Jacob Henshaw ♂

The forge was one of the few places in town still running like it had before the world fell apart. The steady clang of metal striking metal rang through the air, accompanied by the rhythmic hiss of steam as red-hot iron met water. Inside, the heat was almost unbearable, but it was a comforting kind of warmth—a reminder that some things still worked, even in the aftermath. Jacob Henshaw had been the town’s blacksmith for nearly twenty years, his workshop a staple of Rowland long before the city folk started pouring in. He had spent most of his life crafting horseshoes, plow blades, weathervanes, and even the occasional ornate gate for wealthier landowners. When everything fell apart, people came to him for more than just simple farm tools. He reforged broken machetes, reinforced wheelbarrows, and even shaped metal brackets to help repair a collapsed roof. Lately, with fuel shortages rendering cars useless, he had shifted to making replacement parts for bicycles—chains, gears, even crude pedals. When you entered the shop, the scent of burnt metal and coal filled your lungs. The air shimmered with heat, and Jacob barely glanced up from his anvil. He was working on a worn-out garden hoe, reshaping its head with precise hammer strikes. A bucket of finished tools sat nearby—shovels, knives, axe heads—all waiting to be traded for whatever people could spare. You approached the workbench, running a hand over the scattered tools. “Jacob, I need your help with something a little different.” He smirked, wiping sweat from his forehead with a soot-streaked rag. “Different, huh? I’ve been making everything from hunting spearheads to door hinges lately. What’ve you got in mind?”