke off chunks of the metal, rock included, and examined it. It looked like iron. It might not be, given that magic existed in this world, but the saltsmith would bet their¡­ actually, they had nothing to bet, but they would bet something important that this was iron ore. They broke a few pieces off of the wall with their skill, almost like ripping chunks from a very firm loaf of bread. The system pressed a warning into their mind: they had no more room for captured objects. With an internal grimace, the saltsmith began rearranging their many limbs. It proved very difficult in this small space, but eventually they made a basket out of three sets of bony arms. It was crude and barely functioning, but it did hold the ore-laced rock. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. When the saltsmith finally emerged from the crevice, they were burdened by more ore than they could reasonably carry. After some debate, the saltsmith found a place to carefully pile up their haul before returning to the crevice. Even if [ skill: resonance ] provided new locations for veins, it seemed silly to leave this one half-tapped. The sun was dipping low in the sky by the time the saltsmith felt they were done. They weren¡¯t entirely sure how they would get back to this pile, but maybe their new skill could draw them to gathered resources as well as the subterrain ones. The night was filled with moving ore and getting lost. Their internal map provided by the system had some landmarks in the way of terrain, but it wasn¡¯t quite detailed enough to know exactly where to go each time. By the time the morning rose, they had a pile of ore on the front stoop of the dilapidated cabin. The prolonged effort left them exhausted, so the saltsmith slowly crawled toward the settlement, careful to avoid attracting attention. There was an exceptionally large juniper tree between the stables and the tents, one who¡¯s thick foilage could easily hide the saltsmith. They splayed themselves out over a few sturdy branches like a many-limbed feline and settled in to rest and observe. ?? ?? ?? The northern landscape consisted of a mottled grey, green, and brown from the air. Grey by means of stone. Green from various hues of foliage, from the blue-greens of tall conifers to the waxy brown-greens of shrub brush. Brown was speckled here and there by upturned roots and patches of sand. The goats were nearly invisible from high up, their bell collars the only discernable feature when not covered by coarse hair. The herd was mostly grey and brown, or a calico-like mixture of the two. Varys the goatherd kept a sharp eye out anyway. Ze knew for a fact that dragons ate livestock, though they preferred wild game. With Nyrinus the Verdant so close to the guild¡¯s new location, Varys had to be on guard, watching the skies. Though they were mostly dairy goats, there were a few wethers and a buck to keep the population going. He seemed to do his job, even if it annoyed the others to no end. Varys was just grateful to get out of the city. Ze was from a small village in-between larger cities, one that saw plenty of merchants on carts and horse alike, but few needed to spend the night in the village. It had a bustling tavern and not much else. Hir life was spent herding up until a beast broke into the paddock at night, killing sheep and kerdund alike. With no flock to tend to, Varys tried to go to the Sovereign City Corcyra for work. Ze was unsuccessful. Too shy for front-of-house jobs, too ignorant to be an apprentice, not bold enough to sell hir own bodily wares. Not that Varys wanted any of these things. Ze enjoyed tending to herds, as it was a quiet pastime where no one bothered hir. Ze could do small crafts, like whittling, or simply read while keeping an eye on the herd. So, when the rumor about the adventurer¡¯s guild leaving for greener pastures flitted by, Varys snatched the opportunity. Ze did think that the rumors literally meant pastures, not this rocky landscape, but it was still a good job with little expectations for uncomfortable forced socialization. Meals were perfectly fine, as far as conversation went. The couple, Azhar and Rakhi, kept a lookout for the goatherd but otherwise treated hir like a teenaged nibling ¨C allowing a respectable distance yet still fretting over socks that needed darning and whether Varys was keeping warm. The carpenter and the chef often talked about life, though Varys couldn¡¯t say ze found the conversation very interesting. The mage and the guildmaster would often argue with the weird jester lady, though Rakhi sometimes said that the arguments were more like teasing in a loud form. A few others came and went, though they didn¡¯t have tents like the rest of them did. It was mostly a thin mage with glasses and a book strapped to his side ¨C a regular with the guild but unwilling to live out of a tent to keep their company. The settlement was a few weeks in the making, so although the guild was still active, many of the adventurer parties and individuals had yet to wander over to the new location. Yianna knew they would join over time. Several of their guild members were entrenched in long-term quests or wanted to live out the remainder of the season in a city, until there were more amenities. It was hard agreeing to move to a place without baths, without roads, without really¡­ much other than pleasant company and fresh air. The Northern Kovatelli guild had a lot of adventurers registered, but the Adventurer¡¯s Guild was a global network assisted by the System, so hundreds of thousands of people could use their services. Certainly, there would be a delay in usage while they moved to a new location. Yianna was fully prepared to eat those costs, but it hardly bothered her. She had been running this guild for centuries now, under a variety of names and faces. War had run through the continent, system flares sending beasts careening into the city, conflicts between Sovereign Cities and the Kovatelli Crown. All while the guild stood strong. Perhaps the literal building did not have good timbers and a stone foundation as of yet, but Yianna was more than confident in her standing. The staff were the guild. The cook Samir wanted to become a mage; he practiced, unsuccessfully, producing a magical light when he thought no one else was looking. He was eager to leave the clutches of his family, eager to move on and begin his own life without every ounce of his power stemming from marks and coins. The summoner Nanazin was an anchor to this guild¡¯s functioning, in a way she herself wasn¡¯t aware of. Her acquisition of vetta roots fulfilled many requests in the city, but now, in such a wild land, her herbalist upbringing could provide healing potions without forcing any travelers to go elsewhere for their goods. Though Juniper the Jester seemed useless to the settlement¡¯s progress, she was a bright, shining voice ¨C the sentiment of hope where it was needed and the harsh reality when all everyone could taste was sugar and sweetness. Although she was a bit more sullen pessimism in the last few days as she recovered from food poisoning, after catching, badly cooking, and eating her own fish. The carpenter Atteberry was new but reliable. He was grouchy in the manner that all tradesmen were: too much work, not enough time. But he made progress and continued to uplift the others with their successes, no matter how small. The landwise Azhar and the beastmaster Rakhi kept the settlement from starving, as their consistent efforts to grow food and raise beasts gave hope to all guild members here. No one had to live off of travel rations, not while beans and milk were available for Samir to work his magic. And finally, Varys. Ze was a simple child, still a teenager. Hir hair was a white-blond not common in this dark-complexioned, dark-haired kingdom, which suggested to Yianna that ze had traveled far and continued to seek out something that was missing. Perhaps ze would find it here. Ch 8: A Helpful Haunting It took until lunchtime for the settlement¡¯s eerie situation to come to light. Atteberry had a look of puzzlement on his dark-skinned face as he brought a few scraps of wood to their eating area, an outdoor table with a small awning for shade. He set them down in an odd heap, grabbing his portion of the meal while tossing glances at the wood. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, Berry?¡± Of course, Juniper picked up on the man¡¯s steady discomfort. ¡°Do you hate fish?¡± The jester was a reliable troublemaker, poking at tender spots with a cheerful grin, but she knew where to draw the line. After all, jester who went too far generally ended up dead. ¡°No, it¡¯s¡ª¡± The carpenter hesitated to even bring the topic up, sure someone would laugh at his silly presumption. He shook the uneasy feeling out of his mind, asking bluntly instead of dancing around the topic. ¡°Who left me the doodle request for an anvil and other tools?¡± No one replied; the only sounds were utensils hitting serving bowls. ¡°It¡¯s okay, really,¡± the carpenter tried again, scratching his dark sideburns in vague discomfort. ¡°We will need an anvil eventually. I already made the hammer handle per the last request.¡± Again, no responses. Yianna glanced around the table, finally settling her eyes on Atteberry. She waved her hand, golden bangles jingling. ¡°Would you care to explain?¡± The carpenter sighed, this entire experience making him feel very unhinged. ¡°A few days ago, someone left me a scrap of wood with this sketch of a hammer on it, arrow pointing to the handle. It was next to a big piece of vetta wood.¡± Atteberry halfheartedly pointed at Nanazin, who chose the wrong moment to put food in her mouth. ¡°I thought it was you, ¡®cause you were processing vetta root the next day, but I couldn¡¯t ever figure out why you wanted a handle.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Wasn¡¯t really a problem though. I did it in my downtime. A draw knife and a rasp, didn¡¯t take that long. The handle disappeared off my table, I just assumed one of you picked it up.¡± Atteberry didn¡¯t mention his other thoughts ¨C that it had to be for something really stupid or really horny for any of them to outright ignore the request¡¯s existence and not say anything to the carpenter directly. ¡°Then, today, I found these.