Late Night in the Forge: A Proposal
The forge fires had been banked, the great hammers silenced, the night shift quietly tending to stock and tools. Somewhere above, the moon cast pale light through the small clerestory windows, touching the stone floor with silver patterns.
In his tiny corner alcove, Sniksnik hunched over a delicate set of engraving needles, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but refusing to stop. His claws still worked, shaping tiny experimental spirals on a scrap of burnished copper — a design with no commission, no purpose, just the pleasure of the work.
He didn’t hear the heavy boots at first. Only when a shadow loomed across the alcove did he start, turning sharply.
“Ahh! Garbrik! Scared me, you did!”
Garbrik Kraggenkor chuckled, a deep, warm rumble from his broad chest. The old dwarf’s massive arms were crossed over his thick hide apron, his pale yellow beard streaked with gray and tucked neatly into his belt.
“Sorry, Master Sniksnik. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Sniksnik blinked, the title surprising him. Garbrik didn’t usually say it.
The dwarf stepped forward, holding something in his thick fingers — the Titan Gold ingot, cradled carefully, almost reverently.
“I’ve been thinking.”
His voice softened, the usual forge-floor boom tempered into something quieter, more thoughtful.
“We don’t know if it’s possible… but maybe, just maybe, this could help you.”
Sniksnik’s snout twitched, eyes narrowing curiously.
“Help? Help how?”
Garbrik knelt slightly, so his heavy form was closer to the kobold’s level.
“We could forge this into a pendant. A periapt. Something that could be enchanted — maybe to slow the toll of age on you. You know, Sniksnik, you’re family here. You’re a treasure. We’d… we’d like to try.”
For a moment, Sniksnik said nothing. His claws twitched over the bench’s edge, his sharp black eyes wide.
“No guarantee…?”
Garbrik shook his head slowly.
“None. We don’t know if the Titan Gold will hold such an enchantment. We’ve never tried something like this. But we have the materials, the skill, the enchanters willing to help — if you’re willing too.”
There was a long silence. Then Sniksnik reached out, his tiny claws gently tapping the ingot in Garbrik’s hand.
“We try,” he whispered softly.
“We try.”
Garbrik smiled, broad and genuine.
“Good. Good lad.”
He patted the kobold’s shoulder with a massive, calloused hand, then rose.
“Rest, Sniksnik. Tomorrow, we talk to the enchanters.”
As the dwarf’s footsteps faded away, Sniksnik sat very still, staring at the ingot’s reflection dancing faintly across his scattered tools. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to hope.
Titan Gold Periapt of Longevity
Wondrous Item (amulet or pendant), very rare (requires attunement)
Description:
Forged from the exceedingly rare and magically receptive alloy known as Titan Gold, this pendant glows faintly with an inner golden light, its surface etched with runes of vitality and endurance. The chain or cord is usually crafted of reinforced Mithril or Silbony to ensure durability over centuries.
The Kraggenkor Forge first attempted this crafting to preserve the life and skill of their beloved master etcher, Sniksnik the kobold, making it a legendary and one-of-a-kind artifact in Mithrin’s history.
Properties:
Slow Aging. While attuned to this pendant, your physical aging slows to 10% of its normal speed. For every 10 years that pass, your body only ages as if a single year has passed. This affects only physical aging (appearance, frailty); it does not extend your natural lifespan beyond its normal limits.
Magical Aging Resistance. You become immune to magical or supernatural effects that artificially age you forward (such as the Horrid Wilting spell or a ghost’s Withering Gaze).
Vital Spark. You have advantage on saving throws against exhaustion caused by aging, fatigue, or exertion. This does not affect exhaustion from hunger, thirst, or lack of sleep.
Cumulative Magic Risk. Each decade of continuous attunement to the Periapt increases the risk of minor magical “feedback” — once every 10 years, roll a d100. On a result of 95–100, you suffer a cosmetic side effect (silver streaks in hair, glowing veins, faint golden skin shimmer, etc.) reflecting the slow buildup of Titan Gold’s magic, but these effects are harmless and often viewed as marks of honor.
