The autumn winds swept across the Kingsroad as the party made their final preparations for departure. Owen stood by the village gates, watching his mother dab at her eyes with her apron while his father maintained his stoic demeanor, though his jaw clenched tight betrayed his emotions.
"White Harbor's a fine place," Lord Manderly clasped Olyvar's shoulder. "Your skills will be well-rewarded there. The current smith's getting long in the tooth, and I could use someone of your caliber."
Tina wiped her hands on her apron, straightening her back. "And you're certain about the cook position, my lord?"
"Old Derrick's been talking of retirement these past two years. Man's earned his rest." Wyman's eyes crinkled. "Your reputation precedes you, Tina. The tavern's stew is legendary up and down the coast."
Owen embraced his mother, breathing in her familiar scent of herbs and fresh bread. "I'll write every week, I promise."
"You better." She squeezed him tight. "And mind your manners at Winterfell. Lord stark…-"
"Will see him for the fine young man he is," Olyvar cut in, pulling Owen into a fierce hug. "Make us proud, son."
Lord Robett mounted his horse, nodding to the assembled group. "I'll spread word through my lands that Deepwood Motte seeks skilled craftsmen. Should keep curious eyes from looking too closely at Longshore's sudden lack of a blacksmith."
The farewells stretched on until Lord Stark finally called for departure. Owen mounted his horse, a sturdy northern garron, and fell in beside the Stark guards. He watched his parents grow smaller as the distance increased, their figures eventually disappearing around a bend in the road.
The journey north was quiet, broken only by the steady clip-clop of hooves and occasional conversations between the guards. Lord Stark rode at the head of the column, his presence commanding even in silence. Sometimes he would point out landmarks to Owen - ancient barrows, the edges of the Wolfswood, places where battles had been fought generations ago.
At night, they made camp in sheltered spots off the road. Owen found himself missing his mother's cooking as he ate travel rations of hard bread and dried meat. The guards shared stories around the campfire, tales of hunts and fights and the old days before Robert's Rebellion.
On the third night, Lord Stark joined Owen by the fire after the others had turned in. "Your parents are good people," he said, poking at the embers with a stick. "Lord Manderly will treat them well."
"I know." Owen stared into the flames. "Still feels strange, leaving them."
"The North takes care of its own," Stark replied. "And you're one of us and now a Northern lord to boot. Together, we will the North a land to be envied."
The days blended together as they traveled further north. The air grew colder, the trees taller, the settlements more scattered. Owen found himself grateful for the thick wool cloak Lord Stark had provided. His thoughts often drifted to his parents, imagining them settling into their new life in White Harbor's castle by the sea, but the ache of separation gradually dulled to a manageable throb.
As the party continued their journey northward, Owen's mind wandered far beyond the present moment. His fingers absently traced patterns in his saddle's leather while he contemplated the vast possibilities that lay before him. The Celestial Forge had granted him knowledge and his thoughts raced with potential projects.
"Glass," he muttered to himself, drawing a curious glance from a nearby guard. The North's greatest weakness was its limited growing season, but with properly constructed glasshouses, they could grow food year-round. Not the flimsy structures currently in use, but reinforced ones with frames of steel and malachite-strengthened glass that could withstand the harshest winter storms.
His mind's eye saw vast structures rising from the snow, their surfaces gleaming with enchanted warmth. The designs were already taking shape - double-layered walls for better insulation, cleverly designed ventilation systems, and drainage channels that would prevent snow from collapsing the roofs.
The steady rhythm of hoofbeats carried him to thoughts of farming equipment. The northern soil was stubborn, unyielding to traditional plows. But Owen could see solutions - specialized plowshares forged from orichalcum alloys that would cut through the frozen ground like butter. Lighter tools that wouldn't exhaust the farmers, yet strong enough to last generations.
Owen thoughts then drifted to the Dwemer knowledge he had received from the forge waiting to be tapped. The automatons in Cidhna Mine were impressive, reliable and quick in their mining duties, but they were simple compared to what the Dwemer had achieved. He imagined sentinel machines patrolling the Wall, tireless guardians that needed no rest or sustenance. Mechanical scouts that could traverse the frozen wastes beyond, gathering intelligence without risking human lives.
But those plans would have to wait. The Dwemer's achievements were too advanced to reveal all at once - better to start small, with practical improvements that wouldn't frighten or overwhelm. The North needed to be eased into such changes, not shocked by them.
His fingers unconsciously traced the patterns of a Dwemer gear mechanism in his saddle's leather. Storage solutions came to mind - vast underground chambers kept warm by tapping into hot springs, like the ones beneath Winterfell. Improved preservation methods for food, enhanced by materials from Cidhna Mine. Water systems that wouldn't freeze in winter, ensuring steady supplies for both castle and smallfolk.
The possibilities seemed endless, each idea spawning three more. Owen pulled out a some rolls of parchment he had bought, jotting down quick notes whenever the terrain allowed him to. Priority would need to be given to projects that could show immediate benefits while laying groundwork for more advanced implementations later.
Owen froze mid-thought, staring at the ink-stained parchment before him. The quill had splattered again, leaving an unsightly blot near his detailed sketch of a glass panel joining mechanism. His eyes narrowed at the primitive writing implement in his hand.
"Ridiculous," he muttered, reaching for the ink pot tied to his saddle for what felt like the hundredth time. The constant stopping and starting was playing havoc with his train of thought. Even the parchment itself was rough and inconsistent, nothing like the smooth paper he remembered from his previous life.
He scratched a quick note in the margin: "Paper mill - wood pulp processing - standardized sheets." Below that, he added "Fountain pens - brass nibs - internal ink reservoir." The maesters at the Citadel hoarded their paper supplies like dragons with gold, charging astronomical prices for even poor quality sheets. A reliable source of good paper would transform record-keeping across the North.
The quill snagged on a rough spot in the parchment, sending another spray of ink across his calculations. Owen sighed heavily, dabbing at the mess with a scrap of cloth. At least the ink was decent quality - he'd paid extra for that before leaving Longshore. Still, he could do better. Much better.
From his position at the head of the column, Lord Stark watched the young man's frustrated battle with his writing materials with quiet amusement. Despite the obvious difficulties, Owen hadn't stopped working since they'd broken camp that morning. Page after page had disappeared into his satchel, filled with drawings and notes that Eddard couldn't make sense of from this distance.