¡± He picked up each of the wooden scraps in turn, naming the crude charcoal drawings on them. ¡°Anvil. Crucible. Ladle. Felt odd, as I don¡¯t think any of you or your incoming adventurers have mentioned blacksmithing.¡± Yianna tilted her head at the man, her tiny bell earrings tinkling in the silence. ¡°You found drawings of blacksmithing equipment?¡± ¡°This one has farrier supplies on it, if it makes it more confusing.¡± Atteberry held up a cookie, a thin, round slice from a log. ¡°A horseshoe drawn so I knew what it was for, then the thing they use for pinching off bits and a rasp.¡± ¡°That¡¯s¡­ strange.¡± Nanazin had recovered from the sudden moment of attention, blocking the view of her mouth with a hand. ¡°And no one did this?¡± They all looked around the table with a murmur, each counting the occupants of the settlement. With everyone accounted for, and still no confession, the carpenter passed the drawings over to Yianna. ¡°There are legends of helper spirits in Fyrmann and Myelford,¡± Juniper began with a grin, hands poised over her bowl of fish stew as if it was a campfire at night. ¡°They ask for materials, and when provided, they make repairs on your house but be warned! If you ignore these kindly spirits, they may set your house ablaze.¡± Atteberry rolled his eyes. ¡°That¡¯s ¡®cause of the swamp gas, not some spirit. It¡¯s easier to explain your house being set on fire overnight through a spirit than accepting you built over a gas-hole and forgot to put out the cooking coals at the wrong hour.¡± ¡°Then you explain!¡± The jester retorted, leaning against her gloved hands in a guise of innocence. ¡°I don¡¯t know! I really thought it was one of you.¡± Rakhi spoke quietly, looking toward the goatherd. ¡°Varys, you don¡¯t want to try blacksmithing, do you?¡± The teenager looked confused and shook hir head. ¡°It¡¯s okay if you do. Everyone needs to try new things.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t do it,¡± Varys answered quietly. ¡°Well, who did?¡± Atteberry retorted, not exactly frustrated at the teenager but at the idea of a mystery occupant of the settlement. Samir was oddly quiet, usually an active participant in any conversation. He was looking over a knife on the table, eyeing the blade. ¡°Who left the fish for me this morning?¡± Any retaliatory debate stopped as eyes turned to the cook. ¡°One of you got up early and left fish for me to make for lunch. Enough trout for everyone.¡± ¡°Atteberry?¡± Azhar questioned, looking at the carpenter. ¡°You were up shortly after us, weren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Just ¡®cause I¡¯m from Fyrmann doesn¡¯t mean I fish. But, no, it wasn¡¯t me.¡± The expressions around the table began to look nervous, so Yianna cleared her throat and began managing her staff. ¡°Has anything else odd happened?¡± Samir spoke again, running a hand through his dark curls. ¡°Someone repaired my cleaver. It was unusable when I went to sleep, then entirely repaired the next day.¡± ¡°There was the spider creature,¡± Atteberry reminded the group. It was Samir¡¯s sighting, but they¡¯d gossiped about it for a few days as a collective. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°The horses were noisy last night,¡± Varys added in, not looking up from hir bowl. ¡°I checked on them before I went back to bed, but nothing was wrong.¡± ¡°Yet, the request for farrier¡¯s tools this morning,¡± Yianna surmised. ¡°Anything else?¡± Rahki made a small noise, tapping her fingers on the table. ¡°Well, the goats won¡¯t go near the road anymore. They used to wander on that side of the lake when I was busy with the horses, but now they won¡¯t pass the stumps.¡± ¡°They spotted something?¡± ¡°Must be the spooky spider again.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t joke, you know I can¡¯t stand the idea of a giant spider.¡± ¡°They do exist in Brigaval¨¦.¡± ¡°That¡¯s why no one goes to Brigaval¨¦.¡± ¡°Enough,¡± Yianna said, rubbing at her temple. ¡°All of this is to say that we have an intruder in our camp, who is providing helpful repairs and feeding us.¡± Juniper broke the silence. ¡°I mean, as long as they stay helpful! I¡¯m fine with it.¡± She had the benefit of strength; there wasn¡¯t much to fear when she wielded a warhammer with a pick end. ¡°Nah, we can¡¯t let random people roam around at night,¡± Atteberry argued, shaking his head at the jester. ¡°That¡¯s common sense.¡± ¡°Should we set up a guard?¡± ¡°I can summon Korumak, but it won¡¯t be happy to have a full night¡¯s work.¡± Yianna let the group talk themselves out of options as she watched the lake¡¯s surface, contemplating the correct decision. The chatter eventually fell silent, returning to the clink of utensils and quiet eating as everyone sat in discomfort, waiting for the guildmaster to chime in. ¡°Nanazin, Juniper, if you can confirm our deliveries for the next week, I will change my schedule to nights and observe. In lieu of an answer, it may be an interesting idea to fulfill the requests.¡± A murmur of confusion rolled through the group. Not outright disapproval, but a lack of full understanding. ¡°Why, Lady Yianna?¡± Samir asked politely. The guildmaster was a vaguely intimidating person, but most people wrote off her intense aura because of her beauty and demeanor. However, the sharpness of her gaze was felt by Samir as she looked at him slowly, like he was a rabbit caught in a wolf¡¯s sight. ¡°Have you ever met a silent blacksmith before?¡± Yianna asked with a sly grin. ¡°If there is a hidden spirit or strange intruder, providing it with an anvil is exactly the way to find it.¡± The others nodded in agreement, admitting that this was the perfect bait to learn what was going on. Or, at minimum, to get access to an entirely new set of repairs and products from the ghost. ?? ?? ?? Over the next week, the mysterious helper continued to be a blessing ¨C or burden ¨C to the small community. The horses were noisy every night, huffing and generally discontent by something in their stalls. The goatheard had yet to see what bothered them, but ze caught a glimpse of a piece of cloth disappearing into the treeline. A large rock meandered its way out of the field to the shoreline. It was big enough to need help to move, but small enough that it didn¡¯t require hitching to a vulleig. There were track marks on the ground, denoting the rocking path from the back of the settlement to the lake. Whoever moved it didn¡¯t have enough strength to pick it up outright ¨C most people wouldn¡¯t ¨C but the guild folks had to admit that it made a good place to sit and snack while looking over the water. Yianna remained vague about her night duties, promising to give a report once the next shipment arrived ¨C carrying the anvil among other necessary guild goods. She didn¡¯t simply sit outside in a chair with a mug of tea, watching for a nightly intruder to tiptoe through the settlement. Her ways were more subtle. Afterall, she was the guildmaster and skilled mage ¨C an illusionist. She had many tricks up her sleeves. Yet, Yianna did not need to camouflage herself with magic. She had a rare subclass, one that only thirteen entities in Aestrux possessed as it was highly regulated by the system. A dragonshaper. In the safety of her tent, the illusion shuddered away. A normal human guise slipped off to reveal the dragon¡¯s ¡°people¡± form ¨C still person-shaped, but distinctly inhuman due to branching horns and a smattering of scales, the broad spread of which showed her age. This intermediary form was short-lived. She bent over, rapidly condensing into a larger mass, a four-legged reptile known as a drake. It retained the emerald green associated with Nyrinus the Verdant; however, the drake form was far, far more stealthy and quick than her natural dragon appearance. Yianna ¨C now Nyrinus, as the system changed her name and title depending on form ¨C was careful not to snag her claws on the nice rug as she ducked out of the tent. Drakes were not small. Her shoulders were easily the height of a standard man, which allowed her head to drift up near the tent-roof. She moved quickly and stealthily, grateful that of all the dragonshapers, all her forms were more catlike and agile. The dragon Faythe in the south of Kovatelli shared a catlike tendency, but her features danced uncomfortably close to human in some areas. It suited her; Faythe enjoyed riddles and interrogating interlopers. She was not stealthy as much as she was painfully scary, charisma peaked sheerly due to how much her appearance coerced people into compliance. Further south, the Serpent Ediss fit its namesake, though the dragonshaper had succumbed to madness long ago, leaving only a dragon behind. There was nothing Nyrinus could do about the Serpent, other than wistfully think of her old friend when the subject of different dragon shapes arose. That was not the point of tonight. The drake wove its way into the darkness, sharp eyes and high awareness watching the settlement from a safe distance. While she could certainly attest that the intruder was indeed the spider creature, that did not explain what the being was. Her eyesight was good, but not good enough to determine features from this far of a distance. Only the low glow of the creature¡¯s face gave her any spark of recognition. When the anvil and tools arrived, the guild left them near the carpenter¡¯s table for the night, since that was the primary point of contact. Nyrinus watched as the many-limbed thing contained the tools within its mass but struggled to move the anvil alone. It was accomplished like the large stone ¨C a rocking motion and progress inch by inch. The anvil shifted over multiple days, much to the guild¡¯s surprise. It wandered by the stumps on the first day, then a short distance down the road, then disappeared entirely, vanishing into the forest. The guildmaster knew where it was, as she watched the strange being struggle relentlessly to move the anvil. Yianna was met with queries once the anvil went missing, as she promised answers but had yet to provide. It was difficult to give the guild members what they needed rather than what they wanted, the former of which was security and comfort. The smith, as Yianna began to call it, was not dangerous. It had a multitude of chances to enter tents and cause chaos, yet it spent days simply moving an anvil around the lake. The strange intrusions