Embersmith
The molten mythril sparkled with many colors, previously hidden, freed now by arcane fire. Ember reached into the furnace and grabbed it with her claw, for a dragon need not fear the touch of flame.
She placed the glowing brick upon an ancient anvil, wrought from an inscrutable material long estranged to the world. Withdrawing from her apron a matching hammer, inscribed with the same runic channels, she held the bar in place and proceeded to strike it, the first fall of the hammer connecting in a singular, electrifying blow.
The esoteric runes flashed with an unearthly light as the excess magic released from the metal was siphoned away. Most settled in the base of the anvil, while the rest flowed up through the hammer and into Ember’s body. She had to proceed with caution, for magic forging was not like mundane smithing. The feedback from every stroke carried with it the wild rush of escaping magic.
As with all forms of metalworking, a calm mind and clear focus were as valuable as any material tool, but as one’s body becomes charged with magic maintaining one’s composure can become difficult, especially for a young, blossoming dragoness....
The anvil was designed to absorb some, but not all of the energy, for to achieve the desired result the smith must be connected to the piece, bearing some of its raw potential until the time of ‘convergence,‘ in which the magic is returned from above and below to be sealed within.
Taking a long, deep breath, she raised the hammer again, exhaling sharply as she struck the thinning metal, driving it outwards all around. The feedback was stronger this time, sending a frustrating warmth to the spot between her legs. She fought the urge to clamp her thighs together, sweat beginning to form on the scaleless tops of her breasts, which heaved as she began to pant.
Still she soldiered on, striking methodically and with purpose, her pace gradually increasing, yet she found it took also an ever-increasing amount of willpower to restrain her wild urge to batter the metal with a heavy hand.
She had to manage with care the amount of force she exerted upon the thinning piece of mage-metal, but each stroke set her breasts shuddering, straining against the heavy apron pinning them down. The gentle grind of leather against her areola nurtured a yearning for satisfaction, as though she were clutching a gem she knew she could not eat.
The forge rang out with the savage sound of the struck mythril, high and shrill as a raptor’s cry. She gritted her teeth, her body flaring up again and again with overwhelming sensation. Her wings ached to stretch, her vision blurred and the hot, vibrant stimulation started to bedew her soft, unfledged pussy.
It felt as though the passage of time had slowed, yet steadily the piece began to reach the desired shape. She could tell the moment of convergence was growing near by the weakness in her knees and how the metal before her began to align with the vision in her mind.
She struggled against the urge to cry out and collapse, and just as the barrage of feeling reached a mind-melting crescendo—she halted.
Restraining herself from hammering any more took impossible strength, but she would not falter. For the pride of all the dragons taken in the Great Farewell she must succeed; she would succeed.
She reached into the pocket of her apron, shivers and sparks dancing across her womb, and pulled out a small metal object embossed with a sealing rune to be stamped into the metal. The time of convergence had come.
She positioned it carefully on the thinned plate of mythril and breathed in, the magic welling up inside her belly. The anvil was aglow with its own stored energy, waiting for the final blow to inject it all back into place. In a moment of unexpected clarity the very air seemed to draw itself close and all fell silent until the head of the hammer struck the end of the stamp.
There was a brilliant flash of light and a harrowing shriek that echoed through the forge and the ever-frozen peaks without. For an instant she thought she glimpsed something of unparalleled importance, then the torrent of magic was drawn to the sealed piece, pulled from the anvil and drained from her body, along with the memory of what she thought she saw.
She could feel the magic flow through her arm like scalding water, but something else too: a pulsing relief in her loins as something trickled down her leg. At last she fell to her knees, dropping the hammer and stamp on the cold stone as ribbons of color drew close around the metal, and with a dizzying shift in pressure the seal took hold. A pulsing euphoria flooded Ember’s body, as though her heart was just now beating for the first time.
She recovered swiftly, knowing her work was not yet finished. She fetched her stamp and her hammer as she stood, replacing the stamp in her apron pocket. She held the shimmering plate before her, neatly marked with the emblem of the Dragon-Forge.
Bathing it in flame once more, she worked into it a gentle curve using the horn of the anvil. The now dormant metal responded more easily, but before it was finished the piece would need to be quenched in water from the Everspring, atop which the Forge was built, in order to calm the agitated magic before it could destabilize the metal.
It would also require tempering to make it shatter-proof, bringing out the seven colors within and—if done correctly—allow it to reflect an unseeable eighth that could reject the bite of dark magics.
It was a lengthy process, but a royal commission was not to be taken lightly. If it would aid the ponies in combating the terrible forces behind the Great Farewell, then she would make absolutely sure that the armor would not fail.