The boy - no, the young lord now - had surprised him. When they'd first discovered his abilities, Stark had feared Owen might prove difficult to control, might need to be forced to stay. Instead, he'd shown wisdom beyond his years in choosing to remain and help the North. The decision to accept the marriage to Sansa spoke well of him too.
Stark's lips curved slightly as he watched Owen curse under his breath, fishing out yet another clean sheet of parchment. Sansa would take to him in time, he was sure of it. His daughter had a romantic soul, but she also had a keen mind whenever she had to use it. A husband who could create beautiful things, who could help raise the North to new heights of prosperity - that would appeal to her at the very least.
Perhaps, Stark mused, he should suggest Owen craft some jewelry for his future bride. Cat had certainly never complained about the pieces he'd given her over the years. There was something about gems and precious metals that seemed to delight even the most practical of women for some reason.
Ten days after leaving Longshore, the party crested a final hill, and there it was - Winterfell, rising from the landscape like something out of legend. Owen's eyes widened as he took in the massive grey walls, the towers reaching toward the clouds, the banners of House Stark snapping in the wind. He'd read descriptions in his previous life, but nothing had prepared him for the sheer scale of the fortress when he saw it for himself without the small scale of the tv adaptation.
Lord Eddard noticed Owen's expression and chuckled beside him. "I hope you'll come to think of Winterfell as a second home," he said, his normally stern features softening with pride as he gazed at his ancestral seat.
The guards around them straightened in their saddles, their weariness falling away at the sight of home. Their horses seemed to sense their riders' eagerness, picking up their pace without prompting. They hadn't made it halfway across the final stretch before shouts rang out from the walls.
"Open the gates! Lord Stark returns!"
The great iron-bound doors began to swing outward as they approached Winter Town. The townspeople stopped their daily tasks to watch the procession pass, many calling out greetings to their lord. Some bowed deeply, while others simply nodded respectfully. Children darted between buildings to get a better look at the returning party.
As they passed through Winterfell's massive gates, Owen's gaze was immediately drawn to two young men waiting in the courtyard. Both were older than him, one with Tully-red hair that marked him as Robb Stark, and the other with dark curls that could only belong to Jon Snow.
Robb and Jon stepped forward as Lord Eddard dismounted his horse with practiced ease. Owen watched from atop his own mount as Jon bowed his head slightly.
"Welcome home, Lord Stark," Jon said formally, though warmth colored his tone.
Owen noted the use of the title rather than 'father,' studying the young man's demeanor. While Jon's bearing was more reserved than Robb's open enthusiasm, there was none of the beaten-down demeanor that fanfic writers often imagined. Jon carried himself with quiet dignity, and Lord Stark's eyes held equal affection for both young men as he embraced them.
"It's good to be home," Eddard said, clapping both sons on the shoulder. He turned to Robb. "Where are your mother and the others?"
As if in answer, Catelyn Stark's voice rang out across the courtyard. "Ned!"
Owen couldn't help but stare as she approached, her auburn hair gleaming in the weak autumn sunlight. She moved with natural grace, her rich blue dress and silver-fox furs marking her as clearly as any crown as the Lady of Winterfell. When she reached her husband and pressed a loving kiss to his cheek, Owen forced himself to look away, feeling his face heat at having gawked at his future Mother-in-law.
A blur of motion drew his attention as a small figure darted through the gathering crowd. Arya Stark launched herself at her father with the energy of a charging direwolf, wrapping her arms around his waist.
"Father! You're back!" she exclaimed, bouncing on her toes. "Did you fight any bandits? What was the village like? Why were you gone so long? Did you bring-"
"Arya!" A musical voice cut through the rapid-fire questions. "Let Father at least catch his breath before you interrogate him."
Owen's heart skipped several beats as Sansa Stark approached, leading young Bran by the hand. The stories hadn't done her justice and he didn't think Sophie turner could have either. Her copper hair caught the light like living flame, and her tall, graceful figure was enhanced by a dove-grey dress that matched her eyes perfectly. When those eyes briefly met his, Owen felt his face flame red, and he quickly looked down at his saddle horn.
Eddard embraced Sansa warmly, then knelt to wrap Bran in a tight hug. Owen noticed the absence of both Rickon Stark and Theon Greyjoy - though whether the youngest Stark was yet unborn or simply napping, and whether the Greyjoy ward was dead or fostered elsewhere, he couldn't be certain.
"The journey was long but fruitful," Lord Stark announced to his gathered family. "We've discovered something remarkable in the village of Longshore." His grey eyes found Owen, who still sat astride his horse. "Come, Owen."
Owen dismounted carefully, keeping his movements measured and respectful as he approached the assembled Starks, people he had only seen or read about in his past life. His heart thundered in his chest, but he kept his expression neutral and polite.
Lord Stark placed a firm hand on Owen's shoulder. "This is Owen, the new Lord of Sea Dragon Point. He's also the blacksmith responsible for those exceptional weapons Torren brought to Winterfell three weeks past."
The reaction was immediate. Robb and Jon exchanged excited glances while Arya's eyes went wide with wonder. The young girl practically vibrated with enthusiasm.
"You made those swords?" Arya burst out. "Ser Rodrik took one of them - the blue one - into the training yard and cut straight through a tree! And the tree froze! How did you do that?"
"The blade didn't even nick or dull," Jon added eagerly. "Ser Rodrik said he'd never seen its like."
Robb stepped forward, his Tully-blue eyes bright with interest. "The balance was perfect too - or so Ser Rodrik claimed. He said it felt like the sword was an extension of his arm."
Owen rubbed the back of his neck, feeling heat rise to his face. "It's really not that impressive," he mumbled, though he couldn't help but smile at their enthusiasm. "Stalhrim is a remarkable material to work with, that's all. The freezing effect is inherent to the metal itself."
"Can you make more?" Arya asked, bouncing on her toes. "Can you teach me how to forge? Can I see-"
"Arya," Lady Catelyn cut in with a stern look, though her lips twitched with barely suppressed amusement. "Perhaps we should let our guest settle in before you interrogate him further."
Arya's lower lip jutted out in a familiar pout, but she held her tongue at her mother's gentle admonishment. Eddard couldn't help but chuckle at the scene - his youngest daughter's boundless enthusiasm, Owen's shyness, and the way the young blacksmith seemed both pleased and overwhelmed by the attention.
His gaze drifted to Sansa, noting how his eldest daughter studied Owen with careful consideration. Her blue eyes took in every detail - from his strong smith's build to his humble demeanor. While she maintained her usual poise, there was unmistakable curiosity in her expression.
Eddard allowed himself an internal smile. Young love might not bloom immediately, but there was potential here. Owen's genuine nature and extraordinary talents would appeal to Sansa, while his ability to craft beautiful things would speak to her romantic sensibilities.
"Robb, Jon," Eddard called out. "Perhaps you could show Lord Owen around Winterfell? He'll be staying with us for some time, and he should know his way about the castle."
Both young men nodded eagerly, clearly pleased with the task. Before anyone could say another word, Arya and Bran fell into step behind their older brothers, their eyes bright with curiosity.
Eddard turned to Catelyn, his voice low. "My love, would you see that a proper chamber is prepared? One befitting a visiting lord?" He met her eyes meaningfully, silently conveying that there was much more to discuss when they were alone.
Catelyn's quick mind caught the unspoken message, and she nodded gracefully. "Of course, my lord. I'll see to it personally."
"Owen," Eddard called out as the young man prepared to follow his children. "Remember what I said - you are welcome here. Winterfell can be a second home to you, if you let it be."
Owen ducked his head in acknowledgment, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. As he walked away with the Stark children, their voices drifted back across the courtyard.
"But how does the metal freeze things?" Arya demanded.
"Is it true you have your own mine?" Bran asked excitedly.
"Can you make daggers too, or just swords?" Jon inquired.
"Father says you're to be a lord. Have you ever-" Robb began.
Their questions tumbled over each other as they disappeared around a corner. Eddard watched them go, a satisfied smile playing at his lips. Yes, the days ahead would prove interesting indeed - both for Winterfell and for the North as a whole.
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POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE
-Dwemer Lexicon | Knowledge of Infinity (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (1000CP) Dwemer Lexicon (400CP)
Owen stood in front of Mikken's forge with Jon and Robb three days after his arrival. The two young men practically bounced on their heels with anticipation, while Owen surveyed the humble workspace with a carefully neutral expression. His enhanced knowledge from the Celestial Forge immediately identified dozens of potential improvements - Dwemer heating systems that could triple the forge's efficiency, automated bellows that would maintain perfect temperatures, specialized cooling channels that would revolutionize the tempering process.
But he kept these thoughts to himself as Mikken emerged from the forge's interior, wiping his hands on his leather apron. The master blacksmith had just finished correcting one of his apprentices on proper hammer technique.
"Lord Owen," Mikken inclined his head respectfully, though his eyes held a hint of wariness. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Just Owen is fine," Owen smiled, trying to put the older man at ease. "And I was hoping to use your forge, with your permission of course. Lord Stark suggested I coordinate with you."
"Father says Owen's the one who made Ice's new scabbard," Robb interjected excitedly. "And that ebony sword he carries."
Jon nodded eagerly. "We've been waiting days to see him work."
Mikken's eyes widened slightly as he glanced at Owen's sword. His experienced gaze took in the perfectly executed details of the weapon - details that should have been impossible to achieve with normal forging techniques.
"That's quite a blade," Mikken said carefully. "Never seen its like before."
"Perhaps I could demonstrate some of my methods?" Owen offered. "I'd be honored to learn from your expertise as well. Every forge master has their own valuable techniques."
The diplomatic response seemed to ease some of Mikken's tension. He gestured toward the forge's interior. "She's all yours then. What did you have in mind for your first project?"
"First things first," Owen said, surveying the forge's workspace. "I can't do everything for all the projects I have in mind, and manpower is a major issue. Experienced builders and smiths are either too expensive to hire or hard to find, so I'll have to make my own help."
He stepped outside the forge, scanning the grounds until he found a suitable spot. "But first, I'll need materials."
With a casual snap of his fingers, a gaping hole materialized in the ground about thirty paces from the forge entrance. Jon and Robb leaped backward, while Mikken stumbled against his anvil, his face draining of color.
"It's alright," Owen raised his hands in a calming gesture. "No need for alarm. This is just one of the blessings the Old Gods have given me. Come, I'll show you."
The three men exchanged uncertain glances before cautiously following Owen toward the mysterious opening. As they descended into Cidhna Mine, their expressions shifted from fear to wonder. Rich veins of ore lined the walls - gleaming deposits of ebony, malachite, and other precious minerals they'd never seen before.
"By the gods," Mikken whispered, his expert eye drawn to a particularly rich vein of orichalcum. His fingers traced the metallic surface reverently.
Owen led them deeper into the mine until they reached the main chamber. Here, mechanical figures moved with precise efficiency, extracting ore and hauling loads. Their metal bodies caught the light from the mounted torches, creating a scene that the 2 young men and mikken could never dream of.
The largest, more ornate, automaton, the overseer, noticed their arrival and immediately stopped its work. It approached Owen with fluid movements and bent at the waist in a formal bow.
"Welcome back, Master Owen," it intoned in a clear yet mechanical voice.
Jon and Robb stood frozen, their mouths agape as they stared at the speaking machine. Even Mikken, for all his years of working with metal, seemed unable to process what he was witnessing.
Owen scratched his head absently as he looked at the mechanical overseer. "You know, I really should give you a proper name one of these days. Can't keep calling you 'overseer' forever."
The automaton's crystalline eyes flickered briefly. "As you wish, Master Owen. Would you prefer to name me now?"
Behind Owen, Jon, Robb, and Mikken remained rooted in place, their expressions a mixture of awe and disbelief at witnessing a conversation between man and machine. Jon's hand had drifted unconsciously to his sword hilt, while Robb repeatedly blinked as if trying to clear his vision.
"Later," Owen waved his hand dismissively. "For now, give me an update on our mining operations. What's our current inventory of refined ingots since we last spoke?"
The overseer's posture straightened, switching seamlessly into its reporting mode. "In the fourteen days since your last inquiry, we have processed and refined an additional one thousand ingots across all ore types." Its metal arm extended toward a section of the chamber where numerous wooden crates stood stacked against the wall. "The refined materials are stored there, sorted by type."
The group approached the crates, and even in the dim light of the mine, the contents gleamed with impossible purity. Entire crates filled with bars of gold and silver caught Jon and Robb's attention immediately. Robb gripped his brother's arm for support, his legs suddenly unsteady as he tried to process the wealth before him.
"Seven hells," Jon whispered, his voice barely audible. "There's enough gold here to buy half the North."