of kindness continued even still. A rabbit or two on the cook¡¯s workstation. A funny-looking mineral for the jester, who immediately proclaimed it to be a pebble pecker and put it with her trinkets. Yianna had to actively prevent the carpenter and the goatherd from investigating the repetitive clanging that echoed across the lake at night. It wasn¡¯t loud enough to wake anyone, but if someone stepped out for nighttime business, then the sound became obvious. It was a sore subject at the next few meals. Atteberry felt threatened by the unknown; Varys, Nanazin, and Samir were left curious at the strange helper. Azhar and Rahki only really chimed in once they noticed the beasts were slowly being tended to, their hooves cleaned and trimmed overnight. As the presumed eldest of the settlement, they had the most measured of responses. A midnight farrier was a benefit, and if they could leave out something as a thanks, they would. The bowls of milk or small pieces of food were left untouched, however. When the carpenter found a pile of freshly made nails on his workstation after complaining about needing more the day prior, the metaphorical dam broke. He refused to continue working until they learned exactly who the strange smith was, as Atteberry was feeling stalked and observed constantly. The others agreed. Even though the smith was helpful, now the smallest sounds at night had more than a few of them waking up with great concern and mild fear. Yianna sighed and agreed that tonight they could all go investigate, if they wanted, but it would be as a group and on Yianna¡¯s terms. Unfortunately, the saltsmith was far into the mountainside when this agreement took place, unaware that they would receive visitors tonight. Ch 9: Far Too Soon The saltsmith had no real capacity to question if such blatant requests for equipment were smart or if they threatened the saltsmith¡¯s very existence. Their awareness was too low to see all the social faux-pas they were committing ¨C namely creepily stalking the humans ¨C and their altered charisma was dismally low too. This world did not operate upon the same parameters as their old world did. Charisma did not mean solely charm and sociability. While a high charisma did attract good or bad attention, a low charisma lent itself to being overlooked, to being forgotten or simply dismissed by others. Babies started at charisma 5 to prevent their caretakers from forgetting to tend to them, but as they grew up into kids, teenagers, adults, a person could drop their charisma lower through certain actions. It was to a spy or a thief¡¯s benefit to have a low charisma. If people didn¡¯t care to remember them, it made them harder to track and capture. But, for your regular, everyday person? A low charisma ¨C especially paired with a low awareness ¨C could result in social ineptitude. Awareness was the ability to perceive the world around you, yes, but it was also the ability to process non-verbal cues and body language, the ability to see a crack slowly forming in a log bridge and decide that maybe you shouldn¡¯t put your entire body weight on it. Low charisma and low awareness combined to make the saltsmith forget how to be human, how to interact with the world outside of the unblinking, eerie stare that they couldn¡¯t control. Perhaps they knew in the back of their mind that disturbing the people in the settlement was bad, but that thought never occurred before they managed to do another queer thing, only after. So, the saltsmith left the charcoal-drawn requests out for the carpenter with the hope of better equipment so they could be of more use. That was the entire crux of the saltsmith¡¯s existence. They wanted to be used. How long had they spent upon this soil so far? And not a drop of human interaction to their name. In the weeks of their awakened existence, the saltsmith had come to terms with the idea that they were no longer a person. It went beyond lacking humanity into lacking personhood. The belief was one truly held by the saltsmith as they grappled with this new world and the implications of a system in control of everything. It challenged religious concepts that permeated their prior life and directly questioned what humanity meant. There were teachings to be kind to your fellow man, to love and support your neighbor, but what bearing did those have on a world with magic and dragons? The underlying message was simple ¨C be kind, be generous, be thankful. Yet, where did the saltsmith lay on the scale of kindness, generosity, and gratitude? Akin to humans? No. They couldn¡¯t talk, couldn¡¯t relay any emotions. Their face was a metal cast, a death-mask of an eerie smile. How could the saltsmith expect others to see a parade lantern and treat it the same as a child, an elder, a friend? Then, what about animals? Beasts of labor? Those were tenuous property of people, beasts to be treated well because it was right to do so, especially as they served a purpose and had no understanding of what human cruelty meant. The saltsmith was not a beast; they understood what was happening, could understand language and interpret complexities. Then, were they a ghost? Did that fall below beasts on the scale? A grave and the dead interred underneath were to be given honor and respect, yet the saltsmith was both a graverobber and non-living, a shade who resorted to puppeteering around bones. That was an unkindness, disrespectful and well-worth exile in most communities. What did that leave for the saltsmith? They remembered mechanical clocks with little people and animals who were paraded out on the hour, dancing and performing their tasks. That felt more accurate to the saltsmith¡¯s station, as demeaning as it may be. They were a blacksmith in life, so they should be a saltsmith after death. These contemplations were self-deprecating, certainly, but the saltsmith did not recognize the nature of their own justifications. These were illogical reasonings of someone trying to find their place in the world. A noblewoman trapped in her household may call herself a songbird in a cage; a blacksmith lacking in humanity would, of course, identify with the hammer more than the hand holding it. It didn¡¯t hurt to name themselves a tool to be used, but it did put words to a slow-consuming longing that sunk deep into their mind. The longing for camaraderie was an impossible urge to solve, that was for certain. No skill in this world could make them into a human without destroying who they were currently. The saltsmith did not wish for a second death. With transformation of thought came a subtle transformation of need. Perhaps camaraderie was out of their reach, but someone to serve? A person ¨C or place ¨C to dedicate this queer life to? That was achievable. And so, the saltsmith requested an anvil, a crucible, a ladle. Ingot forms could be made with sand and resin, and from there everything else would bloom. The lake provided adequate quenching. There was plenty of firewood available, coal from the deep underground. A new skill from their saltsmith subclass allowed them to maintain temperature within a small range around their body. It affected fires, as far as the saltsmith¡¯s experimentation showed, but the text implied that it could maintain ice and cold as well. Forming the hammer head was easy once the crucible arrived. Though the saltsmith could have simply requested a hammer, it felt satisfying to cast it with the melted ore and scraps of iron. What surprised them was that impurities in the metal added to the quality of the tool if, and only if, the saltsmith made it. While they removed as much slag as possible, the system informed them that the hammer produced had enough pyrite content to qualify for a bonus to the production of defensive items. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Once the hammer was completely finished, it shimmered as if placed into intense heat. The sides developed a cubic quality, as if pyrite crystals were slightly jutting out. Not enough to interfere with work, but a good visual note of this hammer¡¯s special bonus. The saltsmith spent a while admiring the crystalline growths before turning to their work. They didn¡¯t fear the clanging attracting the sleeping humans. For what the saltsmith knew, the people in the settlement across the lake had to use torches and magical lights to move about at night. They would catch a flicker of light rounding the lake before anyone snuck up on them. So as soon as all their equipment was set up ¨C with trenches dug in the dirt for ingots, a few logs rolled into place as a stand for the anvil and a table for their tools ¨C the saltsmith got to work. Farrier work required nippers to pinch off the excess hoof, but also hoof knives and picks, and a rasp to clean it all. The saltsmith requested the rasp as it would be irritatingly difficult to make by hand, as would the nippers until they upgraded their equipment, but a hoof knife and pick? That was a simple task. They were entirely unaffected by fire and heat, so no tongs were necessary. Though the smith did not curse or use expletives in their daily life ¨C or when they were alive, at least ¨C they complained internally about forgetting to request oil. It was necessary to finish off the products so that they wouldn¡¯t rust. It would have to wait; it was too risky to steal at the moment. When they could, the saltsmith spent a few minutes every other hour associating with the horses and the livestock. They limited their access at night so the animals wouldn¡¯t be too upset, but it was necessary for the time being. They needed the beasts to be less reactive, if they wanted their hooves trimmed and cleaned. Well, they didn¡¯t want the treatment, but it was needed. The saltsmith didn¡¯t know when a farrier would be by this new settlement, and a few of the goats looked like they were overdue. It was too risky to work during the day, so the saltsmith gathered ores and expanded their map as carefully as possible. At night, however, they puzzled over how to remove a horse hoofprint from their lantern head without entirely dismantling it and potentially dying. They had multiple hands wedged inside their own Jack O¡¯ Lantern ¨C trying to hold a rounded piece of metal against the thin shell so they could hammer it ¨C when their awareness 6 alerted them to approaching light. The 6 apparently meant sixty feet, as the saltsmith barely had anytime to scramble away before the first humans pressed past the thick overgrowth of bushes and conifer trees. A smoldering fire greeted them; the saltsmith was using the heat to help form their head. ¡°The fire is low.