Heavycraf

Nobody trading in the wastes can tell you where a Heavycraf shop stands or whose hands run the presses, but everybody who has hauled cargo through a rough market knows the stamp. It turns up on the ugly, dependable things: a two-handed axe that answers a bad day with an overwhelming swing, a chainaxe that leaves a wound no field medic can close, a boarding cutlass that spreads fear as wide as it spreads blood. You do not buy Heavycraf because it is elegant. You buy it because it works when the fight has already gone wrong.
  What gives the marque away, if you have handled enough of it, is that Heavycraf never seems to have decided whether it makes tools or weapons. The same name is on a set of brawling knucks and on a fitted research space that lets a scholar pull two answers out of a single afternoon of study. It is on a counterbalance blade that punishes a careless attacker, provided the wielder has the nerve to land a taunt first, and it is on an electric welder that the ledgers file, without apparent embarrassment, as a firearm. A welding rig that shoots is exactly the kind of joke Heavycraf seems to enjoy, and the pun on the Ax-i-dent Booster, a heavy striker built to make an accident happen on purpose, tells you the makers know precisely what their hardware does to people.
  Trace the whole line and a shape emerges even without a single name attached to it. This is the output of a working fabrication house that never separated the shop floor from the battlefield, a place where a good tool is expected to hold an edge, take a load, and end an argument, and where the distance between building something and breaking someone was never a distinction worth keeping. The makers stay half-legend. The dents they leave do not.