Meanwhile, Mikken had gravitated toward a different crate, his hands lifting one of the iron ingots. He turned it over repeatedly, his eyes wide with professional appreciation. In all his years of smithing, he'd never seen iron so pure - no slag, no impurities, just perfect, refined metal ready for forging.
"This is impossible," Mikken muttered, still examining the ingot. "Even the finest iron from Qohor has impurities. This... this is perfect."
The overseer's mechanical voice cut through their amazement. "All metals are refined to one hundred percent purity using our specialized processing methods. Would you like a detailed breakdown of current quantities by type, Master Owen?"
"No need for the full inventory," Owen interrupted the overseer. "But I do need ten crates of Dwarven metal brought up to the forge."
The overseer's crystalline eyes flickered in acknowledgment. "At once, Master Owen." It turned to the other automatons, issuing commands in a series of mechanical clicks and whirs that set several of the metal workers into motion.
Owen faced Mikken, who still clutched the pure iron ingot like a precious gem. "Mikken, would you mind making sure your apprentices don't bolt when they see these fellows carrying up the crates? Last thing we need is panic spreading through Winterfell."
The master blacksmith startled, as if suddenly remembering his responsibilities. "Aye, that would be wise." He set the ingot down carefully and hurried toward the mine's entrance, casting one last amazed glance at the mechanical workers as they began collecting the requested Dwarven metal.
Jon and Robb watched, transfixed, as the automatons moved with precise efficiency. Their metal joints whirred softly as they lifted the heavy crates with ease, forming an orderly line toward the entrance.
"Owen," Jon's voice held equal parts curiosity and awe, "this Dwarven metal - was it truly forged by dwarves? Like the ones from Old Nan's tales?"
Owen couldn't help but laugh at the question, the sound echoing off the mine's walls. "No, not quite like that. It's not made by short, bearded folk living under mountains or short men like Tywin Lannisters son." He watched as the automatons began their ascent up the mine's entrance. "You'll see soon enough what it can do, though. Shall we head back up?"
The two young men nodded, falling into step behind Owen as they followed the procession of mechanical workers toward the surface. Jon and Robb exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of excitement and lingering disbelief at everything they'd seen in the mine.
The automatons methodically placed the last of the heavy crates near Mikken's forge, their metal and dwarven joints whirring with precise movements. They turned in perfect unison and marched back toward the mine entrance, disappearing into the dark hole with mechanical efficiency.
Mikken stood before his three apprentices - Oren, Mors, and Tykar - who watched the scene with wide eyes and slack jaws. The young men had pressed themselves against the forge's stone wall when the metal figures first emerged from the ground, and they hadn't moved since.
"What in the name of the Old Gods are those things?" Tykar's voice cracked as he pointed at the retreating forms.
"Calm yourself," Mikken placed a steadying hand on his apprentice's shoulder. "Lord Stark wouldn't allow anything dangerous within Winterfell's walls."
The three apprentices exchanged uncertain glances. Oren's red hair gleamed in the forge light as he shook his head. "But Master Mikken, they're... they're moving metal men!"
"Aye, and they just carried more metal in ten minutes than you three manage in a week," Mikken replied dryly, though his own face still held traces of wonderment.
Owen emerged from the mine entrance with Jon and Robb close behind. The three made their way toward the forge, their boots crunching on the frozen ground. Robb moved to help Owen lift one of the heavy crates, carrying it closer to the blazing fires.
"Seven hells, what's in these?" Robb grunted under the weight.
"Like i said, Dwarven metal," Owen replied, setting down his end carefully. "Strong as steel but lighter, and it takes enchantments better than any other material I've worked with."
Mikken ran his fingers along the edge of the nearest crate, his eyes carefully studying the ingots within. "I still wonder what you plan to build with all this, Owen. This is more metal than I'd use in half a year."
The apprentices had finally gathered enough courage to approach, drawn by their natural curiosity about the mysterious metal. Mors reached out to touch one of the ingots but quickly withdrew his hand when Owen looked his way.
"It's alright," Owen gestured for him to proceed. "Take a look. You'll all need to learn how to work with it eventually."
Jon's brow furrowed as he processed Owen's earlier words, watching the young smith arrange the strange metal ingots with practiced efficiency. The question had been nagging at him since they'd left the mine.
"What did you mean enchantments? Like magic? Actual, real magic?" Jon's voice carried a mix of skepticism and curiosity.
Owen shrugged without looking up from his work, his hands moving methodically as he prepared the forge. "Sure."
Robb let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Magic isn't real. Everyone knows that." His voice held the certainty of someone repeating a truth they'd learned since childhood.
The forge crackled and popped as Owen continued his preparations, arranging his tools with precise movements. The three apprentices watched intently, while Mikken observed with interest as a fellow smith prepared himself. Owen paused in his work, looking up at Robb with a small, knowing smile playing across his lips.
"Your entire realm was forged by Dragons," Owen said matter-of-factly, "and you don't believe in magic?"
Jon let out a deep chuckle, the sound mixing with Mikken's own quiet laughter. Robb's face flushed red as he realized the hole in his logic.
"He's got you there, brother," Jon said, clapping Robb on the shoulder.
Owen allowed himself a smile before turning to the forge. He lifted the hammer, its weight familiar in his hand as he began his craft. The knowledge from the Celestial Forge flowed through him, ancient techniques from long-dead Dwemer masters guiding his movements. His hands moved with inhuman precision, each strike of the hammer landing exactly where needed.
The forge fell silent except for the rhythmic sounds of his work. Mikken and his apprentices watched, transfixed, as Owen shaped the Dwarven metal with impossible skill. Even Jon and Robb, who had seen many strange things in the past hour, stood speechless at the display before them.
Owen worked in a kind of trance, barely registering the eyes upon him as he folded and shaped the metal. The Dwemer knowledge guided every motion - heating, folding, hammering, cooling - each step executed with perfect timing. His movements held a fluid grace that seemed to belong to someone who had spent thousands of years perfecting their craft rather than a young man of fifteen.
Steam hissed and metal sang under his hammer. The Dwarven metal glowed with an inner light as he worked it, responding to his touch in ways that defied conventional smithing wisdom. Mikken's experienced eye caught techniques he'd never seen before, movements that shouldn't have been possible with normal metal.
An hour passed like minutes. Owen finally looked up from his work, carefully cleaning the three objects he'd created. He placed two large items on the nearby table and held a rod-like object in his hands. The occupants of the forge crowded around to see what he had produced.
Robb was the first to break the awed silence. "What...are they?"
Owen beamed at his handiwork, gesturing toward the two large mechanical constructs that stood motionless on the forge floor. Their dwarven metal frames gleamed in the firelight, intricate gears and pistons visible through gaps in their plating.
"These are steam constructors," he explained, while Mikken and his apprentices eyed the machines with visible apprehension. Oren had taken several steps back, positioning himself behind his master's broader frame. Mors and Tykar exchanged nervous glances, their hands fidgeting with their leather aprons.
Owen held up the rod-like object in his other hand, twirling it between his fingers with casual expertise. The metal shaft was covered in complex engravings that seemed to shift in the forge's flickering light.
"And this thing in my hand is a control rod," he continued, watching as the light played off the intricate markings.
Mikken studied the machines, though he maintained a safe distance. His eye caught details in their construction that spoke of craftsmanship far beyond anything he'd ever witnessed. The joints and connections were impossibly precise, each component fitted together with supernatural accuracy.
"You see, I don't have time to go around both making weapons and doing construction projects," Owen explained, "so these two are going to help me."
Jon's brow furrowed as he processed Owen's words. He crossed his arms, looking skeptically at the pair of mechanical workers. "How? There are only two of them, and I doubt two of these metal workers can do all the work you need." He said. "You'd need to make more, and these two took you an hour to make. It would be a whole month before you had enough."
Owen chuckled at Jon's observation. "Usually, you'd be right," he said, turning the control rod in his hands. "It would take a month or more to craft enough constructors for what I have planned. But that's where things get interesting."
The young smith's mind drifted to the knowledge gifted to him by the Forge. The Dwemer, ancient masters of machinery and metallurgy, had created marvels that made other races on Tamriel envious. Their automated soldiers, their steam-powered cities, their impossible machines - all testified to their genius. But even they had limitations, requiring massive forges and countless hours to produce their mechanical armies.
Owen had something better. The Celestial Forge made it nearly impossible for him to create anything ordinary unless he actively tried to restrain its power. Where a Dwemer craftsman would produce a remarkable but conventional automaton, Owen's creations transcended those ancient limitations.
He held the control rod forward, channeling his will into the metal. The rod responded immediately, ancient runes blazing to life along its length with a brilliant golden light. The same runes appeared across the steam constructors' bodies, their metal frames humming with power.
Oren stumbled backward with a yelp as the machines straightened, their joints whirring smoothly. Steam hissed from carefully placed vents, and their crystalline eyes glowed with the same golden light as the runes.
"Seven hells," Robb breathed, his hand instinctively moving to his sword hilt.
"I don't need to make more constructors," Owen explained, watching his creations with satisfaction, "because these two will do it for me."
The assembled group watched in stunned silence as the steam constructors moved with fluid grace, their mechanical bodies displaying none of the jerky motions one might expect from metal beings. They turned toward the pile of Dwarven metal ingots, their crystalline eyes scanning the materials with obvious purpose.
"They'll build more of themselves?" Mikken asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Owen nodded, pride evident in his expression. "And they'll do it faster and more precisely than even I could."
The group watched in amazement as the two steam constructors moved with mechanical precision toward the pile of Dwarven metal ingots. Their crystalline eyes glowed brighter as they began their work, metal hands moving with impossible speed and accuracy. Steam hissed from their joints as they shaped and folded the metal, each movement a perfect mirror of Owen's earlier craftsmanship.
Within minutes, two more constructors stood before them, identical to their creators in every detail. The new machines' eyes flickered to life, golden runes appearing across their frames. Without pause, all four constructors turned back to the remaining ingots and began working in perfect synchronization.
Mors gripped Tykar's arm as four more constructors took shape under the skilled hands of their mechanical brethren. "By the Old Gods," he whispered, his voice trembling.
The process continued, each new group of constructors immediately joining in the creation of more. The sound of metal being worked filled the forge as eight became sixteen, then twenty-four. Steam filled the air, creating an otherworldly atmosphere as mechanical hands shaped and folded the Dwarven metal with supernatural speed.
Jon and Robb exchanged stunned glances as the number of constructors grew. Even Mikken, with all his years of smithing and forging, could only shake his head in disbelief at the display before him. The precision and speed with which these machines worked surpassed anything he'd ever witnessed.
Finally, as the last ingot was used, thirty steam constructors stood in neat rows before them, their golden eyes all fixed on Owen. The entire process had taken less than an hour, and the forge now housed an army of mechanical workers.
Owen raised the control rod, its runes pulsing with power. "Down to the mine," he commanded. "Gather more Dwarven metal and continue making more of yourselves."
The constructors moved as one, their metal feet clanking against the stone as they filed out of the forge and headed toward the mine entrance. The assembled group watched in silence as the machines disappeared into the darkness below.
Owen turned to Mikken, offering an apologetic smile. "Seems I'll be monopolizing your forge for a few days," he said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.
Inwardly however, Owen couldn't help but be filled with glee. The celestial forge was so awesome!
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POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE
-Dwemer Lexicon | Knowledge of Infinity (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (1000CP) Dwemer Lexicon (400CP)
A complete record of the Deep Elves's knowledge and technology, ranging from their mechanical monsters to tonal tech. This ranges from the things as simple as their standard architecture to their advanced automatons and things like the Aetherial items. Also for those already asking, the knowledge of how to in theory remake the Numidium is here, however you'll notice it's not going to give a step by step guide, and the requirements and skill necessary will be far beyond all but the greatest, and most legendary Tonal Architects. Make sure to use this with care, the Dwemer were among the most powerful races to live and the damage that could be done with their advancements is immense
Master Smith | Ahzidal's Apprentice (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (800CP)
Master Smith (400CP)
So, how many iron daggers did this take to get? Regardless of the answer to that question the results have surely shown themselves to you and everyone else. You're a master of smithing and the working of metal, forging weapons out of Glass and Ebony is well within your capacity, and even Daedric items may be forged with proper equipment and materials. Your craftsmanship is nothing less than perfection and your opportunity to grow is great as well. Given times you may yet forge tools, weapons and armor that rival even the likes of Daedric artifacts.
Behold Haxcalibur (Modded Skyrim) (400CP)
Congrats, you broke the crafting system. Anything and everything you make, build, enchant, or otherwise create is now ten times better than it really ought to be. Make an ordinary dagger that does 12 damage? Now it does 120. Pick up an endgame weapon and enhance it for its supposed max of 200 damage? 2000. Guns that hold more bullets and do more damage, magic staffs that massively amplify your magic, armor that shrugs off OHKO's, potions that let you ignore 110% of fire damage, weapons with ten or twenty enchantments. And if that wasn't enough, you'll learn anything crafting related ten times as fast, just to blow the competition out of the water even more.
Cidhna Mine (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (200CP)
The winter sun cast long shadows across Winterfell's courtyard as Owen and Eddard watched the steam constructors at work. The mechanical army moved with eerie precision, their metal limbs gleaming as they carried massive sheets of specialized glass and frames of dwarven metal.
"The glass is a blend of melted moonstone and malachite," Owen explained, gesturing to the translucent panels being lifted into place. "The combination creates a material that traps heat while allowing more sunlight through than regular glass."
Eddard's grey eyes widened as he observed the automatons working in perfect synchronization. Some units welded metal frames together with built-in heating elements, while others installed the glass panels with methodical efficiency. The sound of metal on metal filled the air, punctuated by the hiss of steam from the constructors' joints.
"By the old gods," Eddard breathed as the structures took shape before his eyes. Four massive glasshouses rose from the ground, their frames gleaming with the distinctive golden-bronze hue of dwarven metal. The buildings dwarfed the surrounding structures, their peaked roofs reaching toward the sky.
Owen raised the control rod, directing the machines to finish the internal systems. "The pipes are connecting directly to your hot springs," he said. "The heat will keep the soil warm year-round, and the automated watering system will ensure consistent irrigation."
When the last panel clicked into place, Owen gestured for Eddard to enter the nearest glasshouse. The Lord of Winterfell stepped through the doorway and stopped, amazed by the dramatic temperature change. While winter's chill gripped the outside air, the interior felt like a warm spring day.
Inside, more constructors moved up and down the rows, their specialized attachments breaking up the soil and creating perfect furrows for planting. The machines worked with impossible speed and precision, transforming the bare earth into orderly plots ready for seeds.
Eddard walked the length of the glasshouse, noting the intricate network of pipes running along the walls and ceiling. Water droplets sparkled as they emerged from carefully placed spouts, creating a fine mist that settled evenly across the freshly tilled soil.
"The watering system is on a timer," Owen explained, pride evident in his voice. "Every two hours, it will automatically dispense the perfect amount of water. The glass amplifies and traps the sunlight, creating ideal growing conditions even in the depths of winter."
Eddard reached out to touch one of the glass panels, marveling at how it seemed to capture and intensify the wan winter sunlight. The entire structure hummed with quiet efficiency, a show of the incredible capabilities of Owen's mechanical workers.
When he turned back to Owen, the young smith wore a satisfied smile, clearly pleased by the lord's reaction to his creation.
Eddard's mind raced with possibilities as he surveyed the vast interior of the glasshouse. The structure dwarfed Winterfell's existing glass gardens - those precious buildings that had sustained his family through countless winters. Where the old gardens struggled to feed even his household, these new constructions could feed hundreds, perhaps thousands.
Memories of harsh winters past flashed through his mind. The haunted looks of parents forced to send their elderly out into the cold to die so their children might survive another day. The whispered tales of desperate men and women driven to unspeakable acts when food stores ran empty. The shame of having to bow and scrape to the Tyrells, paying their extortionate prices for grain just to keep his people alive.
But now... now everything could change.
"With your permission, my lord," Owen said, interrupting Eddard's thoughts, "I could have the constructors build more of these across the North. White Harbor, Deepwood Motte, even the mountain clans could sustain themselves year-round."
Eddard walked between the rows of freshly tilled soil, already imagining the bounty they would yield. "How many could you build?"
"As many as needed. The constructors can replicate themselves and harvest the necessary materials from the mine. The only limit is space and time."
"And the cost?"
"Nothing but the initial investment in materials, which the mine provides. Once built, they require minimal maintenance. The automatons handle everything."
Eddard stopped and turned to face Owen. "Do you understand what this means for the North Owen? For generations, our people have fled south seeking better lives, driven away by hunger and hardship. With these..." He gestured at the gleaming structure around them. "They could come home."
"The North could be self-sufficient," Owen agreed. "No more relying on southern kingdoms for food. No more watching your people starve while the Tyrells grow fat on northern gold."
Eddard's weathered face broke into a rare smile. For the first time, he truly understood why the old gods had guided this remarkable young man to his lands. This wasn't just about weapons or marriage alliances - this was about the survival and prosperity of the North itself.
"When can you begin building more?"
"The constructors could start tomorrow. We could have similar installations in White Harbor before the month is out."
"Do it," Eddard commanded. "I will have ravens sent to my bannermen. I want every major holdfast in the North equipped with these glasshouses before winter comes."
Owen shifted uneasily, his eyes tracking the mechanical workers as they continued their methodical labor. "My lord, perhaps we shouldn't rush this."
The excitement drained from Eddard's face as Owen continued, "Lord Robett and Lord Wyman know about me and my creations. All they'd have to do is prepare their people and make sure no merchants or sailors who saw the constructors kept quiet and not send word to King's Landing."
He gestured at the gleaming metal army of constructors. "But with the other lords..." Owen shook his head, his expression grim. "They don't know me or what I create. They would take one look at the constructors and, your word or not, they would get frightened and attack." A worried look upon his face. "Which would be bad... for them."
The Lord of Winterfell's earlier enthusiasm cooled as reality set in. He had gotten too carried away with the excitement of a self-sufficient North too much to remember none of his other Northern lords knew about Owen except Wyman and Robett. The rest would panic if they saw the automatons, no doubt sending word far and wide thinking an invasion of magical metal machines was attacking them.
The mechanical workers continued their tasks, oblivious to the tension between the two men as they contemplated the political keg of wildfire their existence represented. Steam hissed from their joints as they moved, the sound now carrying a more ominous tone.
Owen's words gave Ned pause for a moment. "What do you mean it would be bad for them?"
The young smith gestured to the constructors continuing their work. "They're not built for war or battle, but they have defensive capabilities woven into their very being. If anyone attacks them or what they've built..." He paused, watching one of the machines delicately position a glass panel. "They don't fight alone. They swarm like metal spiders, overwhelming any threat until there's nothing left or until I command them to stop."