¡± The carpenter was first. Confident, yet with an axe in hand. The lady with the boar ghost circled the anvil, looking over the stumps used as tables. ¡°The tools are laid out, so it can¡¯t be far.¡± ¡°Why would you say that?¡± The cook asked, approaching the mage slowly, peering as her staff-glow lit up the area. ¡°Do you leave your knives out in the rain?¡± ¡°No?¡± ¡°An artisan wouldn¡¯t leave all their tools out to rust, so we barely missed it.¡± The saltsmith was hiding around the corner of the cottage¡¯s roof, face mostly obscured by a decade of thatching that was rotted and covered in moss. They watched as the lady with the gold jewelry looked around, not bothering to assess the workstation. She seemed to glance over the house itself before locking onto the saltsmith¡¯s location. They ducked away and skittered noiselessly to the other side of the roof. This situation was horrifying. They wanted to help and work with the humans, but it was too soon, far too soon. The idea of ingratiating themselves over time until they were simply a silent part of the settlement was optimal, without having to reveal their true nature. It was also an impossible goal, one that they would predictably fall short of. They could hear the mage and the cook circling on the left; the carpenter¡¯s heavy footfalls moved on the right. There was nowhere to go. The saltsmith would be seen soon, and¡ª The thatching was rotted out from age, and the skittering smith placed a metallic hand on a weak portion. It slipped through. The struggle to remove it loosened other portions of the thatching until the saltsmith was scrambling for purchase. With a clang, the metal lantern hit the stone floor of the cottage, thatching falling down all around the saltsmith, mostly covering their body. There was a bed nearby, broken but present. They threw their many limbs under it, hoping the thatching would disguise the strangeness. They had no time to really hide, no time to run, no time to anything. They righted the Jack O¡¯ Lantern before freezing in place. The jester entered with her warhammer held upright. ¡°Juniper, don¡¯t!¡± came a frenzied whisper from outside. ¡°It¡¯s fine!¡± She said, a circle of magic spreading out around her body, as decorative as it was functional. ¡°I have my ring.¡± The jester checked every corner of the one-room house before looking at the ceiling then down to the saltsmith. ¡°There¡¯s a lantern, and maybe a bed? I dunno, thatching came down hard.¡± Juniper poked her warhammer around the pile of rotten straw and moss. ¡°No one here either, unless they vanished.¡± With a sudden movement, Juniper jumped into action, swinging her warhammer around her in precise circles, wide arcs to catch an unseen enemy. The saltsmith was grateful that they were on the ground. ¡°Do you think that it just collapsed the roof without falling through?¡± ¡°Maybe?¡± The jester picked up the saltsmith¡¯s head. They were eternally grateful that all their movement and manipulation of the objects that composed their body resulted in tangible rewards ¨C their [ skill: capture ] was now level 3 with a range of medium. It meant that the saltsmith could let parts of their body reach five or six feet away from their lantern with continuing stamina loss. She turned and began carrying it over toward the door, shouting outside as she walked. ¡°I¡¯ve got this thing. It¡¯s weird, haven¡¯t seen anything like it! Maybe I¡¯ll ask the mysterious smith if I can keep it.¡± The saltsmith silently reassembled its body at the furthest point they could, fighting an invisible rope to stay bound to their head as they moved across the cottage, along the wall and out of sight from the oblivious jester. The guildmaster¡¯s eyes widened in realization as she watched Juniper pause in the doorframe. The jester inhaled before¡ª The world returned to nothingness for the saltsmith. To the others, a quick series of events occurred. In this short distance from the strange smith, Yianna immediately recognized her own magic residing within its lantern core ¨C a wisp of dragonflame. For weeks, the thing sat in her lair by her gold bath unmoving. She had to have touched it with dragonflame and lit it, at some point. Which meant that was its soul, its heart. Yianna had no time to warn Juniper before she blew out the small flame, returning it to darkness. She tucked the lantern under her arm, as a clatter sounded from inside the house, like a bunch of sticks being thrown across the room. Juniper whirled around, both hands on her warhammer as she dove back into danger. The lantern banged against the ground once more, rolling off to the side. ¡°Yianna! You need to come see this, there¡¯s¡ª¡± ¡°I know,¡± the guildmaster said, stepping over to the saltsmith¡¯s lantern. ¡°There¡¯s bones everywhere! But no one in here! Were they summoned?¡± ¡°Bones?¡± Samir asked, confused. ¡°Like animal bones?¡± ¡°Arm bones, looks like,¡± Juniper shouted from inside. There was a rattling noise, as if she kicked the pile. ¡°Two swords.¡± The guildmaster looked over the pumpkin lantern with a gentle intrigue, examining the seams and touching the clear hoof mark on the side. This was simply a metal object, although it was marked in the system as an artifact. ¡°Leave them be and come outside, Juniper.¡± That was a clearly spoken order, one that had the jester¡¯s interest. She poked her head back outside before tamping down her curiosity and obeying. ¡°Isn¡¯t it neat? A little weird, like a mask. I wanted to ask the smith if I could have it.¡± ¡°What is it?¡± Samir asked. He was full of questions tonight because he, unlike the others, had never been an adventurer. He had a sword in hand but no idea how to use it. Every moment of this had been thrilling in an anxiety-inducing way for the cook. Nanazin patted his shoulder before gently using her staff to readjust the sword point away from her face. Atteberry stood idly by, watching the treeline for any beast-like eyes or a scary face. He didn¡¯t know what to expect from this mystery being, but he sure didn¡¯t want to get snuck up on. Juniper and Yianna both replied at once. ¡°A lantern.¡± ¡°The smith.¡± Ch 10: The Blacksmith The quiet people ¨C Azhar, Rahki, Varys ¨C elected to get a good night¡¯s rest rather than go hunt a cryptic blacksmith, since they had to be up before dawn for the animals. That left the measured Yianna to handle the loud ones, all brandishing weapons and torches as they crept along the lakeside. As it was well past their bedtimes and tiredness creeped into their minds, their natural tendency toward animated and open discussions took a harsh left turn into bewilderment and frustration. All four voices overlapped each other in a cacophony of disarray. ¡°What?¡± ¡°What do you mean that¡¯s the blacksmith?¡± ¡°Is it a summoning focus for a spirit? I¡¯ve seen a few of those for spirits of temples in¡ª¡± ¡°Is it a ghost? I don¡¯t want to upset a ghost. Can we apologize somehow?¡± The guildmaster held up her hand trying to regain control of the situation. ¡°Give me a moment and I will explain it to all of you, at once.¡± She carefully reached inside the lantern, casting a spell that lit the flame once more. The saltsmith blinked back into existence, held at a strange angle by which they looked at the underside of the guildmaster¡¯s chin. ¡°Pink-white will fit you better than an eerie red-orange, I feel.¡± Sure enough, the flame was a much brighter, less sinister color now. Yianna placed the lantern on the anvil nearby, stepping away so that she was within eyesight of the thing. She gestured to the others to move closer before launching into an explanation of what she knew. The saltsmith was stunned, shocked into listening instead of any form of reaction. ¡°That is the blacksmith, yes. I believe the flame acts as their¡­ spirit, so blowing it out put it to sleep. The sudden clattering in the cottage was because an unconscious spellcaster can¡¯t maintain concentration-based magic; all their, hrm, parts fell to the ground.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± Juniper said from the side, resting the head of her warhammer in the dirt. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t know!¡± ¡°I¡¯ll return you to your body in a few moments,¡± Yianna addressed the saltsmith, who was simply overwhelmed by all this attention. ¡°I have information to provide first.¡± She continued, looking directly at the lantern. ¡°The fire is magical. It cannot burn out or be put out by normal means. It can be placed underwater or in a monsoon and it will remain lit. The only way that magical fire can go out is to be extinguished by magic, intentionally. It produces light but not heat.¡± That was a relief to the saltsmith, though they couldn¡¯t acknowledge the information. Did she choose that kind of fire out of consideration for the smith? ¡°Wait, so it¡¯s listening right now?¡± Atteberry asked, sounding unnerved. ¡°Yes, but it¡¯s been separated from its limbs, so it isn¡¯t trying to move currently.¡± Yianna had the hindsight bias of knowing the pumpkin head was fully capable of rolling on its own, but it was choosing to wait and listen to the guildmaster. Very polite of it, really. ¡°Without a system or summoning expert, I don¡¯t know how we will determine what it is, but it seems to be bound to this lantern. It registers in my sight as an artifact, although I suspect none of you have that same interaction.¡± After a chorus of quiet no¡¯s, Yianna continued. ¡°Artifacts are objects of great importance to the system. I have only seen a few in my time; most never witness a single one. They aren¡¯t the same was magical equipment. These are¡­ items that have purpose, even if you don¡¯t know what that purpose is.¡± Nanazin caught on faster than the rest. ¡°This artifact¡¯s purpose is to contain this spirit?¡± Yianna waved a hand in acknowledgment of her ignorance on the matter. ¡°That is our best guess, but it may not be correct, even still.¡± The lantern shuddered on the anvil, causing Samir to startle as he was closest. Yianna picked up the artifact as she continued to talk, walking toward the cottage door. ¡°It hasn¡¯t tried to vocalize yet, so I don¡¯t know if it can. I will return it to its body and see if it wants to be social.¡± She placed the lantern just inside the doorway, away from the guild¡¯s curiosity, then Yianna left the smith to reassemble in privacy. ¡°And if it doesn¡¯t?¡± The saltsmith couldn¡¯t hear all of the discussion outside, not while they scrambled to put their pieces back together. The capturing process was quick; the chaining process was not. They wanted to interact with people but not like this. Being so¡­ naked and vulnerable was mortifying and terrifying to the saltsmith, who simply wanted to get away. They didn¡¯t understand what they were, neither did the people, but after having the ability to move and act independently, being reduced to a lantern was shocking and scary.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. They only caught a few words of the conversation outside. The people were debating if it was unreasonable to remain at-arms about the smith¡¯s existence or what to do if the being proved itself non-aggressive. The saltsmith didn¡¯t stick around for proper introductions. They quietly escaped through the hole in the ceiling, scaling a beam to get out. While everyone was focused on the front door, they neglected to consider other exits. The smith circled off to the side, climbing a tree in the dark and peering down at the debating guild members from a comfortable distance. They were shocked when the gold-clad lady turned her gaze exactly toward them once again, unsure how she could find them in an instant. Yianna watched the bright-colored face in the treetop. She was able to sense fragments of her magic at a close distance to assess their status. It was a helpful skill as an illusionist whose magic wasn¡¯t always bodily. ¡°We should go,¡± she said amidst the discussion. Nanazin furrowed her brow. ¡°Aren¡¯t we waiting for the smith to come out?¡± Her sentiment was undercut by a sudden yawn, as the late hour was catching up to her. ¡°It moved to the trees a few minutes ago. We may have scared it.¡± Heads turned sharply to try and find the location of the smith, as if hunting for a wolf in the trees; the saltsmith hid their face behind a branch, light blocked by the evergreen leaves. ¡°Oops,¡± Juniper muttered. ¡°I guess I¡¯ll apologize again another day.¡± ¡°Go rest,¡± the guildmaster ordered, though politely. ¡°I may see if it will interact with me before I retire for the night.¡± Atteberry paused as if he wanted to ask a question, but he shook the uncertainty off and left, trailing behind Nanzin and Juniper, who were lightly bickering about whose yawn set off the other¡¯s yawn. Samir said good night and wandered off slower than the rest, looking back a few times as if to catch a glimpse of the mysterious smith. Yianna waited until the guild staff were on the far side of the lake, lights disappearing as they entered their tents to rest. She found the smith in the trees once more, perched closer now that there were less people to fear but still high above her head. The saltsmith was curious why she remained. She seemed to know things about this world¡¯s magic, information that the saltsmith did not possess. Was she interested in their artifact, as she said? ¡°It was not our intention to scare you,¡± the lady began, her jewelry jingling in the dark. Her eyes shone an eerie green every time the saltsmith looked directly at her, like a wild animal in the woods caught in the beam of those new flashlights. ¡°We were curious about your existence, and although I¡¯ve seen you in the settlement, the others were unaware and wanted to be prepared for anything.¡± The saltsmith couldn¡¯t convey any sense of understanding aside from remaining in the woman¡¯s presence. They understood why the others came with weapons; they even understood the mindset, the fear of the unknown and uncertainty. It was their own apprehension at being extinguished that led the saltsmith to be wary. They let her continue speaking, watching like a gargoyle on a cathedral, or perhaps more like a spider in a web. ¡°My name is Yianna.¡± The saltsmith tracked her careful movements through the jingle of her jewelry and the flash of her eyes, though she remained rooted in one spot. ¡°I am the Guildmaster of the Adventurer¡¯s Guild of Northern Kovatelli. The other people in our settlement are members of the guild or staff hired to assist.¡± An Adventurer¡¯s Guild? They weren¡¯t common where the saltsmith grew up, but they knew that guilds existed overseas or used to. Maybe guilds were going the way of horses, being taken over by factories and machinery. Regardless, a guild of adventurers? For what purpose? The saltsmith had a moment of incredulity in which they wondered how many adventurers there were in this world, only to be reminded of the dragon¡¯s existence. Ah, yes. The dragon was doing wonders in breaking down the saltsmith¡¯s doubts and misconceptions. Of course, a guild for adventurer¡¯s existed in a world with dragons. How foolish of the saltsmith to think otherwise. ¡°We have appreciated your assistance, though I¡¯m unsure how you want to be treated moving forward. Although you appear sentient and independent, I am unsure if you are a spirit or a new concept unknown to me.¡± Yianna the Guildmaster watched the saltsmith as they descended their tree. They didn¡¯t want to be fully on the ground, but they could lower themselves closer to eye level to examine the woman. It was dark, but the saltsmith had a built-in ambient light, diffuse but still helpful. Yianna had curly hair and dark skin, hard to see at night. Even though the lighting stripped her of any color, the saltsmith knew she and Nanazin were nearly identical, as they confused the two women frequently from a distance. Both had brown-black hair and copper-brown skin, very similar to Samir, albeit he had a lighter skin tone. The guildmaster wore long skirts, paired with a short shirt that showed her stomach. The saltsmith couldn¡¯t make out details in this light, but they knew her clothing was striped and colorful, with gold jewelry to give her a bright, beautiful appearance. It was in great contrast with the saltsmith¡¯s prior life, where times were difficult and colorful fabric was a luxury. They allowed themselves to be drawn in, too curious about the woman to avoid her. She lit their flame, in multiple ways; they could trust her, a little. Yianna remained calm and stationary. She was a dragon, even in human form very little could harm her. The smith¡¯s motions were intriguing, as she watched them move closer and closer. They kept most of their limbs folded up in their chest, looking like a ribcage from a distance, but it was all elbows and arm bones. Two sets of arms propelled them around mostly, a forward set for motion, a rear set for balance and grip as they lowered themselves from the tree branches. The swords were stationary until they were on the ground, positioned like the rear end of a cricket as they climbed, then the smith switched to using the points of each sword as feet. It seemed the being could balance easily as their limbs floated around them. The motion was delicate and deliberate, something Yianna did not expect from a blacksmith. Although she watched the creature move around for the last week at a distance, she was unable to process how little¡­ weight the smith conveyed at any given time. The swords barely sank into the dirt. It seemed the smith needed to simply have contact with a surface in order to move around on it, with magic acting as muscles and joints. Yianna wondered how strength and effort played into their movement, or if it was all a delicate game of magical balance and coordination. She watched as the strange creature drew closer, its lantern head low as it seemed to assess her clothing. Her bangles jingled softly as a metallic skeletal hand touched one, curious. Yianna spoke quietly, gently. She didn¡¯t want to spook the smith into fleeing once more. ¡°If you wish to see, we can go to my tent. There is light. I want to look at you, as well.¡± The saltsmith withdrew their hand, suddenly aware of how intrusive they were being. They paused, thinking, before gesturing with an upright palm toward the tents. After you, they said. Ch 11: A-tent-tive The saltsmith entered the guildmaster¡¯s tent slowly, not out of caution but respect. They pulled up their scimitar legs underneath them, smoothly switching to another set of arms instead. The floor was covered with wood and upon that, a beautiful rug; Yianna the Guildmaster did not need the saltsmith poking holes in her flooring. Without the swords, the saltsmith moved in a more insect-like way, all joints and abnormal angles. They had no flesh or tendons to limit their range of movement, so their arms folded so the bones could be completely parallel and their elbows were non-existent, arms twisting and flipping every direction as needed. Yianna took a seat at her desk, watching the strange being move about. The saltsmith took the opportunity to be nosy. They had low charisma and low awareness after all; even with an added awareness point from this night¡¯s panic-induced observation, their social cognition was dismal. It didn¡¯t occur to them how queer they were being as they examined everything in the wide tent with great interest. The tent itself was the size of a large room. In this one, Yianna had a sizeable bed and a desk for work, boxes piled high on one side with her belongings, a bright light hanging above. Without a second thought, the saltsmith used one of the support poles to climb closer to the hanging light. It looked like a small chandelier, but each of the candles had a magical flame. Yianna moved to pull a cord underneath the fixture ¨C all the lights went out. Intrigued, the saltsmith watched as a sphere in the center released a circular burst of magic when the guildmaster pulled the cord once more, ¡°turning on¡± the candles. The saltsmith wondered if this world knew of electricity as a power source, or was magic almost always a better option? They watched Yianna the Guildmaster sit before remembering why they were here. Right, to make peace and investigate. Or something similar. They scaled down a post of the bed, nearly getting an arm tangled in the curtains, and paused in front of woman. Perhaps the