The transition to Solania, the fourth heaven, was marked by crystalline light that seemed to pierce straight through to the soul, being very soothful. Where Venya had been pastoral and gentle, Solania was sharp and uncompromising. Mountains of pure crystal rose toward a sky that glowed with white radiance, there were some dark coloured crystals and all the colors of the rainbow. Mines delved deep into the peaks, each one producing special crystals that were solely Solania's.
And somewhere in these mountains stood the Soul Forges of Moradin, the Dwarffather.
I'd heard about them from the celestial artisans in Venya. Legendary forges where dwarven artificers crafted items of incredible power, and where the boundary between metal and soul became permeable, where weapons and armor could be imbued with purpose that transcended mere enchantment and bound items to the soul for the singular person to use until death parted them and then the enchantment would become useless unless tied to a bloodline.
The path to the forges was well-travelled, marked by signs in Dwarvish and Common. Other pilgrims made the journey alongside me, mostly dwarves in simple traveling clothes, their expressions reverent. This was a holy site for them, a place where their god's presence could be felt in every hammer strike.
The forges themselves were built into the mountainside, a complex of workshops and temples that seemed to grow organically from the crystal peaks. Smoke rose from dozens of chimneys, carrying the familiar scent of hot metal and coal fire and clever ventilation. The sound of hammering echoed through the valleys, a constant ringing sound that felt like the mountain's heartbeat.
A sign near the entrance read: "Soul Forges of Moradin. Public workshops open to all craftsmen of good heart. Private forges reserved for the Moradin's chosen. Respect the work, respect the workers and respect the craft. No loitering".
I entered through the main gates, immediately struck by the scale of the operation. Dozens of forges occupied the ground floor, each one attended by dwarven artificers of varying skill levels. Apprentices worked bellows and organized materials. Journeymen hammered out basic items under the watchful eyes of masters. And in the back, separated by a low wall, the veteran artificers worked on unique projects that delighted me to see.
They probably had private forges for sensitve forging but I couldn't see where the doors lead.
Nobody stopped me as I wandered through. Visitors were apparently common, and as long as you didn't interfere with the work, you were welcome to observe.
I approached one of the forges where a dwarf was working on something that glowed with heat. The dwarf looked old, his beard grey and braided with what appeared to be wire made from precious metals. Hmm, platinum? His hands moved with the confidence of someone who'd spent centuries perfecting his craft.
"Excuse me," I said. "Do you mind if I watch?"
He glanced up, taking in my appearance. "No, as long as you're quiet and don't touch anything. I am working on something delicate."
"I understand. I'm just here to observe and learn."
His expression softened slightly. "Ah, a fellow smith. Welcome then. Name's Borin," He returned to his work, hammer striking with measured precision. "This is a Brazier of Commanding Fire Elementals. It was commissioned by a celestial patrol that operates near the borders of Gehenna. They need reliable fire support, and elementals are more resistant to infernal corruption, it is better to summon with an item instead of a summoner that close to Gehenna as they get corrupted more easily".
I watched him work, fascinated. The brazier itself was already complete, a brass bowl approximately two feet in diameter, its surface covered in runes that I recognized as summoning formulae. Borin was in the final stages now, inscribing the command word that would activate the item's power.
"How does the brazier function?" I asked. "The summoning, specifically."
"When you light a fire in the brazier and speak the command word, the flames open a temporary pathway to the Elemental Plane of Fire. A non sentient fire elemental is pulled through, bound to serve the brazier's holder until midnight and then only able to summon it back once dawn is there." He set down his hammer, examining his work critically. "It can only be used once per day. The planar connection needs time to stabilize between summons."
"Why brass specifically?" I asked. "Instead of, say, copper or bronze?"
"Brass resonates with fire elementals better than other metals. Something about its composition makes it easier for them to manifest through it." Borin pulled the brazier from the forge, examining the still-glowing metal. "Copper would work, but the connection would be weaker. Bronze would be too stable, ironically, it wouldn't let the elemental pass through properly."
