We made our way down to the First Forge—our boots echoing
through Thoringard's ribs—until we found Baldrum Tharnforge, a living monument in that ancient cavern.
His silver beard was braided tight, cascading over his chest like cooled molten metal. His skin, weathered and cracked, bore the marks of centuries spent at the flame. His hands—scarred, calloused, thick with old muscle—spoke of a lifetime shaping steel into legend. He stood like stone made flesh.
My heart thundered. I swallowed. Standing before a legend, I felt small.
It was tradition for the chosen to witness the forging of their weapons. An honor most never earned. A ritual steeped in dwarven pride.
I dropped to one knee. Breath caught halfway to my lungs.
"Baldrum. It is an honor to have the Master Ancestral Smith forge my blades."
I bowed low. "I have a request. That these be melted down and reforged into the core of the new."
Tolgarn's approval meant little without the smith's own. His craft was sacred. You didn't make demands of Baldrum Tharnforge. Not if you wanted the work to hold.
His voice was rough as gravel under boots.
"The adopted son of Tolgarn shows respect. Good."
He took the swords from my hands—his rough fingers brushing mine like forgebrick—then turned them in the light. His gaze was sharp as a whetted blade.
"I'll honor your request," he said at last. "But..."
He looked up—eyes dark, glinting. "I name them."
I nodded. "Of course."
"What were they called?"
He rubbed along the fuller.
"The white one was Celerius. The black—Mors."
A dry chuckle rumbled from his chest—like coal cracking in a furnace.
"Swift and Death, eh?"
My lips twitched in awkward pride.
"Yes."
Then the ritual began. Baldrum moved with a precision that defied his years—fire and steel dancing in perfect counterpoint. He melted our blades—white and black blending into molten silver—added metal, bound them into a single pool of promise.
He hammered the glowing ingot—folding it over itself again and again—each strike a thunderclap in the ancient chamber, shaking bone. With each blow, the Forge pulsed: bronze, crimson, sapphire—light bending to his will.
I watched Baldrum hammer steel that had once saved my life. It would now become something stronger. Worthy of legend—or so I hoped.
He reheated the steel—flames roaring—added more metal—shaped twin blades. He coated each in a gray, unfamiliar clay, then plunged them into a vat of dark oil. Steam billowed around us, laced with the sting of metal and earth.
He polished them, shifting from coarse to fine stones, until each blade gleamed like moonlight resting on still water. Finally, he slotted them into hilts wrapped in red-and-black leather—tight, purposeful.
He etched the runes—his chisel singing over steel.
"May these swords always return to their master's hands. Swift as a coursing river... deadly as a basilisk's gaze."
The runes flared brilliant blue, then dimmed, sinking into the steel.
When it was done, Baldrum stood, shoulders squared. He presented the swords like relics. I took them, breath caught:
The first blade shimmered—sky-blue, veins of white lightning running through it; the second, near-black royal blue, pulsing with hidden stormlight.
His voice rolled with quiet thunder:
"From the ashes of Celerius... rises Karvrek. Swift Slayer. Flight Cleaver."
He turned the second, edge catching the forge-light like a predator's grin:
"And from the bones of Mors... comes Morgrim. Doom Fang. Death Blade."
"Beautiful," I whispered. "An absolute masterpiece."
Torglel whistled, awe in his voice.
"Menacing and beautiful—like a storm in all its fury."
Baldrum nodded, pride in the glow of the forge.
"The core is Valkrynium—flexible, conductive. Lightning will flow through it. The edges are Tharnakite—razor sharp. Dragonhide might as well be soft leather."
He stepped back and set down a massive billet with a thud that rattled stone.
"Valkrynium creates a shock‑absorbing core," he said.
"Tharnakite forms an indestructible plating."
He hefted it into the fire—flames roared; metal glowed brighter. Bringing it out, tongs gripped tight, it blazed like a captured sun.
Hammering followed—storms in steel—vibrations crawling up my spine, hair lifting. The Forge pulsed in spectral color, bending light itself.
Then Baldrum plunged a sharpened iron pole into the hammerhead. A shockwave roared—dust sifted, light flared, colors danced in violent arcs.
As it settled, he wrapped glowing Tharnakite around the core, molding it, sweat beading on his brow. Then hammer after hammer echoed like the Drake's final scream—raw fury shaping legend.
When the head was finished he slotted in the haft—pale, smooth, reinforced with Tharnakite bands. Steam hissed from the joint. Then he wrapped the grip in obsidian-leather.
"You'll never drop this," he grunted.
Polishing complete, he etched runes on the face, blessing it aloud:
"May this hammer return to its master. May it split earth, fell foes."
The runes flared molten gold, then dimmed into silent promise.
Baldrum presented it to Torglel like a crown.
"Fashioned from the remains of your foe." he said—voice proud. "Now... what do you call it?"
Torglel took it—hands wrapping the grip—holding it high, testing its weight with a slow grin spreading across his face—blue eyes gleaming. "Durthar," he declared—voice booming, "The Giant Slayer."
And for a long moment, the cavern was silent—save for the steady hum of power radiating from the weapon itself—a low thrum that pulsed through the air. I knew then that Durthar wasn't just a hammer—it was a promise, its name a vow I had no idea how true it would come to be.