Lore:
“It wasn’t just a pendant. It was the forge’s love — their desperate hope to hold onto a master no coin could buy.”
Titan Gold is notoriously difficult to enchant, as its density and subtle magical undertones resist traditional spellwork. Only the most skilled enchanters, working with master smiths, can bind enduring magic into it. The Titan Gold Periapt of Longevity stands as both a marvel of craftsmanship and a symbol of devotion, crafted not for glory or profit but to preserve the heartbeat of a living treasure.
The Day of the Pendant
For the first time in living memory, the towering iron doors of Kraggenkor Forgeworks were closed.
No clang of hammers echoed into the streets, no wagons rumbled with coal or ore, no clients waited at the counters with gleaming eyes. The forge was silent — save for the gathered breath of its people.
Inside, the apprentices stood in hushed clusters, their rough, soot-smudged hands clasped nervously. Journeymen and masters leaned quietly against forge pillars, watching, waiting. Even the mighty Thog, usually jovial and loud, stood still, arms folded, eyes locked on the center of the room.
Sniksnik’s final ritual had begun.
The kobold stood at the heart of the forge floor, before the main crucible, where the pendant — the Titan Gold Periapt — lay nestled in a glowing bed of enchanted coals. He had engraved it himself over three painstaking weeks, his tiny claws trembling slightly, his eyes red from long hours, yet never faltering.
Now, the final moment had come.
A tall human magi, cloaked in midnight blue, and a graceful druidess, robed in green embroidered with goldleaf, circled the crucible, murmuring to each other in low, measured tones. To them, this was rare work — a fusion of ancient enchantment, druidic lifebinding, and pure arcane precision.
To the forge family, this was hope.
Garbrik Kraggenkor, shoulders broad as ever, beard neatly braided for the occasion, stepped forward solemnly. With both hands, he held a crystal vial — the Potion of Longevity, sourced at unimaginable expense and risk, acquired through desperate favors and old debts called in. He uncorked it with reverence.
The magi gave a nod.
The druidess raised her palms, her fingers wreathed in faint green light.
Sniksnik’s claws tightened slightly at his sides.
Garbrik tipped the vial, pouring the pale golden liquid slowly into the crucible.
For a moment, nothing.
Then — with a soft hiss — the potion boiled away on contact with the still-hot periapt. The pendant’s glow, once a steady warm gold, deepened, pulsing into a rich, molten purple. The runes along its edge flared, each stroke of Sniksnik’s handiwork catching the light as though the pendant were drinking in the magic, reshaping it.
The apprentices gasped. Even the elves leaned forward, eyes wide.
“Easy… easy…” the magi whispered, his voice thick with concentration.
“Guide the flow, not force it,” the druidess murmured, her green-lit hands weaving patterns in the air.
The pendant lifted slightly, hovering on a cushion of shimmering energy. Threads of magic — gold, purple, and green — wove around it, pulling tight, binding enchantment to metal.
Sniksnik watched, his throat dry, his claws trembling faintly. He’d crafted many things over his life, but none had ever been for him. This was not just a pendant. It was his family’s gift.
Minutes stretched like hours. Sweat beaded on the brows of the spellcasters. The forge room was deathly silent, every dwarf, elf, human, and half-orc holding their breath.
Then — with a soft chime, like a bell forged of crystal — the pendant settled gently back into the crucible, its glow steady, its form unchanged but somehow… more.
The magi sagged with relief.
The druidess smiled softly, lowering her hands.
Garbrik let out a long, slow exhale.
He turned to Sniksnik, voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion.
“Master Sniksnik… it’s ready.”
The kobold stepped forward slowly, reverently. With both hands, he lifted the Titan Gold Periapt from its resting place. It pulsed faintly in his grasp — warm, light, almost alive. His sharp black eyes glistened faintly.
“Thank you… all of you.”
The forge erupted in cheers.
For that one day, the mighty Kraggenkor Forgeworks had closed its doors to the world — not for profit, not for power, but for the love of one small artisan whose hands had shaped wonders, and whose time they refused to surrender without a fight.
