It started in the ruined halls of Karaz Tarul, a crumbling fortress carved into the side of a forgotten mountain. The air hung heavy with dust and the faint metallic tang of long-dried blood, but I didn't come here for treasure or glory. I came for the forge—the one thing that still lived within these dead walls.
The hammer's calloused handle felt like home in my hands as I struck hot iron, the ringing echo of each blow bouncing through the cavernous chamber. Sparks leapt and danced, casting shadows that flickered like spirits of the past. Every strike sent vibrations through my arms, resonating deep in my bones, and I imagined I could hear the whispers of the ore itself. There's something alive in the metal if you know how to listen. And I listened well.
I wasn't always alone. The journey here had been a bloody one, and the road had claimed every companion I'd once known. The eastern passes, infested with goblins and worse, had been a massacre. But I'd survived. Barely. I bore the scars on my forearms, my back, even my face—a twisted line running from temple to jaw like a map of all the wrong turns I'd taken. But the mistakes, the bloodshed, the screams—they'd led me here. And here was where I'd begin again.
The first piece I forged in Karaz Tarul's ancient forge wasn't a weapon. Not really. It was the beginnings of a bond. A slender iron rod, roughly shaped, glowing dull orange as I lifted it from the coals. I began inscribing runes—slow, deliberate strokes that carved into the soft metal as easily as a quill cuts into parchment. The runes would guide the weapon's spirit, channel its will. Every rune was a commandment: "Strike true. Withstand. Seek vengeance." The final rune, one I invented myself, meant simply, "Grow."
The process was exacting. Hours blurred into days, and the days fell into weeks. I kept a sparse routine: forge, eat, sleep, repeat. I survived on whatever dried provisions I had left, chasing each meager meal with swigs from a dented flask. It was only when I stepped back and saw the rod—now a gleaming, rune-etched shaft—that I felt the first hint of pride since arriving.
But a shaft alone wasn't a weapon. It needed a head, and I knew exactly what I wanted. I scoured the old fortress for materials, my boots crunching over broken tiles and scattered bones. At last, I found what I needed: a chunk of black iron, harder than steel and heavy as sin. I hauled it back to the forge and began the painstaking process of shaping it into a warhammer head. The top would be the curved blade—a cruel, vicious arc meant to cleave through anything in its path. The other side would be the blunt face, a crushing weight that would crack shields, skulls, and stone alike.
Forging that head was hell. I lost track of how many times I reheated the iron, how many times I hammered until my muscles screamed and my hands blistered. The chamber grew so hot I felt like I was roasting alive, my sweat sizzling on the stone floor. But I pushed through. Each swing of the hammer was a conversation with the weapon-to-be. Each rune I etched whispered a promise: "I will make you strong. I will give you purpose."
And when it was done—when I finally joined the head to the shaft and felt the balance, the weight, the perfect alignment—I knew I'd made something extraordinary. The hammer had a presence, as if it watched me with unseen eyes. I could almost hear it humming with potential, eager for battle. Its runes glowed faintly, reacting to the warmth of my hands. It was more than a tool. It was a companion, a guardian, a monster.
I named it Skarnvalk, the Reaper of Stone.
But my work wasn't finished. Karaz Tarul had provided the forge, but it was still a dead place, and I couldn't stay. The road called to me again, this time promising something more than pain. It promised purpose. There were others out there who needed weapons like this, who deserved the craftsmanship and care I poured into my work. I wasn't just a forge master—I was a ruin master. And the runes I etched weren't just for weapons. They were for the future I intended to carve out of this broken world.
The first town I came across after leaving Karaz Tarul was little more than a collection of crooked timber houses and an inn that reeked of sour ale. The people there were tough, their eyes wary, their smiles tight-lipped, and the smoke from their hearth fires stung my nose. Word of the mountain had clearly reached them—whispered tales of a lone dwarf with a hammer carved in ancient runes.
They stared when I walked into the inn, boots caked in dust, Skarnvalk slung across my back. Not that I blamed them. A dwarf in a town of men always drew eyes, even more so when he looked half-feral and carried a weapon that practically hummed with malice. I paid for a meal with what few coins I had left and kept my head low, though I couldn't help catching bits of conversation from the tables around me.
"...spotted near the eastern ridge again. Another caravan didn't make it."