The machines continued their precise movements as Owen detailed their lethal potential. "They stab with limbs sharp as spears, crush with mechanical strength no human can match, impale with specialized tools, and blast scalding steam hot enough to cook flesh from bone." His voice remained calm, matter-of-fact, but his eyes held a warning. "And since they're forged from dwarven metal, no northern lord or their soldiers could harm them. Regular steel would shatter against their frames."
Eddard's blood ran cold as he watched the automata with new eyes. The rhythmic hiss of steam from their joints now carried a more sinister tone. The precise, calculated movements of their limbs spoke not just of efficiency, but of deadly capability. Where moments ago he had seen only helpful workers, now he recognized weapons of terrifying potential.
One constructor passed close by, its metal feet clicking against the stone floor. Eddard found himself taking an involuntary step back. The machine paid him no notice, focused entirely on its assigned task, but he could not shake the image Owen had painted - these same machines swarming over attackers like metal spiders, crushing and tearing with inexorable mechanical strength.
"How many could they kill?" Eddard asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"All of them," Owen replied simply. "They don't tire. They don't feel fear or mercy. They just execute their inbuilt orders with perfect efficiency. Whether that's building glasshouses or...defending themselves."
Eddard actually gulped, a rare display of discomfort from the usually stoic Lord of Winterfell. His mind painted vivid pictures of what Owen described - men screaming as they were overwhelmed by tireless metal workers, their swords bouncing uselessly off dwarven metal frames while mechanical limbs stabbed and tore. The constructors would move with that same efficient precision they showed now, except instead of building, they would destroy. The thought of hundreds of these machines swarming over soldiers like metal spiders, leaving nothing but broken bodies in their wake, made his skin crawl.
Owen watched understanding dawn on Eddard's face. The young smith hadn't meant to frighten the lord, but he needed him to grasp the gravity of introducing such powerful forces into the delicate balance of northern politics.
"Perhaps," Eddard said slowly, his grey eyes tracking the machines' movements, "we should be more selective about which houses receive these benefits."
His thoughts turned unbidden to House Bolton. While the Dreadfort had kept its peace in recent generations, the weight of centuries of rivalry and mistrust lay heavy between their houses. The Boltons' flayed man sigil wasn't just for show - the old tales spoke of Bolton lords who kept their enemies' skins as trophies. Though such practices were long banned, rumors persisted about secret rooms in the Dreadfort where ancient traditions continued behind closed doors.
Even now, Lord Roose Bolton's pale eyes and soft voice sent chills down the spines of hardened warriors. The man's calculated nature and cold demeanor spoke of someone who would see Owen's creations not as tools for prosperity, but as potential weapons to be understood and exploited.
"House Bolton, My Lord," Owen said, reading Eddard's expression. "You're thinking about the Boltons."
Eddard nodded grimly. "Their loyalty has held these past centuries, but trust..." He shook his head. "Some houses have earned more than just fealty. They've earned faith in their character, in their honor." His eyes met Owen's. "Others maintain their oaths while keeping their true nature hidden beneath the surface, like ice over deep water."
Owen nodded, memories from his past life filling his mind. The stories he had read, both from the books and fanfics, painted a pretty consistent picture of House Bolton. No matter the timeline or circumstances, their relationship with the Starks always ended in blood and betrayal. Their flayed man sigil wasn't just for show - it represented a deep-seated cruelty that defined their very nature.
Even if, in a change of canon history, a Bolton, not a Stark, had united the north, Owen doubted such a reign would have lasted long. People might bow to strength, might submit to fear, but there was a limit to how much cruelty they would endure. Push too far, and even the most downtrodden would rise up, preferring death to continued torment under sadistic rulers.
His thoughts turned to Roose Bolton, the current Lord of the Dreadfort. In the normal timeline, another world Owen had only read about, that same man had orchestrated the Red Wedding - a betrayal so heinous it had shocked even the most hardened readers. The memory of those pages made Owen's jaw clench. He wouldn't let that future come to pass. Not here. Not now.
"Two glasshouses," Owen said suddenly, breaking the thoughtful silence. "Small ones."
Eddard raised an eyebrow, waiting for elaboration.
"For House Bolton and any others you have doubts about," Owen continued, gesturing to the massive structures around them. "Not as grand as these, nor as large as what we'll give to your more steadfast bannermen. Enough to demonstrate the technology, to give them a taste of the benefits, but not enough to significantly strengthen their position."
Eddard's grey eyes met Owen's, understanding passing between them. After a moment, the Lord of Winterfell nodded. "A measured approach," he agreed. "Enough to avoid offense, but not enough to pose a threat should loyalty..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "...waver."
"Agreed," Owen said, studying the mechanical workers as they continued their work. "But there's still the problem of how we'll get the other lords to not panic at the sight of the constructors."
Eddard stood silent for a moment, his weathered face deep in thought as he watched the machines work. Then his grey eyes lit up with understanding. "The North's summer festival is in three weeks - our celebration of a good harvest and another year of summer." He turned to Owen, conviction in his voice. "That would be the perfect time to introduce you and your creations to the lords."
He began pacing the length of the glasshouse, his footsteps echoing against the glass walls. "We'll show them everything - your masterwork weapons forged from exotic ores, Cidhna Mine, these glasshouses, and the steam constructors. They'll see firsthand how your abilities could reshape the North into a kingdom to rival any other in power and influence."
Owen nodded slowly, considering the proposal. "And they'd all be sworn to secrecy before seeing anything?"
"Of course. Once they understand the importance of what you've created, we can begin sending constructors to their holdings and nearby villages to build glasshouses."
A smile spread across Owen's face as the pieces fell into place. The plan made sense - letting the lords see the benefits firsthand would help prevent any panic or misunderstandings. "What comes after that?"
Eddard's expression grew serious. "You'll need to make more constructors. Many more." He gestured to the machines working around them. "After the glasshouses are complete, we'll turn our attention to strengthening Winterfell's defenses, rebuilding Moat Cailin, constructing your castle at Sea Dragon Point." He paused, his voice taking on a solemn tone. "And finally, helping the Night's Watch rebuild their nineteen castles."
Owen watched the steam constructors continue their methodical work, imagining hundreds more like them spread across the North, rebuilding and strengthening the realm piece by piece. The scope of what Eddard proposed was enormous, but with the self-replicating machines, it was entirely possible.