The Moment of Attunement
Sniksnik sat alone now, just outside the forge’s great heart, where the walls were lined with smooth black stone and the roaring fires dimmed to a soft, living glow. His small claws trembled slightly as he held the Titan Gold Periapt in both hands, the chain coiled like silk around his fingers, the pendant itself faintly pulsing with its strange, deep purple-gold light.
“Attune to it,” the magi had said softly, “let it know you, let it bind to you.”
He closed his eyes. Drew a slow, thin breath. Let the sounds of the forge fade behind him — the muffled laughter, the warm conversations, the occasional hammer ring as someone lightly tested a blade even on this night of rest.
“We did this for you, little master,” Garbrik had told him before withdrawing to give him privacy.
“Because you matter.”
Sniksnik let the pendant rest against his chest, his tiny claws clutching it as though he feared it might slip away. He opened himself — not with words, not with spells, but with sheer will, sheer desire.
And then —
A twist. A pulse. A surge of magic, gentle but undeniable, like cool water spilling through his veins. His breath caught, his sharp little teeth clenching softly as the energy threaded itself through his body, curling around bone, blood, sinew, and soul.
He felt the change.
The sharpness behind his eyes that he had dulled with effort for years — suddenly a touch keener. The ache in his lower back, the stiffness in his knees — eased, as though a weight he hadn’t even known he carried had been lifted. His claws no longer trembled with the faint palsy of creeping years; they felt sure, steady.
You are not young now, something inside whispered,
but you are not ancient.
He didn’t know how long this magic would hold. Another ten years? Twenty? Fifty? Who could say? But longer than he’d had before, certainly. The sword of Damocles that had hung above his heart for years, its cold edge whispering of his decline, had been blunted — even if only for now.
And with that realization, something crushed his chest.
Not pain. Not fear. But something hot and tight — the overwhelming weight of belonging.
Sniksnik’s kind could not cry, not in the human or elven sense. No tears welled in his small, keen eyes. But still, his throat closed, his breath hitched, his heart fluttered strangely in his thin chest.
They had done this… for him.
Not out of debt.
Not out of need.
But because they cared.
Ten years ago, they could have cast him out. Sold him. Laughed at his art and called it useless. But they hadn’t. They had honored it. Honored him. And now, they had gathered their wealth, their skill, their magic — all to give him more days. More years.
Sniksnik sat silently for a long time, hands trembling faintly around the glowing pendant.
I will repay them, he thought fiercely.
I will make something for all of them, something the forge family will treasure. I will find a way.
His black eyes glimmered faintly as he breathed out, slow and steady.
“Thank you…” he whispered softly, to no one and everyone.
“I will not waste this.”
Then, slowly, he rose, tucking the pendant beneath his tunic where it rested warm and reassuring against his scales.
And with a deep, steadying breath, Master Sniksnik walked back toward the forge — toward his family, toward his craft, toward the future they had fought to give him.
Sniksnik’s Gift: The Medallions of the Forge Family
For days after the attunement, Sniksnik barely spoke of his plan. He worked in secret — not during main hours, when his hands were needed for commissions and masterwork orders, but in the late, quiet hours, when only the soft crackle of the coals and the whisper of the draft kept him company.
He gathered his shed scales — something kobolds rarely spoke of, their moltings a private, almost sacred matter. But Sniksnik saw them as something more: living proof of his craft, his existence, his place in the forge. For ten years, he had saved them, packed carefully away. Now, they had a purpose.
He worked the scales by hand, hardening them through a careful alchemical process, then inlaying them with fine etched runes, each scaled medallion no larger than a palm. Each bore:
The sigil of Kraggenkor Forgeworks — a hammer crossed with flame, crowned by the dwarven master’s rune.
The name of the recipient, engraved in graceful, swirling lines, edged with geometric frames of dwarven and kobold styling.
A pattern inspired by the Titan Gold pendant crafted for himself, weaving the story of the forge into every piece.
The magic was subtle — not a grand enchantment, but a steady infusion of heat-dampening, enough to grant each wearer a minor resistance to the scorching environment of the forges and hearths. For the apprentices, it meant fewer burns and blisters. For the masters, it meant more comfortable, enduring work. For the stock clerks and supply handlers, it meant easier passage near the hotwork stations.
