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The weapons forged by my very hands do not bear names to exude how 'illustrious' in nature they are, I leave such a thing to petty craftsmen. The weapons that lay upon the walls of my abode do not bear names, they bear ambitions, for they long the day their metallic flesh greet man's soft tissue.
Barter blade to be a blade, barter blood to be only blood; ignore the very idea that such are capable of breeding, for the only offspring that will be produced are going to hold the names, 'agony' and 'violence'.


Tubal-Cain ( תובל קין, Tūḇal Qayin) is a black smith.

The world has grown cold since my conception, there is no need for a masterful artisan in these times, only faint memories of a forgotten era light the furnace of my abode. In the epoch of existence, warriors of weak will stepped forth and demanded arms to impose their superficial power unto others, while others of rigid mind and ignorant thought built their own and inevitably crafted their own demise; My work was mere delight in the eyes of the blind.

The flame in my forge grows ever dimmer with every eternity passing, I stagnate and decay spiritually as the consistent harmonious beat of my hammer blessing the anvil with it's impactful presence lessens until ceasing to be. The inferno that engulfed the entirety of my entity is nothing more than a fading candle, waiting to be extinguished and assimilated into the great beyond that lay out of all men's reach, waiting, begging to be touched. Like the weapons I constructed, I was given name, then soon neglected.

Why was I awakened? Why is all creation in shambles? Sleepless eons and the promise of a sibling lost in time's grasps, it is time for me to be my brother's keeper, for his word is as feeble as grain and he clearly is having issues with the mortals in the realm he is visiting. Brittle are my hands, for they have not gripped the handle of a molten halberd transfigured into an armament worthy of being bestowed upon the mantle of my dwelling.

From the calamity that has risen from my brother's oblivity, war is on the horizon and few smiths of grand skill lay before the participants; I step forth among these artisans of steel and iron and proclaim myself the greatest among them, for my skill is the greatest among them and my ambition, is the greatest among them.


Tubal-Cain bears the visage of an ash sculpture in his chiseled finish, cloaked crimson of shade and basked beastly of a maroon mist masking him a fiendish individual to eye. He holds grandiose upon his dome blackened ornaments fleshed to the realm of his crown, twisted to malignance in their form; Spurring ill as if horns of demonic birth, causing many to look upon the blacksmith as a devil of exotic gaze. His body is heaped with incredible mounds of muscle and bulk, from the various trials and tribulations he endured to gain the ingredients for various arms he has crafted over multiple eternities of his life.

Atop his frame laid bear a rugged, ashen , stained apron blemished with the Mark of Cain, like a proud sigil carrying the crimson tale of the first fratricide; Typical of the man who bears the name 'He Who Spices The Craft of Cain'. Adorning the slim sides of the apron are textiles of gold for all who be sight will be granted the power to gaze upon the faint glow of the yellow wool. Beneath such needless cloth, is the Celestial and near incomprehensible physique of the first blacksmith. With the entirety of his figure being composed of numerous galactic bodies enclosed within the trenches of his form, working on the fundamentals of impossible space making such an oddity residing deep within him a possibility.

The personal brush of the iron forger, is polished and sanitized to a glistening bronze shade. Such a tool of magnificence is used on the canvas of a weapon, lathering on it's figure and purpose for all to gaze upon it's wondrous birth. Engraved, deep in the iron flesh of the items he wields are symbols and sigils to grace the eye with a multitude of Christian iconography that has been consigned to oblivion, with the few truly devout capable of recalling forth such imagery from the recesses of the mind. Blunt in nature, it blesses all manner of weapon to bear unique thought and need with every greeting of each other's iron tissue.

Lay in the hands of Tubal, a handle birthed and molded from the spindly branch of the Tree of Life that claims home beneath the cheek of the hammer's dome. Ever glistening an immense array of exotic shades never claimed by nature or mortal sight. And for all who dare tempt fate to witness the infinitely transforming rainbow will bear the curse of the blind, Bartimaeus.



Bitter are the thoughts of the blacksmith that lay home in the stars beyond the realm of man, for his time has long been engraved in reality's flesh; but no matter the intensity of fate's pleas, the iron artisan will remain stagnant in motion, for fate will be forebearing of Tubal, for fate will articulate in his motion. Eternities may give rest to forgotten ways, but the primus of smiths will remain ever constant, rigid, and dauntless; Though brothers share blood and bone, they do not share thought and life, for such Tubal relies on his own ichor and os, for he bears knowledge that trust is a fickle maiden.

Dwell deep in the inner sanctum of the smith, lay two fundamental compotents of his existence, immense pride capable of surmounting the most grandiose of terrain; a blazing fury engulfing the reaches of his entity with flames crisiping his ever stoic and rigid resolve to a brittle stone fouled with the abhorrent scent of ghastly recollections of the past. Still igniting the ever tiring crimson sparks that roam in continous ballad in Tubal's spiritual abode is an intense, germinating, repulsion for his lack of kinship in aiding his brethren in their most dire of locus.

Sow values that have nurtured and girthed from it's place of origin, rooted deep in the richest of soil that is the grey matter in his mind shower light in the entity that is the iron artisan. Through such harvest of thought he viewed by all as stalwart and ever defiant individual in the face of great adversity; But plagued by a lack of conviction and immense apathy glazing the façade of a man devoid of empathy and coated with nothing but a dreary, bland pride to ease the taste of the consumer that is of the bitter pastry Tubal. But not matter the opinion driven down the blacksmith's path, it forges the same exact conclusion.

"I'll morph on my own time, fate nor other will do it for me"

Power and Stats

Soul of the Old Demon King.png

Tier: High 1-B, Likely Low 1-A  

Powers and Abilities: 

Attack Potency: High Hyperverse level, likely Low Outerversal level (At the dawn of existence his hammer strikes shook the fundamental base of all reality, with every resident that resided in it being rocked to their core due to such volatility. Body adapts to growing complexity of the multiverse. Superior to the archangels in power; Was temporarily comparable to Yomishka before being superseded in might) Attacks Ignore Durability By Striking at the Most Fundamental Level of a Being's Existence  

Speed: Immeasurable, likely Irrelevant (Beyond the very concept and idea of speed. Not bound by three dimensional barriers and laws.)  

Lifting Strength: Immeasurable 

Striking Strength: Hyperversal, likely Low Outerversal 

Durability: High Hyperverse level, likely Low Outerversal level  

StaminaLimitless (Incapable of producing fatigue toxins in his body, the very concept of it is non-existent in his being)  

RangeHigh Hyperversal, likely Outerversal  

Standard Equipment: Hammer  

IntelligencePrimordial, bordering on nigh-omniscient. Much of his expanded knowledge is incomprehensible to the mortal mind, and at times even dumbfound the likes of such timeless entities such as the archangels, beings spawned at the very genesis of all creation, renowned as the savviest and knowledgeable entities among the populace in all facets of existence. Bears an intrinsic genius to the crafting of weaponry down to having been the entity to conceive its idea. A knowledge extending to the knowing of every smith-ing technique in the refining and creation of a weapon.  

Weaknesses: Carries an extreme hubris though holds the rationality and competence to not let such interfere or lose sight of the conflict he is in. Apathetic of others regardless of cause, act, or transgression unless it fundamentally harms his direct existence. Incapable of registering or mentally perceiving entities that do not functionally exist without them being directly in his presence. Abstract shape cannot directly interact with lesser realities without the threat of destroying them due to his physiology.  


Notable Victories:

Notable Losses:

Inconclusive Matches: