Since time immemorial, I have made the iron sing beneath my hammers. From ore torn from the depths of the earth, I draw a raw, capricious material that only the fire of my furnace can tame. In the glowing light of the embers, I purify the metal, shape it, and give it form. In my hands are born the humblest tools as well as the most formidable weapons.
To see me bent over the anvil, my face streaked with sweat and soot, one might think it is nothing more than a mechanical repetition of gestures. But every strike, every spark, every plunge into the cold water or return to the flames obeys a silent science. It is not merely the work of a laboring body, but of a watchful eye and a trained ear.
I know, from the very shade the metal takes on, when it is ready for the next blow. I can tell, from the clear or muffled tone it gives beneath the hammer, whether it still needs to drink the fire’s heat or rest in the cold water. I stop when the iron has absorbed just enough carbon from the charcoal to become steel—neither too hard, lest it break, nor too soft, lest it bend. This is when the true blade is born, the one that does not fail.
At times, I go further, welding together multiple layers of metal: pure iron and steels with varying carbon content. Through this patient union, I approach a perfection coveted by the wealthiest knights. Some are willing to pay the price of an entire herd for a sword from my forge. This is not vanity, but the recognition of the art and soul I put into my work.
Yet this quest is not without solitude. My forge, glowing day and night, could set the whole village ablaze. Out of caution, my workshop stands apart, close to a river whose waters turn my grindstone and cool my blades. But to live apart is also to live under the wary eyes of others.
Rumors spread easily. They say my secrets are sorcery, that the devil himself whispers my formulas. Some even claim that, when night falls, I transform into a beast haunting the riverbanks. What can I do? The same hands that forge the weapons of justice are accused of working for evil.
So I remain faithful to my task. No matter the whispers, I persist in my work with unwavering resolve. For every blade, every tool that leaves my forge bears the mark of my patience and determination.
I am a blacksmith.
Proud of my craft. Proud to bring forth, from the chaos of fire and stone, objects that will stand the test of time.