saltsmith¡¯s emotions were hampered by their current state of inhumanity, but even they couldn¡¯t resist the immediate understanding that washed over them. The lady was very attractive. So attractive that the saltsmith didn¡¯t have their thoughts in order, merely stopping and staring at her. The Jack O¡¯ Lantern prevented them from coming off as leering or perverse, yet they felt no shame for looking. She had such a lovely gaze, cow-eyed with thick lashes; her lips were stained a red-purple like her fingernails, the burgundy of snapdragons or wine. They looked away from her eyes, to her earrings and jewelry. The saltsmith pulled themselves up to look at the bell-shaped gold earrings with their tiny iron clappers, then to the various bangles the woman wore on her wrists. They were all intricately made and engraved with floral patterns. Several braided cuffs had beast-heads on the ends ¨C rams, dragons, cows. The saltsmith was so fascinated by the details that they failed to consider what they were doing. To Yianna, the smith approached in their silently creeping manner, its head hovering very close to hers as it touched her earrings. Before the woman could react, more hands reached out to hold her wrists ¨C gently! ¨C and position the bracelets there to be examined. She was delicately held captive by a creature, a thing. Several hands holding each wrist to see the jewelry better. More arms braced on the chair, functionally containing her in one place. Swords near her legs, not touching but Yianna was very aware that the blades were there. Yianna felt threatened, and yet¡­ The smith was so gentle and curious. Its fingers were cold; it did not clamp down on her like a set of shackles, but instead pressed softly into her flesh, no more of a nuisance than her bracelets were. ¡°What are you?¡± she mused aloud. The saltsmith was a functioning being, capable of asking for help and making objects that required precision and knowledge. It could learn; it would show no interest in Yianna¡¯s jewelry ¨C and now clothing ¨C if it couldn¡¯t. Vocalized communication was not available, but it could communicate, through gestures or rough drawings. Yet it seemed to interact with the world in a manner that suggested all these things were foreign to it, as if newly created. Yianna knew it was not recently made by another mage, as it sat in her lair for years without moving.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. So what was it? She sat up. The saltsmith¡¯s grip fell away as they moved backward, letting the woman pull open their faux ribcage like it was a puzzle. Once all their arms were displayed, she poked at the rough ball of scraps in their center until the saltsmith pulled it open wide to show her there was nothing to see. Yianna was disappointed that it wasn¡¯t a heart, but it did confirm to her that all the entity¡¯s existence lay in the lantern, not the body. She examined their hands and tested the stability of some of their joints for a few minutes, leaving the saltsmith bewildered. They could sense the contact but not feel the touch. It was a strange set of sensations, emotionless and logical, but confusing all the same. Their mind told them there was pressure on their joint but the familiar sensation of fingertips against flesh was gone. It was a hollow feeling. After Yianna the Guildmaster finished examining their metal parts, she made more attempts at complex communication. ¡°Do you know what you are?¡± That was the question, wasn¡¯t it? A metal shell with a human soul ¨C their purpose to serve others or be of use. That was what kept the saltsmith going, at the moment. Maybe their answer would change in time. ¡°Do you know how to nod or shake your head for yes and no?¡± Whoops. Ah, the saltsmith was so ill-accustomed to human interaction that they forgot responses were required. They nodded; the woman seemed surprised. ¡°Oh! That will improve our conversations, certainly. But, I wonder if you¡¯re merely doing it because I told you? Answer yes by shaking your head.¡± The order confused the saltsmith, as yes was a nod and no was a shake, and neither answered the question which required a detailed response. They tilted their head, trying to convey this feeling. To Yianna, the head-tilt was amusingly inhuman, as if a helmet on a display set of armor accidentally shifted. It did affirm that the saltsmith was not merely following the last given instructions, however. ¡°I intend to treat you as part of the guild, even if you are revealed to be a spirit or something whose behavior is conditional. Would you like that?¡± Was¡­ was she offering the saltsmith a position in the guild? They did not know what exactly that entailed but it was an opportunity not to be turned down. Not that they wanted for anything ¨C not food, shelter, or clothing ¨C but a guild career was guaranteed employment for a blacksmith who didn¡¯t even have a forge yet. They nodded enthusiastically. ¡°Do you require a tent? ¡­ do you sleep?¡± The woman¡¯s curiosity was evident, but the saltsmith shook their head no to both. They pointed outside of the tent, in the direction of the dilapidated cottage across the lake. ¡°You want to stay at the old house?¡± Yes. They saltsmith mimed hammering then covered the sides of their head as if they had ears. ¡°Your work is loud, so you want to remain across the lake.¡± Another nod. Admittedly, the saltsmith liked having the distance at this time. They were growing rapidly more comfortable with Yianna the Guildmaster, but it was difficult to imagine being the center of so many people¡¯s attention. ¡°That will be fine. You have made requests before, but do you know how to write or read?¡± She raised her hand and concentrated magic at her fingertip, drawing a line of light through the air. The saltsmith reached out to touch the magic as she wrote the word for their language in a flowing, interconnected script. To the saltsmith, the glowing letters were fascinating up until they concentrated on reading them. A syllable or two might pop out, but the symbols shifted incoherently in the air, rolling and transforming until no words could be discerned. Ah, it seemed their illiteracy traveled with their consciousness into this lantern. It was a pity, really, as writing would have greatly benefited them. Perhaps in time they could learn to work with it, as they did in their prior world. The saltsmith would try out of politeness, however. They gestured for a pen and paper, intrigued by the glass pen whose ink seemed to be contained in the swirls within the shaft. They hunkered down on the floor, paper laid on the rug as they attempted to write, internally sounding out letters of a mystery word. PAT. PD. BET. BEET. PPED. PA. BA. BAA. PPAD. PPAD. BBAD. If the saltsmith could squint in frustration, they would have. They pointed to the list, written in a script they could hardly understand, and hoped it made sense. ¡°Bad? You¡¯re bad at reading and writing.¡± Yes, correct. It was the saltsmith¡¯s luck in life to be incapable of speech and illiterate, while also being a body-less object. ¡°We can help with that.¡± They shrugged with their hands, unsure how the guild would fix a mind problem when there was no brain to affect. It was simply an inability of theirs, one of the reasons they went into a job heavy on physical labor instead of one requiring deskwork. ¡°I have many questions, but I think it is best that I attempt to sleep as it is late and I need rest. If you want for anything, let us know. You are welcome to visit me whenever you like.¡± The guildmaster began ending the conversation, but even as she stood to see the creature out, she thought of a final gesture of good will. ¡°I know you do not need this,¡± Yianna began as she sorted through a trunk of clothing. ¡°But it may help others acclimate to you.¡± She found a woolen cloak in a dark, dusty blue with brass clasps shaped like leaves. Yianna placed it below the smith¡¯s neck, as if the being had shoulders, securing the clasps and dusting it off. The saltsmith moved beneath the cloak, adjusting their arms to act like the ribs of an umbrella, although in a more relaxed manner. They wanted to prevent the fabric from tangling among the various floating bits, not billow out like a pompous thing. They almost clasped the guildmaster¡¯s hands in gratitude but decided that was not an appropriate response. Instead, the saltsmith gave a little bow, entirely inhuman as they bent at the wrong height for a human waist. The gesture made them look taller as they elongated downward. Yianna found it horrifying yet charming, still; it was difficult to make a dragon feel true fear. She watched as the smith took their leave, disappearing off into the night to do who knows what. As she took off her jewelry for the night, changing into a sleeping gown, Yianna thought about how light and graceful the smith¡¯s touch was, how carefully the metal-creature interacted with her. It was curious. A being with no concept of the world, no concept of humanity and its social graces would not be so polite in its touch. Yianna imagined such a being would forget that human flesh was soft and easily torn compared to metal. Yet, the smith was different. Cautious and careful. And kind. Ch 12: Peace Offering 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 ¨C 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¡ª 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.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. 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 ¨C no matter whether it was spirit or otherwise ¨C 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¡ª¡± Samir caught himself, correcting his words. ¡°¡ªmy 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 ¨C 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.