"...I tell you, the thing's real. Old Sully saw it with his own eyes, claws like bloody scythes..."
"...we can't keep losing trade. If someone doesn't step in, the whole valley'll starve before winter's out."
I chewed the dry bread slowly, thinking. My last journey had been a test of survival, a pilgrimage to the forge. This time, I needed to be smarter. The hammer wasn't just for display; it was a solution, a weapon meant to change the course of things. Skarnvalk and I needed to prove ourselves—and it sounded like this "thing" in the eastern ridge might be a good place to start.
The barkeep, a wiry old man with more missing teeth than hair, leaned over the counter and asked, "You a fighter, then?"
"Depends," I said. "What's the pay?"
He snorted. "Pay's what's left of the trade goods when the beast's dead. Some of it's worth a good pile of gold, I reckon. But you're not the first to ask, and I'm guessin' you won't be the last to walk out there and not come back."
I grunted, finishing the last of the bread and chasing it with a sip of lukewarm ale. "What kind of beast?"
The barkeep's face darkened. "They say it's a grimwing—a thing from the deep woods, part wolf, part bird, part… something else. Big as a horse, quick as a shadow. Claws can slice a man in half. Only comes at night."
A grimwing. I'd heard of them before, in the old stories my kin told over forge fires. Unnatural creatures twisted by ancient curses, they were rare enough that most folk didn't believe they existed. If this was truly a grimwing, it would be dangerous. Lethal, even. And that was exactly the kind of challenge I needed. I'd forged Skarnvalk to be more than a simple hammer. It had a will, a hunger for combat, and I intended to feed it.
I rose from the table, my chair scraping loudly on the wooden floorboards. "Where's the ridge?"
"Head east outta town," the barkeep said, eyes narrowing. "Follow the trail until you hit the cliffs. If you hear the trees go quiet, you're close."
He didn't wish me luck. None of them did. They watched me go like they were already carving my name into a gravestone.
The trail was muddy from a recent storm, and my boots sank with every step. The air was colder here, the trees taller, the undergrowth thicker. Each crack of a twig or rustle of leaves set my heart racing. I kept my grip on Skarnvalk tight, the hammer's familiar weight calming my nerves. The runes glimmered faintly in the dim light filtering through the forest canopy, as if they sensed what was to come.
By the time I reached the cliffs, the sun was sinking below the horizon. The barkeep had been right: the forest grew deathly quiet as I neared the ridge. The usual chorus of birds and insects faded into a heavy, oppressive silence. Even the wind seemed to die, leaving only the faint sound of my own breathing and the thud of my boots on the wet earth.
I found a flat patch of ground at the base of a large tree and began carving runes into the soil. These weren't combat runes—they were meant to draw attention. If the grimwing was as territorial as the stories claimed, it would come to me. I had no interest in wandering the dark woods hoping to stumble upon it. I wanted it to find me, to come at me with all the fury it could muster.
I set Skarnvalk down beside me and sat cross-legged, watching the shadows stretch across the ridge. My heart pounded in my chest as night fell, but I forced myself to stay still. The runes in the soil glowed faintly in the moonlight, their light pulsing like a heartbeat. I could feel the hammer's will beside me, a steady hum in the back of my mind. It was eager, almost impatient. So was I.
Then, in the distance, a low, guttural growl broke the silence. It sent a shiver down my spine. A moment later, I heard the sound of branches snapping, followed by the heavy thud of something large moving through the trees.
I rose to my feet, Skarnvalk in hand, and waited. The runes on the hammer flared to life, casting a cold, pale light that illuminated the forest around me. The glow revealed a pair of eyes in the darkness—huge, golden, and filled with malice. I tightened my grip on the hammer and took a step forward.
"Come on, then," I muttered. "Let's see if the stories were true."
The creature stepped out of the darkness and into the glow of the runes. It was every bit the monster the stories described: feathers black as ash, scales glinting like tarnished steel, and wings that looked too large for the muscular, lupine body beneath. Its claws dug into the ground with a sound like grinding stone, and its golden eyes locked onto me.
I grinned. "So you're the one making all the trouble around here," I said, my voice calm despite the tightening in my chest. "Name's Doran Thargrimm, by the way. Figure we'll get introductions out of the way before I turn you into scrap."