Three months, he told himself, *“Three months in the off hours. Worth it. Worth everything.”
His personal hoard, accumulated from years of careful savings, was emptied without regret. Gold, silver, commissions — all funneled into securing the best fittings, the finest chains, the additional materials he needed to craft the medallions into true, lasting treasures.
The Meaning of the Gift
For Sniksnik, this was more than repayment. This was love — the raw, unspoken love of a creature who had been thrown away once and now, against all odds, had been gathered into a family.
Each medallion was unique, personalized for its owner but crafted as part of a unified set, so that when worn together, they represented a complete design, like the fragments of a greater mosaic.
To Sniksnik, this was his life’s finest work — not a commission, not a masterpiece for a king or dignitary, but a gift for the only family that had ever truly seen him.
Magical Properties (Homebrew Item Description)
Forgeheart Medallion
Wondrous Item, uncommon (requires attunement)
Heat Damping: While wearing this medallion, you have minor resistance to the effects of extreme heat, reducing the chance of burns or exhaustion from forge work.
Mark of the Forge: Each medallion bears the sigil of Kraggenkor Forgeworks, granting you advantage on social checks when dealing with smiths, artisans, or merchant houses who recognize the reputation.
Bond of the Whole: If five or more medallion bearers are within 30 feet of each other, the medallions faintly glow, pulsing with soft warmth — a symbol of unity and shared purpose.
The Feast of the Forge: Sniksnik’s Gift
The Feast of the Forge came once each year, a celebration older than the forgeworks itself — a day when the fires cooled, the anvils fell silent, and every hand, from apprentice to master, gathered around the great stone tables in the hall. The smell of roast meats and spiced breads filled the air, mugs of thick dwarven ale clanked together, and laughter thundered off the walls.
This year, the laughter seemed even louder. Bonuses had been paid, old debts cleared, and the forge was flush with success. Garbrik Kraggenkor himself presided at the head of the table, his heavy beard braided with rings of gold, his great voice booming out stories, challenges, and thanks to every single member of the team.
In the corner, Sniksnik sat quietly, his scaled fingers fidgeting with a cloth-wrapped bundle on his lap. His throat was dry. His heart pounded.
“Wait. Wait till they’re happy. Wait till the right time.”
He watched as the apprentices blushed under Garbrik’s praise, as Thog lifted an entire barrel to roaring cheers, as Arinel and Elirion clinked their crystal goblets and shared quiet smiles. His claws tightened slightly.
Now.
He rose.
It was awkward. His little chair scraped sharply on the stone floor, drawing more attention than he wanted. His tail flicked nervously, his black eyes darting across the table. Several heads turned — Arinel first, then Garbrik, then the apprentices, who quieted mid-laugh.
Sniksnik swallowed hard.
“I… I have — ah — something.”
His voice was thin but carried oddly well across the sudden hush. Garbrik’s bushy brows lifted; he leaned forward slightly, curiosity lighting his weathered face.
Sniksnik cleared his throat. His claws trembled slightly as he set the bundle on the edge of the table, carefully unwrapping the cloth to reveal a shimmering array of medallions, each glowing faintly in the flickering torchlight.
“These… these are for you.”
His voice quavered; he gripped the edge of the table tightly.
“For… all of you. You gave me something I — I never thought I would have. A place. A family. And… and I didn’t know how to repay it. But I can make things. I can always make things.”
He lifted one medallion delicately, holding it between clawed fingers. It gleamed with hardened, darkened scales — his own — etched with perfect runes, the forge sigil, and the name of its owner.
“Each… each is made from part of me. My scales. My work. My time. They’re small, but they’re for you.”
There was a long pause.
Then Garbrik rose slowly, massive and wide, his thick hands reaching out as if to cradle both Sniksnik and the medallions at once. His voice, when it came, was rougher, lower than usual.
“Little master… you didn’t need to repay anything.”
Sniksnik hunched his shoulders slightly, nervous, embarrassed, but his voice lifted just enough to carry:
“I wanted to.”
A pause, a thin breath.
