A smith in the city of Stormhammer cannot be called such without at least a forge, an anvil, and some coal to work with. Most have no metal—at least most who live in the city's lower districts. They charge little while clients bring their damaged tools and pieces of metal to melt. Lately, several adventurers arrived with broken armor, rusty weapons, and some with copper items. The quality of what they returned with was low, but their coal was often peat mixed with charcoal—a low flame that merely softened the pieces these cheap merchants of arms and armor hammered. But Chapatrueno was not like that. A dwarf by race, he was one of the few who forged runes into weapons and armor for quite a low price. It was not as if his weapons split the skies as the great dwarf smiths of the past achieved. However, getting a +1 fire or lightning on copper weapons or even some rusty ones made him the elite of the smithing district.
Chapatrueno was not always a smith. In his youth, he received some magical training. But his master, knowing the low quality of the magic, did not teach him to generate any spells. If others knew his secret, he would probably be killed by dwarves or humans themselves to not lose the magic monopoly. This humble smith could channel the magic around him—such an ability, so impressive that he could even put it into runes. Thus, his were the only weapons—no one outside the lower districts knew this—that operated in the forests. Thanks to this, the populations of adventurers seeking to make some fortune and escape poverty had some chance.
Despite charging cheap—two copper pieces for repair, six copper pieces for a rune—he had amassed a small fortune that he used for his son's education. The boy was shaping up to be an artisan rarely seen. His steam constructions were well known from a young age, and despite being a poor dwarf, he had managed to enroll. He was about to finish the profession that would allow him to work on the great ships and war machines. He was his pride. His son reciprocated this paternal effort by working very hard to achieve the highest grades and his father's recognition.
One day, a week before graduation, Chapatrueno discovered that some of his most powerful weapons were missing. It was no great matter, but a bronze axe, a breastplate of the same material, and an iron helmet cost at least fifty silver pieces. The next day, he went to report this to the local constable—a pedestrian human who lived happily on the little power he represented, in a place where no one needed him.
Upon arrival, he was smiling, contemplating a steel sword, brandishing it so it hung a few millimeters from Chapatrueno's beard. "Isn't it beautiful?" The "Steppe Wolf" mercenaries brought it from the forests. They are great fellows at finding treasures in scrap. The dwarf kept his calm. The Steppe Wolves were mercenaries in the broadest sense of the word—almost always comparable to bandits. But he came to file a complaint, not to question what the constable said. He filed his complaint, even explained he did not want culprits, only his things returned. The cynical face of the authority representative asked the cost of those pieces. The dwarf told him.
"I do not work looking for things worth less than one gold," he replied.
"Look among the thieves you sell to. And now, get out of here before I arrest you for selling illegal goods!"
"What goods?" the dwarf asked indignantly. No one but him knew honor.
"The dirty quasi-adventurers you serve are the only ones who have completed missions these days. My boys and I suspect you sell stolen goods."
The poor dwarf was devastated. He left with his head down. He did not understand what was happening. He paid his taxes and always respected the law. What was wrong in Stormhammer?
Upon arriving home, another bad news awaited him. On the door was a notice stating succinctly that his son was dead, but since he had taken ninety percent of the assignments, the money would not be refunded. Good day. Chapatrueno wept bitterly for days. He did not understand what was happening. His son lived in the guild and had promised to stay away from drink. But according to the note, he was no longer here. When the dwarf ran out of tears, he went to the guild for his son's belongings—to have something to remember the love they lived with. The people there had another surprise. When they decided to receive him, filthy as he was from the forge's smoke, they indicated with a gesture that his son's "scrap" was in the trash. Too ashamed to fight, he went where they told him. Made of copper pieces and some iron, beautiful teapots of intricate design awaited him. Kitchen tools, even some mechanical nature, showed the dedication he had for them. There, among his small tools forged by the grieving father, was a letter.
*"Father, you always sought for me to succeed. You believed so much in me that I had to believe by force of your conviction. Life in the guild was very hard. The professors humiliated me for being humble. My designs never won awards—they were not made of gold or at least steel. I never cared, as it allowed me to keep learning, and in due time, I would have the resources to make them from those materials. But the final project is coming. It must be exceptional, for if not, they will not let me graduate. I do not want you to pay tuition again. So I borrowed your weapons—those in the chest. I am sure that in the forest, I will find the metals to shape my creation. If you read this, ignore what they are. But since I know you will anyway, I will tell you—it is a set of mallets for your forge. Also, in secret, I copied your way of carving runes. I can only put the +1 light attribute, but I am sure you will be proud of me. Love... Your son."*
After that came many days. The dwarf did not know which taverns he was thrown out of or where he slept. Most of the time, he was drunk. When not, he remembered his boy's smile on a face with a short beard. He went on like this until passing by one of the prestigious armorers' shops, he saw an iron helmet among the five-gold items. Was his sight deceiving him?... No! The +1 defense runes were there, and a hastily mended notch showed it was a used helmet. Everything lost focus—only the bulbous nose of a fat merchant a few centimeters from his eyes remained.
"Where did you buy it?" he snapped.
The fat man struggled, but the pressure of Chapatrueno's hand would not let him move.
"The Wolves bring everything."
"Who owns this shop?" the dwarf asked with teeth so clenched that a trickle of blood began to drip. But it was the last thing he said. He felt a hand on his head throwing him to the floor while everyone's voices finally reached his ears.
"It is the constable's shop."
Lifting his head, he managed to see one of the corporals who worked for the constable.
"He will be locked up for a long time."
He tried to explain, tried to be heard above the buzzing in his head. But everything was interrupted when the leader of the Steppe Wolves broke his nose with a kick of his boot. From the window, the constable smiled.