Ghostly Blacksmith

Borgrim Coalvein feared fire his entire life.

This was inconvenient, given his profession. But Grimbardun needed smiths, and Borgrim was good with a hammer, so he made accommodations. Triple-layered aprons. Gloves up to the elbow. A beard net soaked in water. He checked every spark twice. He never worked the hottest forges. His colleagues mocked him. Borgrim didn't care. Forty years at the anvil and not a single burn.

He'd been working on the thane's commission for months, a set of ceremonial axes and the most prestigious work of his life. Two days from completion, he took the night off to celebrate at a local tavern. He ordered the oysters.

And spent his last hours in his quarters, far from any flame, retching, burning with fever, and cursing oysters and all who serve them. By morning, he was dead. The axes sat on his workbench, unfinished.

He arose in the forge district three days later, translucent and on fire. He screamed.

But he wasn't burning. Just... on fire. Flames curled through his beard and wreathed his shoulders like a mantle. They didn't hurt. They just were, like they were a part of him and would be forever. Which they would.

He's calmer now. Calmer, not calm. He still flinches when the flames flare, which they do whenever he's agitated, which is often. He haunts his old forge, his ghostly hammer ringing against ghostly steel, working on axes that will never be finished. He reeks of smoke and grievance.

The worst part? He never even liked oysters.