Ch 13: Meat Cute Samir returned the next day, swapping out the ceramic cup of cold tea for a new one. Smell was a sense that the saltsmith lacked. They inexplicably retained hearing without ears, sight without eyes, and a mockery of touch ¨C the sensation of pressure with less variance, less control. Yet, no true smell. An internally written report of what smells existed, but no experience of it. What the saltsmith would give for smell at this moment. ¡°I¡¯ve brought jasmine tea today, but I can¡¯t stay. Juniper caught a boar for us ¨C¡± The carcass¡¯ skull was smashed inward by the jester¡¯s hammer, none of which the word caught could properly convey. ¡°¡ªand it will take hours to process the beast properly. I will return tomorrow, I¡¯m sorry!¡± The saltsmith watched Samir leave in a rush, having been only steps away from the man as he swapped the cups. Steam wafted upwards from the jasmine tea on this cool morning. The saltsmith remembered a cousin who enjoyed foreign treats; jasmine was particularly fragrant and lovely. The cook was polite, refusing to enter someone else¡¯s home without clear permission; the stone wall blocked Samir¡¯s line of sight of the saltsmith, folded up into a small form. Curiosity killed the cat, yet satisfaction brought it back. The saltsmith followed Samir with great intrigue, wondering what a boar might look like in this world. They¡¯d seen the beasts at a distance after leaving the dragon¡¯s lair, too far to distinguish details, but to see a dead boar was another thing entirely. The boar was massive, as they tended to be. The saltsmith was intrigued to see that it didn¡¯t look like the transparent ape-boar the lady Nanazin ordered around. No, it was bristly and brown and ¨C judging by the way Samir covered his face with a kerchief ¨C it reeked like only wild game could. The saltsmith climbed a nearby fir tree when the cook¡¯s back was turned, peering downward to see the entire process from start to finish. Samir skinned the beast, leaving the saltsmith to wonder if anyone knew how to process leather here? Then came the butchering, the newly repaired cleaver making quick work of cartilage and small bones. It was remarkable watching Samir separate all the cuts, salting and seasoning some, hanging them to dry near a fire. Adding others to pots with glowing designs on them, perhaps for preservation? Making a stew, slicing and packaging the belly cuts, even the massive cheeks on the boar were not left untouched. Eventually, Samir needed a break. He headed elsewhere, letting the saltsmith do some snooping. They were emboldened by the confrontation the other day. The humans knew of their existence and permitted it. Therefore, the saltsmith could reasonably poke around the settlement. If they stayed out of sight, that is. The saltsmith couldn¡¯t place where the urge came from, but as they were looking over the skinned, de-fleshed carcass of the boar, they became fixated on the beast¡¯s tusks and teeth. The tusks could make a good handle for a knife, that was true, but the urge to pry the teeth from the skull was a strange one. They were too far from their peaceful, human home-life for the saltsmith to question this urge right now. They produced a flat scrap of metal ¨C not a screwdriver or an awl, but similar enough to work ¨C and quickly wrenched as many molars from the boar as possible. The tusks were another story. This was a fresh, recently living boar. The saltsmith knew nothing of maceration and flesh-removal for the morbidly-inclined ¨C those who wanted to keep and display skeletons or maintain trophies of their hunts ¨C but it was easy to guess that older boars had tusks that would come out easier than young ones. It was still really, really hard. The saltsmith had no weight to throw into their actions, given that they were entirely bones and metal coating. In a burst of ingenuity, they used the weight of the head against it, loosening and removing the bottom tusk by rocking the skull against a hard surface, then flipping it over and doing it again. They had to skitter off into the forest as soon as they were finished, barely avoiding contact with the cook, who was too distracted to notice the rustling of leaves or the lack of teeth on the carcass. Samir, admittedly, was a bit in over his head. He knew how to butcher a pig, as his old boss had been crude in his insistence that the prettyboy was out of his depth in a kitchen, but he never denied Samir the opportunity to learn. It was what to do with all this boar meat that Samir was unsure about. He could easily cook the individual cuts, as provided to him individually, but how to process an entire boar with minimal waste? He separated the cuts into groups ¨C ones for curing, ones for immediate use, others for cooking and storing.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Samir convinced Atteberry to help construct a makeshift smoking station with cut timber poles and the hide of the boar itself, built over a constantly fed campfire. Smoking some of the meat would make it last longer, and in the meantime, he could salt or cook the rest. He set about making pork indad, a flavorful stewed pork belly that was heavy and hearty. Perhaps the surrounding nations were different, but Kovatelli had no lack of spices. It was considered bad luck to let your kitchen run out of spices, as an empty dabbi ¨C the box of spice cups and containers ¨C meant the cook was absentminded, and probably bought the worst cuts or curdled milk. Between the spices and the slow cooking, the tough boar meat would lose a lot of its gaminess and be, hopefully, delicious. Samir didn¡¯t have time to pause his work to reminisce, so as he wiped down his cooking station and scrubbed the chopping board with salt to rid it of the meat bits, he wondered what his old boss would do. Argyris was a stinky old pig himself, grumpy and constantly complaining, but he had a right to since he ran his kitchen with precision and knowledge that only came from decades of experience. Samir thought of him fondly, more like a riotous uncle than an employer. While Argyris wasn¡¯t the first job opportunity Samir had after¡­ well, after he left, working as kitchen staff was the most educational by far. There were only so many things Samir could do without providing his qualifications and education, both of which would give him away immediately as important, if not highborn. Being in a kitchen was so helpful. Even if Argyris¡¯ partners tried to put the pretty, young worker in front of customers, Samir was having none of it. He panicked in front of the old chef, who decided with finality that Samir was his new project. Even if Samir felt little peace after that moment ¨C constantly driven to work on task after task until closing time ¨C he was grateful for the opportunity. Now, employment at the guild settlement was a new chance to get out of the cities, to be gainfully employed and happy with significantly less risk of being outed. Argyris understood. He whined and complained about it, but he understood. He and his partners sent Samir along with the best of wishes and a few small presents, tokens of their time together. Tools, work clothes, the like. What would Argyris do with this boar? He had a tavern to feed, not a small encampment of eight people and an odd spirit. ¡­ he would tell Samir to buy some pigs and then laugh as the creatures ¡°tasted the wild¡± by cleaning up the rest of the carcass meat. Argyris didn¡¯t like wasting good food. With a sigh, Samir finished cleaning. While the edible meat was stripped from the bones of the boar, he was unconvinced that he was being the most efficient or intelligent with his use of the beast. Without Argyris to consult, Samir was on unsteady footing. He began the next nasty task, hauling the carcass and organs to¡­ elsewhere. He took it out to the treeline, resigning to recruit Atteberry or Juniper after dinner so they could figure out what to do with it. If it was too close to the encampment, it would reek and attract beasts, big and small. But transporting it farther away was a task for multiple people ¨C people with a plan, which Samir did not have. From her perch on the rock by the shoreline, Nanazin watched the cook move the carcass with vague interest. No, Samir wasn¡¯t the strongest person in the guild settlement ¨C that easily went to Atteberry ¨C but that didn¡¯t mean he lacked strength entirely. She found his determination interesting, and the clean-up afterwards doubly so. Nanazin held the borrowed whittling knife in stasis, abruptly halted from her task of carving an icon for the blacksmith spirit as Samir began removing his shirt in her vicinity. He said something first ¨C he wasn¡¯t a beast, after all ¨C but all Nanazin heard was a vague indication of uncleanliness, followed by immediate stripping, which certainly led to some dirty thoughts. The day was not cold, perhaps crisp, so Samir wasn¡¯t freezing as he removed the nasty clothes layered with boar-bits and meat juice. His intentions were to become slightly more presentable for dinner by rinsing off in the lake. It was a trade-off for algae and fish water; Samir could burn some incense or find some perfume if he needed it. The mage appeared stunned, which Samir mistook as insult and silent admonishment. Ever the gentleman, he immediately made amends. ¡°I apologize for the intrusion, Nanazin! I couldn¡¯t wait for a bath to heat up, as the scraps of boar on my clothes would have made soup in the basin.¡± The apology came with a respectful nod followed by a cheeky smile. When Nanazin¡¯s eyebrows shot upwards, Samir understood that he did something impolite by not wrapping up in a sheet immediately. He threw the sheet around himself and gave another apology nod, rushing off so he wouldn¡¯t intrude on the woman¡¯s day any longer. Nanazin was slow to react, her mental capacity for new information stalled by sheer visual input. ¡°Oh. Wait, no¡ª¡± Samir was too far away to hear Nanazin¡¯s quiet protests. Fates, that man was pretty. While she watched, her lips were pressed together tightly so her mouth wouldn¡¯t drop open at the sight of Samir emerging from the lake, dripping wet in his underwear. It seemed that Samir was more of a traditional southern Kovatellian than Nanazin would have ever predicted; he wore a style of underwear reserved for those serious about combat or who engaged in frequent exercise. It left little to the imagination. Samir was fit but not lean. The mage barely had a few seconds to analyze what she was seeing before Samir dipped into the lake, but his shoulders and back were muscular and beautiful, with some tattoo on one side. With Samir¡¯s profession as cook, it kind of made sense to Nanazin why his upper body was well-built. That wasn¡¯t meant as an insult for elsewhere. She appreciated that he was well-fed and fed-well; his belly was a good indicator that he enjoyed his own food, something Nanazin appreciated in a cook. And a man. Then he was gone. As she slowly returned to her whittling, Nanazin tried to focus on something other than Samir¡¯s unintentionally wanton display. Or at least think about Samir¡¯s personality and smile and pretty, curly hair. Anything other than how thin that underwear looked while wet. She hummed between her pursed lips, chiding herself quietly. The spirit needed an icon. That was her task before lunch. Her attraction to Samir was just that. Simple attraction. Even if he was sweet. With newfound determination, Nanazin began rounding out the curves of the block of wood in her hands, attempting to make a gourd shape out of a block of soft wood. With luck, she could paint or embellish it for a proper shrine, as the blacksmith had to be a spirit of smithing or something similar. That was the only possibility that made sense to the mage. Ch 14: Teeth and Bone 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 ¨C or allegedly, a cold source ¨C 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 ¨C not like the pyrite did for their hammer ¨C 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.