“You saved me. You kept me. You gave me more time, and now… I want to give you all more comfort. Each day. Small protections. Small warmth. Something you can carry and know… you are part of the whole.”
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then Thog the half-orc let out a rumbling laugh, standing abruptly and pounding the table with his broad fist.
“By the gods, Sniksnik! You little wonder!”
The room erupted. Cheers, applause, clinking mugs. Apprentices rushed forward to see their names inscribed on the tiny masterpieces; the elves marveled at the craftsmanship; Garbrik beamed with unmistakable pride.
And Sniksnik, standing small and hunched in the middle of it all, felt something twist warm and tight in his chest again — not fear, not worry, but the bone-deep certainty that he was home.
I will keep working for them, he thought fiercely, swallowing the lump in his throat.
I will make more, do more. I will never waste this gift of belonging.
As the medallions were passed around and slipped over heads, as laughter rose again, Sniksnik allowed himself a small, sharp-toothed smile.
For the first time in his long, strange life, he was not alone.
And he never would be again.
After the Feast: The Quiet Words
The great hall of Kraggenkor Forgeworks had settled into a sleepy hush. Plates had been cleared, mugs drained, barrels rolled away; the apprentices had staggered off to their bunks, groaning with full bellies and overfull hearts. Even the mighty Thog had fallen asleep near the hearth, a tankard still clutched loosely in one hand, a wide grin plastered across his broad face.
But Garbrik was still awake.
He stood near the cooling forge, his heavy hands folded behind his back, his thick yellow-gray beard gleaming faintly in the low firelight. He watched as Sniksnik, small and quiet, finished tidying the last of his cloth wrappings, claws moving with practiced care even now.
“Sniksnik,” Garbrik rumbled softly.
The kobold flinched slightly, then turned, black eyes blinking up at the dwarf. He opened his mouth to stammer an apology, but Garbrik lifted one broad hand.
“No, no, lad. No scurrying off. Walk with me.”
He turned, and Sniksnik trotted to catch up, falling into step beside the towering dwarf. They walked in companionable silence through the quiet forge, the only sounds the soft crackle of the banking coals and the occasional creak of cooling metal.
At last, Garbrik stopped near one of the anvil stations, resting a thick hand on the iron.
“You know,” he said, voice rough but warm, “I watched each one of them open your gifts tonight. And I wish you could have seen their faces.”
Sniksnik tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his sharp gaze. Garbrik smiled.
“Brodri — my nephew — nearly cried, lad. You should’ve seen the way he ran his thumbs over the rune you etched for him, as if it were the most precious thing he’s ever held.”
“Duna?” Garbrik chuckled, shaking his head. “She tried to act cool, but her cheeks went red as forge-coals. She tucked it right under her apron, close to her chest.”
“Thog — ha! That big brute stomped around showing it off like a badge of honor, shouting to anyone who’d listen, ‘Look what Sniksnik made me! Look at this!’ Like a child with his first sword.”
“Arinel and Elirion?” Here, Garbrik’s voice softened. “They held theirs together. Compared the fine work you did on both — father and daughter, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Elirion smile like that.”
“And Maerra?” Garbrik gave a deep laugh. “She slipped hers on the moment you handed it over and said, ‘If this little miracle-worker thinks I’m worth protecting, then I’d better prove him right.’”
He let out a slow breath, turning to look down at the small kobold beside him.
“You’ve done something no one expected, Sniksnik. You gave them more than a gift. You reminded every one of us why we’re here — why this forge is what it is. Not just the craft. Not just the coin. But family.”
Sniksnik’s throat tightened. He gave a sharp little nod, his claws twisting together.
“I… I only wanted to show…” His voice came small, hesitant. “That I… that I know what you all gave me. And that I— I care too.”
Garbrik crouched slightly, one massive hand settling carefully on the kobold’s narrow shoulder. His rough, blackened fingers were heavy and warm, but his grip was gentle.
“Lad,” he murmured, voice a low rumble, “you’ve given more than you know. You’ve left your mark here — not just in metal or rune, but in us. And I’ll tell you something else…”
He leaned in slightly, a conspiratorial grin tugging his thick lips.