Fascinating. Material choice affecting planar summoning, that was pretty interesting, I wonder how Celestial bronze would effect summoning or the other Olympian metals.
"Do you worship Moradin?" I asked, genuinely curious.
Borin's expression turned complicated. "I respect him. Honor him for what he's given our people, the knowledge of the forge, the structure of our society. But worship?" He shrugged. "I leave that to the priests. I show my devotion through my craft. Every item I make is a prayer, in its way. Moradin understands that better than most gods would."
"Not all dwarves here worship him, then?"
"Most do, aye. But not all. Some of us wandered too far from the traditional paths, learned different techniques, adopted different philosophies." He gestured around the workshop. "You'll find worshipers of Moradin, Berronar, Dumathoin, all the Morndinsamman. But you'll also find dwarves who follow other gods, or no gods at all. The Soul Forges welcome all who respect the craft, regardless of their faith."
That was refreshing. Olympus had been so rigid in its hierarchies, so insistent on proper worship and reverence, the Gods of Olympus cared so little about their worshippers as to have constantly used them in petty squabble. This place valued skill and dedication.
"Do you mind if I ask what you're working on next?" I said.
"A commission for one of the archons. It is a shield that can absorb incoming magic and release it back as radiant damage. Tricky work, balancing the absorption rate with the release mechanism." He pulled out a sheet of designs, showing me preliminary sketches. "The key is creating a reservoir that can hold absorbed energy without destabilizing. Too much storage capacity and the shield becomes too heavy. Too little and it overloads after a single spell."
I studied the designs, my divine mind already cataloging the principles. "Have you considered using a phased storage approach? Multiple small reservoirs instead of one large one, each activating sequentially as they fill?"
Borin's eyes widened. "That... that could work. Distribute the load, prevent any single point from becoming overwhelmed." He grabbed a charcoal stick, sketching modifications. "The weight would increase, but only marginally. And the stability would improve dramatically."
We spent the next hour discussing the shield design, trading ideas, building on each other's suggestions. It was the kind of collaborative work I'd missed since leaving Olympus. Dionysus had been willing to discuss wine-making with me, and Hestia had occasionally asked about hearth improvements, but neither had truly understood the intricacies of advanced crafting, Athena was too much of a upright snob to be seen with me, she found the more intellectual crafting more stimulating while give me a hammer and anvil and I would be happy.
Borin did. He spoke the love his craft and the language of materials and magic. It was like finding someone who spoke Greek in a land of barbarians.
"You've got a good mind for this," Borin said finally. "Most craftsmen I meet are so focused on their own methods and so arrogant that they know better that they can't see alternatives. Impressively, you adapt, and consider new approaches." Hmm, a humble god I was, I thought in amusement.
"I've had a lot of time to practice adapting," I said.
He laughed. "Don't we all. You planning to stay in Solania for a while?"
"A few days, probably. I want to see more of the forges, and understand how different artificers approach similar problems."
"You should talk to Grandmother Steelheart, then. She's working some forges down there, been crafting for five hundred years. Her Specialty is binding elemental forces to physical objects. If you're interested in advanced techniques, she's who you want to observe."
I thanked him and moved to the indicated forge. Grandmother Steelheart was exactly what her title suggested: ancient, stern, and radiating the kind of competence that came from half a millennium of dedicated practice. She was working on something that looked like a gauntlet, its surface covered in scales that shifted colors as she hammered them.
"I don't take students," she said without looking up. "And I don't sell my techniques. If you're here to beg for either, save your breath."
"I'm here to observe and learn," I said. "Nothing more. I'll stay out of your way."
She glanced at me, assessing. "You're the one who made that feather belt. Word travels fast in the workshops. Interesting technique, weaving dual enchantments through a single medium. Wasteful, though. You could have achieved the same effect with half the materials." I found it cute that she thought she could do better.
