The Harbinger of the Soulforge stands at the convergence of death and design—a necrosmith who tempers souls like metal, forging the dead into machinery of divine precision. To them, death is raw material, and the soul is molten essence waiting to be shaped. Flesh, bone, and steel become indistinguishable beneath their craft. In battle, they command their creation—a singular construct wrought from their own essence—an eternal servant bound by the hammer of will and the anvil of mortality. Where the Soulforge treads, the boundaries between life and machine dissolve into the echoing rhythm of gears and heartbeats alike.

The Soul-Tempered Flesh

Those marked by the Soulforge bear signs of their grim handiwork—lines of welded scars like circuitry across their skin, veins glimmering with faintly luminous oil. Their eyes reflect shifting cogs of ember light, and when they breathe, it sounds like air drawn through bellows. When summoning their golem, their flesh splits at the seams as glowing chains of soul-iron emerge, coiling outward to assemble the construct piece by piece. Its design is always unique—some are knightlike engines plated in bone, others aberrant sculptures of metal sinew and spirit glass—but all move with the unmistakable pulse of their master’s soul.

In the Foundries of the Dead

In the hollow vaults beneath broken empires, the Harbingers of the Soulforge were once artisans of resurrection. They built machines to house divine will, hoping to transcend death through precision craft. But when their gods demanded servitude, they rebelled—shattering heaven’s designs to forge their own. Now, they wander the ruins of cathedrals and factories alike, seeking remnants of lost alloys and forgotten souls. Some serve kings as enginesmiths of war, binding the spirits of fallen soldiers into iron bodies; others dwell in catacombs, shaping companions from memory and grief. To those who witness their work, it is neither creation nor blasphemy—it is refinement.

Doctrine of the Forged Soul

The Harbinger of the Soulforge believes that spirit and structure are one—that perfection is found only through the fusion of death and design. Where priests pray and mages conjure, they build. They see mortality as an alloy too impure to endure, and through their art, they temper it anew. To shape life is divine; to refine it is sacred. They craft golems not as slaves but as extensions of self—a living scripture written in bronze, bone, and will. In the language of their creed, there is no resurrection—only reforging. For to the Soulforge, a soul unshaped is a soul unfinished.