“You’re part of this forge’s future now, Sniksnik. Not just its past. And as long as I draw breath, I’ll make sure you always have a place here.”
Sniksnik made a soft, chittering sound in his throat — something between a laugh and a sigh — and ducked his head, the glow from the banked forge fires dancing across the fine etchings of the pendant under his tunic.
For a moment, no words passed between them. Only the quiet, steady comfort of two master craftsmen, bound not by race, nor blood, nor origin — but by craft, by loyalty, and by the simple, profound love of shared purpose.
“Thank you, Garbrik,” Sniksnik whispered at last.
“I’ll… I’ll keep making things. For all of you.”
Garbrik gave a low, hearty laugh and ruffled the kobold’s small head, careful not to muss the fine scaling.
“Good lad. That’s all we ask.”
And together, they turned back toward the quiet heart of the forge, the place they had both, in their own way, built — and the place they both, now, called home.
Epilogue: The Morning After
The morning light slanted through the narrow forge windows, streaking across stone floors still littered with the traces of last night’s celebration — a dropped mug here, a forgotten scarf there, the faint scent of spiced bread still lingering in the air.
The great forge was waking again. Fires were stoked. Bellows hissed softly. Apprentices shuffled into place, rubbing sleep from their eyes, their hands still sore from last night’s toasts and laughter.
Among them stood Toran, the newest of the lot — a skinny human lad with ash-blond hair, no more than sixteen, barely strong enough yet to lift the smaller hammers. His cheeks were still flushed with the thrill of last night. He clutched his medallion in both hands, staring down at it as if afraid it might vanish.
“He made this… for me,” he whispered softly.
The fine etching caught the morning light — his name, Toran, carefully inscribed around the Kraggenkor sigil. The runes shimmered faintly, each one shaped by the legendary claws of Sniksnik himself.
Toran had heard the stories, of course. Everyone spoke of Master Sniksnik — the strange, brilliant kobold who could cut lines finer than spider-silk into metal. But the lad had never dreamed he would be counted among those worthy of such a gift.
“Hey, careful with that, lad,” came a warm, rough voice beside him.
Mervan, the most senior of the apprentices, gave Toran a playful elbow. Broad-shouldered, brown-skinned, and nearing his forties, Mervan had worked here for nearly two decades — too skilled to be called “apprentice,” yet not quite titled “master.” He grinned down at the younger boy, his own medallion glinting faintly against his tunic.
“You’re not the only one Sniksnik honored last night, you know.”
Mervan’s fingers brushed the engraved edge of his medallion, and his usually loud, hearty voice softened.
“I never thought…” he began, then paused, shaking his head. “Well. After all these years, to have him make something — personally — for me? Makes you stand a little taller, doesn’t it?”
Toran nodded quickly, his eyes wide.
“It’s like he… saw us. All of us.”
Mervan chuckled low, folding his thick arms.
“Aye, lad. That’s just it. It’s not the masters, the dignitaries, the outsiders — it’s us. The ones who shape the metal day by day. The ones who build the future of the forge, piece by piece.”
The two stood in silence for a moment, watching as the others filtered in, many of them pausing to touch or admire their own medallions before slipping them under tunics or tying them at belts. A few clapped each other on the shoulder, exchanging quiet, awed smiles.
At the far side of the forge, Sniksnik arrived quietly, small and unobtrusive, his steps light. Toran caught sight of him and straightened instinctively. Mervan did the same, though with a quiet grin.
“There’s the master,” Mervan murmured, his voice filled with genuine respect. “Best engraver in the land, and you’d think he was just another pair of hands here.”
Sniksnik gave a soft nod as he passed, his sharp black eyes flicking briefly toward the two — and Toran saw, just for a moment, a faint smile touch the kobold’s small, scaled face.
“Come on, lad,” Mervan said, clapping Toran’s shoulder. “Time to earn that medallion.” And as the forge fires roared to life once more, Toran and the other apprentices took up their hammers and tongs — not just with the weight of duty, but with the warmth of pride: knowing that, in this great family, they were seen, they were valued, and they belonged
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