The enormity of the task ahead would have daunted most men, but with the steam constructors' capabilities, what might have taken generations could be accomplished in mere months or weeks. Owen and Eddard walked out of the glasshouse, the mechanical Dwemer constructs following behind them with precise, measured steps. At Owen's mental command, they changed direction, heading toward Cidhna Mine to gather more ore for replication.
"How do you find Winterfell these past few days?" Eddard asked as they crossed the courtyard, his boots crunching against the gravel.
"Your family has treated me kindly, my lord," Owen replied. He had spent considerable time with the Stark children, particularly Robb and Jon. Though if he was honest with himself, he gravitated more toward Jon's company. The young man's quiet nature and dedication to improving his skills resonated with Owen, even if Owen's own swordplay left much to be desired despite their training sessions.
"Arya and Bran seem quite taken with you," Eddard observed, a hint of amusement in his usually stern voice.
Owen smiled, remembering how Arya constantly badgered him about crafting her a sword or bow like the Stalhrim weapons he'd shown them. Bran would always join in these requests, his young face bright with excitement at the prospect of having his own magical weapon.
"They're good children," Owen said. "Curious and full of life."
He had also encountered Lady Catelyn during his time at Winterfell, though their interactions had been limited. While she wasn't as harsh as some of the stories and fics from his past life had portrayed her, Owen couldn't help but feel a slight coldness toward her when he observed how she treated Jon. The distance she maintained from the young man, the subtle ways she excluded him from family activities – it bothered Owen more than he cared to admit, though he kept these thoughts to himself out of respect for Lord Stark.
The steam constructors disappeared from view, their metallic forms vanishing into the entrance of Cidhna Mine as Owen and Eddard continued their walk through the castle grounds.
Eddard's eyes crinkled with amusement as he watched Owen's reaction. "And what of Sansa? I notice you've been rather... scarce whenever she's present."
Owen's face flushed a deep crimson at the mention of Lord Stark's eldest daughter. He opened his mouth to respond but found himself fumbling for words, much to Eddard's apparent entertainment.
The young smith couldn't deny that Sansa Stark was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, in either of his lives (apart from Catelyn). Her beauty was almost otherworldly - regal features that spoke of her noble heritage, eyes as blue as a summer sky, and full lips that seemed perpetually curved in a gentle smile. Her long, flame-red hair fell in straight waves to her mid-back, catching the sunlight like polished copper. The dresses and furs she wore clung to her body in ways that made Owen's brain short-circuit, accentuating curves that would put professional models from his old world to shame.
Jon and Robb had taken great delight in Owen's obvious discomfort around their sister. Just yesterday, Owen had been working at the forge when Sansa had walked past with her friend Jeyne Poole. The moment he caught sight of her, he'd nearly dropped the sword he was tempering and practically fled into Cidhna Mine, much to the brothers' endless amusement.
"I saw you duck behind a pillar in the Great Hall this morning when she entered for breakfast," Eddard said, his usually stern face softening with mirth. "I don't believe I've ever seen anyone move quite so quickly."
Owen groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Was it that obvious?"
"I believe the only person who hasn't noticed is Sansa herself," Eddard replied, chuckling at Owen's mortification. "Though I suspect that's mainly because you vanish so quickly whenever she appears."
Owen groaned again, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Eddard's deep laugh echoed across the courtyard as he placed a comforting hand on the young smith's shoulder.
"She did love the present you made for her," Eddard said, his grey eyes twinkling with amusement.
Owen's blush deepened even further at the mention of the necklace. He had indeed gone overboard with the gift, crafting an intricate piece that combined gold and silver in flowing patterns that mimicked winter roses. The large sapphires matched Sansa's eyes perfectly, while the blood-red rubies complemented her auburn hair. The gems alone were worth more than most lords would see in their lifetime.
Lady Catelyn's reaction had been particularly memorable. She had taken one look at the extravagant piece and come to find him and demanded to know if Owen had somehow managed to raid the Lannister vaults. The young smith had stammered through an explanation about his mine's resources while Sansa in her room had practically glowed with delight, her fingers tracing the delicate metalwork with reverence.
"I may have gotten a bit carried away with the gems," Owen admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.
"A bit?" Eddard raised an eyebrow. "I believe my wife mentioned something about it being worth more than Winterfell itself."
"The sapphires matched her eyes," Owen mumbled, then immediately wished he hadn't spoken as Eddard's grin grew wider.
"And the rubies? Did they happen to match something else?"
Owen's face felt hot enough to forge steel. "Her hair," he whispered, mortified at having to explain his thought process to his future goodfather.
Eddard's expression grew more serious, though his eyes retained their warmth. "You'll have to speak with her eventually, Owen. Marriage is more than just shared meals and polite nods across the Great Hall."
Owen sighed, knowing the lord spoke truth. "I know, my lord. It's just..." He gestured vaguely with his hands, struggling to find the right words.
"You aren't exactly skilled at speaking with women?" Eddard offered, his voice filled with understanding.
"Exactly," Owen admitted, relief evident in his voice at not having to explain himself more deeply. "I mean, I can talk about forging or mining or construction all day long, but when it comes to actually having a conversation with her..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
Eddard chuckled, the sound rich and warm in the cool morning air. "Most men aren't, until they get to know the lady they want better. Trust and love come with time, Owen. They're not forged as quickly as your weapons."
"I hope so," Owen replied softly, his eyes distant as he considered the Stark lord's words.
Suddenly, a familiar sensation coursed through his body - the Celestial Forge flaring to life within his soul. Unknown to Eddard walking beside him, Owen's entire being filled with light as new knowledge and power flooded his consciousness. The Temple of Solomon blazed into his mind, a place of incredible magical potential sealed away in imaginary number space, accessible only through his will.
Owen huffed out a laugh as they continued walking toward the castle entrance, earning a curious glance from Lord Stark. Under his breath, he muttered, "Yer a wizard, Owen."
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POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE
Temple of Solomon (Fate/Legends- Oasis of Fantasy) (400CP)
A place that has long been abandoned or, at least, a replica of the one currently in use. The Temple of Solomon is perhaps the grandest magical workshop ever to be created, one so great that it does not even exist in the mundane world. Sealed away in imaginary number space, it is only accessible to others through highly complex and difficult magical workings, though you can enter your hidden base with nothing but a thought provided you are not blocked by some means. The temple itself is quite large, with the small dimension covering several city blocks of area and the building being the size of a large mansion. Within is almost every one of Solomon's personal notes and research on magecraft and magic, along with a great deal of lore from other famous magicians