"Hm." She returned to her work. "You can stay. Don't talk, and don't touch anything, and don't ask me any stupid questions."
I settled onto a nearby stool, watching her work in comfortable silence.
Grandmother Steelheart was a master. She worked with the kind of focused intensity that eliminated everything else from awareness. Just the metal, the heat, the hammer, and the slow transformation of raw material into finished Item of wonder.
I recognized that state. I'd spent millennia in it myself.
After perhaps two hours, she pulled the gauntlet from the forge and plunged it into an oil bath that smelled like pine and ozone. Steam erupted, and when it cleared, the gauntlet gleamed with inner orange light. Quenched in Thunder oil?
"Gauntlet of Elemental Command," she said delighted., answering the question I hadn't asked. "Binds a minor fire elemental to the wearer's will, It is not as powerful as a full summoning, but more reliable and doesn't exhaust the user. This was commissioned by a paladin heading to the front lines of the Blood War. He paid one pretty penny for this!"
"How long did it take?" I asked.
"It took three weeks. It would have been two, but the elemental I initially bound was too aggressive. I had to release it and find one more amenable to servitude." She set the gauntlet aside to cool. "The binding of elemental forces is about negotiation as much as crafting. You can't just force them into an object and expect cooperation. They need to agree to the arrangement, or they'll sabotage the item from within."
That was new information. In my reality, binding forces to objects was about power and will. The bound entity's cooperation was irrelevant. Here, apparently, it worked differently.
"Do you worship Moradin?" I asked.
"Every day of my life," she said simply. "Every item I craft is an offering. Every hammer strike a prayer,"she said it like a chant,"He's given me five hundred years of steady hands and clear eyes. The least I can do is honor him through excellence in my work."
"Does he ever respond?"
"He does sometimes. In subtle things, mostly. A difficult project then suddenly becoming clear. The materials arriving exactly when I need them and once, when I was working on a particularly complex piece, I felt his presence in the forge with me. I didn't see him, Nor did I hear him, but I knew he was watching." She smiled, the expression softening her stern features. "That's enough for me. I don't need grand miracles or divine intervention. Just the knowledge that my work matters to him."
I understood that. I'd felt similarly about my own crafting and some of my worshipers when I was on olympus, those I deemed worthy would be watched but too often I was called away by the olympian cohort to work on a project for them. Olympus had twisted it into obligation and servitude. The work itself had been prayer, the creation had been divine, the finished pieces had been offerings.
I'd lost that somewhere along the way. Let Zeus and the others turn my gift into a tool for their convenience and the desire to craft soley for the fun was only just coming back.
Maybe I could reclaim back soon. Find that purity of purpose again.
"Thank you for letting me observe," I said, standing.
"You're welcome back anytime," Grandmother Steelheart said. "Just remember: quiet, no touching, no stupid questions is the policy here in Lord Moradin forges."
"Understood."
I spent the rest of the day wandering through the Soul Forges, observing different artificers, absorbing techniques and approaches. Each craftsman had their own style, their own relationship with materials and magic.
Some worshiped Moradin exclusively. Others honored the full Morndinsamman, the dwarven pantheon. A few followed gods from other realities entirely, having wandered the planes long enough to find patrons that suited their personal philosophies.
And a handful, like Borin, showed their devotion through craftsmanship alone. Just the work itself elevated to an art form that transcended religious obligation.
I found that approach appealing.
As the day ended and I prepared to return to my temporary lodgings in Venya, I paused at the entrance to the Soul Forges. The private section, Moradin's personal workshops, were visible through iron gates inscribed with runes of warding and protection. Beyond them, I could sense forges that operated on divine principles I didn't fully understand, magic and metalwork combined in ways that transcended both.
I wanted to see them. Wanted to understand how a different God of Crafting approached the work.
But Moradin was away, traveling to some other plane on business. The private forges were sealed, inaccessible without his personal permission.