Ferox Defender

Gantrum looked his general in the eye. Here was a man who had made some of the worst decisions in military history, some of them even more ridiculous than his predecessor, General Reinart the Slow. And now here he was, trying to dispose of the ferox defenders and bring in his own men from the Burning Lands to take over the blacksmithing.

Enough was most definitely enough.

Gantrum shoved his sword into the old man's gut, right to the hilt. Grabbing him, he leaned in close, preventing him from falling to the floor. Resting his chin on the fool's shoulder, he whispered in his ear. “The heat of the forge is a cruel master. It'll make you sweat and sear the hair from your skin. Then there's the weight of the hammer, pummeling hot metal all day until every muscle in your body aches and you can't even lift your arms. And the fumes—well, don't expect to live to a ripe old age. Your lungs will look like a pair of charred chicken breasts when you're done. That's why we leave the smithing to the ferox defenders. They're immune to it all.” Gantrum pulled the sword out and held the bloodied steel up to the lamp light. “Oh, and they make a pretty good blade, as well.” There is no better blacksmith than the feroxi. Their bodies consist of flowing magma as hot as the forge itself, and they can change their hands into any form they desire. On the battlefield, they move and flow like roiling lava spilling from a volcano. Any that stray too close are burnt by their heat or struck down by their molten weapons.

Due to the heat their bodies emanate, ferox defenders live in volcanic caves, finding it the least combustible material. When immigrants from the Burning Lands arrived in the Great Lowlands, the native feroxi were overjoyed to see them. They quickly proved their skill in smithing and were warmly welcomed into the Ferexian Empire.