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. 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 ¨C called Adderbury or similar ¨C 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. Ch 15: Food Fight While the saltsmith waited for nightfall, they experimented with the remaining tusk. Turning it into powder seemed like a waste, but the saltsmith reasoned that there were other boars in the wild that could be used for their tusks, if need be. Surely it wasn¡¯t a limited resource, at least not like¡­ well, the saltsmith would have cited gold or precious jewels in this instance, but they remembered the gold-bath the dragon engaged in. Perhaps it was limited by dragon greed, not limited by the ground itself. They tried to use a sharp bit of a rock to scrape some of the tusk into powder, conceding that their next project needed to be tools for personal use. A rasp would certainly help, perhaps a small axe or a working knife. For all the saltsmith¡¯s fears and hesitation about being discovered ¨C or simply observed, now that they were known ¨C they continued working on their anvil, shaping tusk-imbued metal into small, square nails. The ring of the hammer against the anvil was as natural as breathing. It was a sign of their presence as much as footsteps were ¨C inextricably tied to their being, to their nature. Whether they be a spirit or some unnatural soul, they would continue to blacksmith, even if the words for it changed. By nightfall, the saltsmith was long-finished with their work. They tidied up the area around the cottage more, although they had no idea where the ¡®junk¡¯ would go or who would help remove it. With nothing remaining to neaten, the saltsmith collected the handful of nails, now cool and as ready as they could be. All of the humans were in their tents, the gentle glow of firelight passing through the thick canvas. Presumably some of them had furnaces or such in their tents, for when the nights became too cold, but the saltsmith imagined that most of their light sources were magical. Perhaps that was a guess borne out of ignorance, but given how the saltsmith¡¯s own time and place was dominated by the lightbulb, with candles becoming an antiquity or a novelty, they thought it could be reasonable. If met with the decision of a light source that may catch other things aflame, or a heatless, threat-less light that would only go out when directly snuffed? The magical option seemed to be the most prudent. The saltsmith bounded to the carpenter¡¯s workstation in the way that only many skeletal limbs could ¨C a fluid rotation of spindly arms impervious to the ground¡¯s roughness. They slowed when the table neared, catching sight of their request. It was moved, set to the side out of the workspace. Ah, so the carpenter received the message. Hopefully, he would assist the saltsmith, although he had no real motive to do so. They set the nails down in an orderly fashion, stacked neatly like firewood. The saltsmith had no ability to convey that these nails were¡­ were enchanted. The enchantment itself was complex to describe, consisting of increased resistance to stress by torsion or bending. They hoped that the carpenter, like the saltsmith, had access to this System and could discover the benefits himself. While the saltsmith did not possess a delineated to-do list, they did have a short set of desires to fulfill. One of which, was to scavenge. If the teeth and tusks gave properties to the metal, were the bones of the beast equally valuable? With a sharp edged rock in hand, the saltsmith approached the carcass. It smelled, they were aware, but the presence of insects did not deter them. While they would prefer not to have ants or flies in their belongings, the saltsmith wasn¡¯t at risk of being bitten. The lack of flesh was beneficial, in that regard.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. The toes and the tail seemed reasonable and easy to scavenge. Both were still knitted together with flesh and bristly fur, but it was nothing that the heat wouldn¡¯t take care of. The smell of scorched hair wasn¡¯t as much of a deterrent, with the saltsmith occupying this Jack O¡¯ Lantern body. They were stuck wrestling with the femur. It was detached from the corpse, having already been cut apart by Samir to remove any decent meat, but it was wedged between vertabrae, shoved into the pile for disposal. The saltsmith had several skeletal arms wedged into the mass of bones, yanking and ripping at sinew and silverskin to remove this one thing, when there came a rustling from behind. Their awareness 7 was not enough to alert them to the noise, but the guttural growl and sudden motion on their left sent the saltsmith into a skittering dive, dodging an attack that never came. They had one hand locked onto the femur as they faced the drake. The same one that chased them down in the dragon¡¯s lair. It had the same emerald green scales, dusted with gold, but it was built like a mountain lion, like a panther, like a tiger. The saltsmith was not made for combat. They were never a soldier and they never intended to be one. They had two urges, to flee and to freeze. The latter won out. The drake tossed its head in irritation not unlike a horse. Their horns were forked, branching, like a deer but thicker and shorter. It approached and with maw opening wide, the drake¡ª the saltsmith braced for impact ¨C chomped on to the boar¡¯s carcass, snagging spine and pelvis in its teeth. A dozen different emotions ran through the saltsmith¡¯s hollow head, chased by equally frantic thoughts. Was the drake not after the saltsmith? Did it not want to kill them? Or damage them? Were they immune to the attention of predators by lacking flesh? Surely a beast would attack any moving target if it was afraid enough? Was the saltsmith simply not scary? The worried yet rational thoughts filled the saltsmith¡¯s mind, flooding it and sweeping away all coherency that could possibly remain. When they were done, there was only one thought left. A scraggly, determined thought that withstood the wash of logic and rush of anxiety. The saltsmith latched onto the femur with multiple hands, using another few to grab the drake¡¯s forked horn, trying to separate the two. This was their bone and they were going to take it. The drake huffed, its reptilian face betraying no emotion, but the gold-ringed eye flicked over the saltsmith as if to question the decision. The saltsmith yanked once more, trying to get the femur out of the drake¡¯s teeth. The beast backed away, actively dragging a portion of the carcass and the saltsmith along. It shook its head like a dog, trying to force the saltsmith to let go, but enough was enough, the saltsmith thought. They were tired of this world bullying them into submission. They wanted this¡­. this damn bone. Their blue cloak flapped helplessly as the saltsmith locked all ten hands onto either the bone or the horn of the drake. They only had strength 7 and their endurance was 10, so something would give. The saltsmith hoped it was the bone, so they could scuttle off with at least a fragment, but who knew? In no world did the saltsmith consider attacking the drake. They had two swords, used as legs to walk upright, but they weren¡¯t even considered weapons to fight with in the saltsmith¡¯s eyes. This was a simple spat over who got what. The drake jumped around, flailing as the oddly shaped saltsmith was locked onto its face. It didn¡¯t snap either, curiously; it merely tried to shake off the strange being and resume what was presumably dinner. Eventually, the saltsmith¡¯s attributes could no longer best the drake¡¯s. They were thrown off into a bush, after which they heard a mighty huff from the beast, followed by the cracking of bones. While the drake was preoccupied, the saltsmith scrambled upright, darting back to the carcass and grabbing the tail and feet they set aside. Now that they were detached from the drake, their sensibility returned. This was not a fight worth having. The saltsmith ran back toward their cottage, halting mid sprint to veer away. Leading the drake back to home seemed like a terrible idea. The saltsmith found a suitably tall tree and climbed up high, hoping the beast wouldn¡¯t follow them. Was it worth a few bones? No. But it was an interesting experience. The saltsmith couldn¡¯t shake the sharp gaze of the drake from their mind, feeling like it was curiously familiar. Ch 16: Seeds of Trust 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 ¨C the saltsmith couldn¡¯t expect a few minutes to establish a change in properties, rather than a few hours ¨C 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 ¨C 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? ¨C 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.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. 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 ¨C naturally formed ¨C 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 ¨C it was a longing that wouldn¡¯t disappear ¨C 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 ¨C roofless, still in the process of being made ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C spirit or not ¨C it had to accept gifts.