The grimwing's ears flicked at the sound of my voice. It growled again, low and rumbling, and I could see the muscles in its powerful legs tense, preparing to spring. I adjusted my stance, hefting Skarnvalk in both hands. The hammer's runes flared brighter, their light dancing off the etched blade and the heavy, blocky head.
"Alright then, beastie," I muttered, my grin widening. "Let's dance."
The grimwing lunged forward, claws carving deep trenches into the earth. Its black-feathered wings snapped open, propelling it with terrifying speed. In an instant, it was upon me—claws swiping at my chest, jaws snapping for my neck. But I was already moving.
I spun to the side, bringing Skarnvalk around in a sweeping arc. The hammer's curved blade caught the creature's flank and tore through scales and sinew. Blood sprayed, black and steaming, but the grimwing didn't flinch. It twisted, jaws wide, and lashed out with a wing. The force of the strike sent me stumbling back.
Pain flared in my ribs. I barely had time to register it before the beast came at me again. I ducked low, driving the blunt face of Skarnvalk into its leg. The impact shook my arms to the bone, but I felt the joint give under the force. The grimwing howled, its voice like a storm ripping through the trees.
It was strong—stronger than anything I'd ever faced before. Each swing of its claws came faster, its movements more frantic as it realised I wasn't going down easily. I fought defensively, dodging and parrying, searching for an opening. The hammer wasn't just a weapon; it was an extension of my will. Every rune I'd etched into its surface had a purpose, a command. I just had to find the right moment.
The beast leapt back, its wings beating the air. It crouched, preparing for a final, devastating charge. I could see the muscles coiling beneath its hide, the tension in its massive frame. I tightened my grip on Skarnvalk and reached for the power I'd built into the runes.
"Time to end this," I muttered, slamming the hammer's butt into the ground. The runes blazed with white-hot light, and I felt the weapon respond. It wasn't just a hammer anymore; it was a force of nature, a weapon with a will as fierce as my own.
The grimwing sprang, a black streak cutting through the night. I met it head-on, swinging Skarnvalk in a wide, brutal arc. The hammer connected with the creature's skull, shattering bone and sending shockwaves through the air. The curved blade followed, cleaving deep into its neck. Blood sprayed, and the grimwing crumpled to the ground, motionless.
For a moment, the forest was silent again. I stood over the fallen beast, breathing heavily, my hands trembling from the effort. Skarnvalk's runes pulsed faintly, their light dimming as the weapon settled into a quiet hum. The hammer had done its work, and I'd proven myself worthy of it once more.
With the grimwing dead at my feet, I took a moment to catch my breath. My ribs ached from the blows I hadn't quite dodged, and the cut along my left forearm bled sluggishly. Still, I'd seen worse. Much worse.
Skarnvalk's runes had dimmed, the hammer's bloodlust sated. I could feel the faint hum of its will in my hands, a contented purr, as though it too recognised a job well done. It wasn't just a tool; it was a companion, bound to me as much as I was bound to it. Together, we were more than just a warrior and a weapon. We were something… different. Something more.
But the fight had taken its toll. My muscles burned, and I knew I'd need time to recover before tackling whatever waited for me next. For now, the forest was still. Peaceful, even. The grimwing's body would serve as proof that the valley's trade routes were safe again, and with luck, that would be enough to earn me some coin. Enough to keep moving.
I crouched by the beast's massive head, inspecting the damage. The runes on Skarnvalk hadn't just pierced its flesh—they'd left blackened streaks along the bone, as if the weapon's will had burned straight through it. I couldn't help but smirk. Even in death, the grimwing looked like it had seen something far worse than it expected. A fitting end for a creature that had brought so much fear to these woods.
"Rest in pieces, you bastard," I muttered, wiping blood from the hammer's blade. "You won't be the last."
The grimwing's blood, thick and dark, clung to Skarnvalk's blade. I knew I'd have to clean it properly back at the forge, to make sure the runes stayed sharp and the weapon's will remained intact. For now, though, it would serve as a reminder to anyone who crossed my path that Doran Thargrimm wasn't someone to be trifled with.
I rose to my feet, hefting Skarnvalk onto my shoulder, and began the long walk back toward the town. Each step reminded me that this was just the beginning. There were more challenges ahead—more beasts to kill, more weapons to forge, more runes to carve. The road was long, and the world was dark. But I had my hammer, my skill, and my name.