As we made our way toward Odrin's—Torglel was absolutely giddy with excitement—swinging his hammer around like it was a child's toy—broad arcs cutting the air. "I'll be able to smash anything with this," he said—slinging the weapon across his back with a thud. "Deepstalker Eel leather is so rare—the fact that I've got it on my grip makes this hammer priceless. A thousand gold for an ounce, easy. Know why?"
He shot me a grin. "As far as I know, dwarves are the only ones who can work the stuff, right?"
"Aye." He nodded, "but it's more than that. The Eel's a massive thing—lives in magma veins like a fish in water. Its hide's tough enough to survive molten lava, but making leather from it? Damn near impossible." He raised a finger—like he was giving a masterclass. "But if you can manage it—that hide transforms into the finest leather you'll ever touch. Pliable, grippy, and tougher than dragonhide. You can't beat it."
He let out a booming laugh—echoing through the mountain halls.
We made our way up a narrow cliffside path—wind whistling past, stone rough underfoot—until we reached Odrin's home—carved into the rock like it had always been there, seamless and ancient. I knocked, and after a few moments, it creaked open—hinges groaning, revealing Odrin's wiry frame.
He stood there—smirking, spectacles glinting in the torchlight—"Good, you're here. Come. I've got something to show you."
He led us down a set of stairs into his underground workshop, the air growing warm with forge heat. Massive double doors opened—creaking wide—to reveal the heart of his craft—tools scattered across benches, blueprints pinned to walls, glowing arcane equipment humming in organized chaos—vials of shimmering liquid, gears ticking faintly, a forge's glow casting long shadows.
"I harvested the Drake and built something special for each of you," Odrin said, chest puffing with pride. "My way of saying thanks. Not every day a man gets to tinker with myth."
He handed me the armor.
"Here. Try this on."
It slid over my shoulders like a second skin—sleek black scales that shimmered under the forge light, jagged as volcanic glass. Each movement felt natural, almost fluid. It looked lethal. I grinned.
"Well," Odrin said, eyes glinting behind his spectacles, "that looks better than I imagined."
He clasped his hands together and circled me slowly, boots tapping against stone.
"I took a legendary material and made it better," Odrin said, circling me like a craftsman admiring his own myth. "The scalemail's fitted with aether pulse nodes—arcane propulsion etched in runes. They respond to thought—shift your momentum midair. Doesn't matter if you leap from a cliff or boltstrike through a battlefield—you'll land where you aim."
He tapped the armor again. "It's layered with adaptive wards. Old spellwork, but clever. They read incoming magic—fire, frost, poison, even shadow—and adjust. Absorb what they can. Deflect what they can't." His fingers rapped lightly on the bracers. "These channel spell energy back through your blades or hands. Don't overdo it though—push too much and it'll cook you from the inside out."
I ran a hand over the scales, nodding slowly.
"You really outdid yourself."
"I always do," he said with a smirk, then turned to Torglel, handing over a set of heavy crimson armor—broad plates of Drake-bone and gleaming Tharnakite bands.
"Your turn."
Torglel strapped it on—locks clicking into place. The crest on the chestplate—his family sigil, a phoenix cradling an anvil—caught the light. The crimson hue made the whole thing look like it had bled itself into being.
Torglel would later claim it was so enemies couldn't see him bleed. Half-joke, half-challenge, and I never knew which he meant more.
"Kinetic feedback," Odrin explained, flicking the chestplate. "Takes the force of anything that hits you, stores it, and slaps it back double. Basically, when someone hits you... they're hitting themselves. With interest."
Torglel blinked. "Eh?"
Odrin sighed, pinching his nose. "When you get hit, you hit back twice as hard."
Torglel's grin spread like wildfire. "Oh-ho! I like that. They're going to regret crossing me."
His laugh echoed like an avalanche.
"The gauntlets are rune-bound," Odrin said, tapping the bracers. "Attuned to draw metal from a short distance—ten feet, maybe a bit more. Weapons, armor—if it's forged, you can pull it. Good for yanking blades from hands or dragging enemies off balance. Just don't get greedy—too much strain, and the runes fracture."
He held up one last finger. "Now the best part," Odrin said, grinning like a lunatic inventor. "Say it with me: anchor mode."
Without hesitation, Torglel shouted—"Anchor mode!"
The armor's plates shifted and locked together—with a hiss and a series of clanks—rooting him to the ground.
"This mode turns you into a living fortress," Odrin said—voice bright with pride. "Even dragon breath won't get through that. Only problem—you're not moving an inch either. A bit of a design flaw I never got around to fixing."
Torglel grinned wide. "Good," he said. "Running's for cowards and elves."
"Just say 'deactivate' to revert it," Odrin added—stepping back, arms crossing.
"Deactivate!" Torglel bellowed. The armor shifting again—plates unlocking, sliding back into a more mobile configuration with a faint clank.
I looked between our gifts, still awe struck. "Odrin... you've given us gifts far beyond anything we've earned."
"Not earned?" Odrin scoffed. "You two defeated a beast even the entire Molten Vanguard couldn't kill. You uncovered a discovery that will change dwarven history. This?" He spread his arms—gesturing to the workshop, the forge—"This is the least I can do to say thanks."