The Horned Smith

The Horned Smith

Protector and Forger, the Horned Smith stands among the Old Gods of Vezmirk, eternal in his labor. Portrayed as towering but stooped, the statues of the Smith seem to be weighed down with the burdens of an eternity. Such is the nature of the god, who so fierce in his countenance, hammer in hand, mighty horns looming....yet calm. For the Horned Smith is not a god ruled by his emotions. Indeed, now, they serve him. His few and only companions in an eternity of the forge. Yet when need calls, he fixates with a single spark a single purpose. Whether it is consuming anger, or passionate love, he feels such only when he calls upon them. They are but tools in his hands to wield. 7 Servants, 7 Emotions to call. 7 Emotions he can never feel but for 1 at a time. For the story of the Horned God is a sad one, told somberly to the faithful. A tail to cause tears and clinched hands in equal measure. Yet it is a tale all the same.

In Ye Olden Days

Rarely are the Vezmirki considered an emotional people. They are stern, firm, and unbending. Much of this, say old believers, they owe to The Horned Smith. Once, they say, ages past, he was but a humble man. This smith lived alone, as he liked it, his only companions the birds of the wood, and his tools of work. He was not a cruel man , this Smith, but wise men did not trespass, for he was mighty. Nor was he blessed of a handsome face, burnt and darkened as it was from years of forgework. Deep did he dwell, far from others. Yet, the day came when, during a mighty storm, a knock sounded on his door. He opened to behold a beautiful woman, lovelier than anything he had ever before seen. Her hair was as onyx, skin like fresh cream. Enthralled, he took the maiden in, for she was ill with fever. He cared for her, even as her illness grew worse. He was not used to strangers, but as days became months, he felt something. For each month he felt something new towards the woman, yet on the seventh, something warm and new. The Smith was in love, the woman stranger had stolen his heart. For her part, the woman, as awkward as he, felt love too, though yet she did not know it. The Smith, having never forged for another, made a gift. For weeks he worked on it. No gold it bore, or jewels. It was simple tin, for a simple wish. A ring. Yet on the day his courage gained to ask the question, came a rider from the west. Twas a Prince, the very symbol of majesty. Yet it was his words that shocked the Smith most of all. He had come for is fiance, said he, the woman inside. The woman who was a Princess. Broken, the Smith would not stop her. Yet she chose to remain. She had run once already, said she, and no desire was there to return to a royal life. Feigning friendship, the Prince blessed them. Yet without this marriage, he would never see the crown! He doused an apple in sleeping draught, meaning to spirit the girl away. Dinner came, the apple given, yet no hand or shout could wake her.

A Broken Heart

The fever had weakened her, the coma had finished it. She was dead and gone, cold as her pale skin, now paler. The Smith in his rage slew Prince and Company, cursing the gods to damn him and be done. Yet he lifted his bride to be, and buried her, with the ring. At last, when tears would not end he tore open his chest. 7 times did he strike with hammer his heart upon the anvil. 7 times did his dying thoughts change. Into 7 pieces did it splinter. No more he, said, no more! Let his heart be destroyed rather than broken again. Let him feel nothing evermore! Yet, say the tellers, when he awoke, the Smith felt not a thing. Instead he saw the 7 pieces of his heart. Into them, he gave what once he had felt. Anger, Pride, Sorrow, Joy, Fear, Courage...and Love. As one they rose, servants of emotion. Each rose forged of metal, each a differnt kind. Gold, Iron, Lead, Silver, Steel, Mythril, Tin. To his work turned the smith, then and forevermore. For himself, he beat into his flesh mighty horns of mixed metal, so that none would ever again see his shape and seek shelter at his house. Over the empty hole in his chest he patched his skik with tin. No more would he feel all of what he had felt. Yet no earthly forge did he work any longer. There he has remained, say the stories, feeling, unfeeling. The creations of his heart his only friends. As his tale spread, so did his works.

General Worship

The believers of the Old Ways revere the Horned Smith as not only Patron of Smiths and Crafters, but as Guardian of the Hearth. For when cold winds howl, when wolves walk on their hinds, when shadow threatens, it is the hearth that remains. The Smith is protecter, wielding mighty hammer. While he cannot be called kind , he knows pain, and wishes it on few. Least of all those who pray to him. No temples stand to the Horned Smith. Nor would he ask for any. Rather, his worship is in the clang of the hammer. It is in the forging of new bonds. Traditionally, the faithful will make offerings to him indoors. Some will burn old tools and aprons, praying before an ore of the 7 Servants. Tin say, placed over their hearts in Love. Perhaps others will cast apples into the fireplace, as if to mourn in his place. Once, the Horned God was great in Vezmirk, and the halls of hammers sung praise in their strikes. Perhaps he is now diminished, but his ways remain strong in the countryside. Even, say some noted few, one may be blessed with the rarest of gifts. In the deepest woods, on the most quiet night, a hammer may sound. Pines block the moon.Though no fire burns, smoke scents the air. Above it all is the voices of 7 men, and say some, appearing as if from nothing, the Forge of the Horned Smith.