Blacksmith Flatter Novels & Stories

“Our local blacksmith is a very mysterious Slayer, full of surprises, but a good fellow. He isn’t from around here but everybody adores him just the same. Oh, and have I mentioned he’s blind?” “Blind?!” Temujin and Aki echoed. “Oh yes, that’s right. Completely, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t challenge him to a spar though on account of that, for he can put any able-bodied Slayer to shame. Also, he very much prefers a simple and private life.” “Oh, I’ve heard of this blacksmith,” Sasha jumped in. “He’s the one who makes most of the blue Slayer suits by cooking the tree-drops in a stove. Somehow he knows how to combine fire and wind techniques.”

‎Azriel was there, just as Lazarus had mentioned. ‎He was stripped down to a dark thermal shirt, its sleeves pushed up past his elbows, his bare forearms gleaming with sweat despite the freezing temperature outside. In his gloved hands, he held a heavy iron tongs, maneuvering a red-hot iron bridge bracket over the anvil while his right hand wielded a heavy blacksmith's hammer. ‎CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. ‎The rhythmic strikes rang out clear and sharp, sending bright orange sparks cascading onto the dirt floor.

"You think you're any better? You're just as flawed, just as tainted as anyone else!” Donovan's smile grew wider, a sly satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Perhaps," he conceded, his tone smug. "But I have no illusions about who I am or what I'm capable of. Unlike you, I don't harbor grand delusions about Dante suddenly awakening to your supposed worth." The air crackled with tension, their words becoming sharp arrows, each aimed to pierce the other's armor. The dynamic had shifted, and Donovan relished the momentary satisfaction of having hit a nerve.

He laughed, “Honestly, I’m astounded the Moon Goddess even blessed you with a mate, especially one like her. Even you must admit you don’t deserve a mate. You spat in the face of the Goddess by taking a chosen one, especially after what your mother did, and the Moon Goddess rewards you with an Omari mate? Fuck, geezer, you’re one lucky bastard.” I growled as I pushed him to the floor, “do not concern yourself with my mate.” He got up and laughed, “I’m just messing with you, yeah? Just some banter for old times sake, Ruthie. Don’t get all emotional. It’s just jokes.” “Let us head back,” I suggested, and thankfully Fletcher complied. ‘Probably because he knows you can beat his ass,’ Callum gro

"Like you're this tragic, broken saint everyone should pity." I leaned in again, just enough so he could feel the disdain bleeding from every word. "But you're not gold, Damon," I said, smiling thin and cruel. "You're rust. Corroded. Flaking apart under the weight of your own goddamn lies." Damon didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stood there, letting the words land. And somehow, that infuriated me more than anything else. "You don't get to call it complicated," I snarled. "You don't get to act like you're some tragic victim when you were the one who held the match and burned everything down."

“Forging in itself is not a difficult thing. That can be easily done.” Phoebe kept shaking her head, and she said, “It’s not as easy as you think. This volcanic metal isn’t normal metal, so it’s difficult to forge it. If you’re not careful, you’ll break it. Only an excellent swordsmith can do it well. Based on what I know, there’s a swordsmith like that in this area, and he’s the only capable one. His name is Brighton Cook.” Thomas remembered the name “Brighton Cook” deeply.

As they waited, Sethlzaar found himself wondering what his mates were doing back at the seminary and how Soartin was. The Blacksmith spoke little, using his words to give the briefest of instruction that Sethlzaar would at times find himself having to work his brain to understand. When the blacksmith considered the forge hot enough he plunged a metal into the forge, holding it with a pair of iron tongs, watching as it took on a similar glow as the coal. Then he placed it on the anvil and struck it countless times with a hammer, bending it to shape as he pleased. By the life of Sethlzaar, he watched as the blacksmith hammered and flipped the metal in different ways, and understood nothing of

The sound of the chair scraping against the wood flooring echoes through the room. "I went out to fly, and ran into a very interesting human,” I tell him. He raises his brows, "Really now tell me about this human?" I slump into the chair stretching my legs out. "His name is Flavius, he is from the city,” I say. I watch as Gregory's eyes become wide, and he looks up at me. "Flavius?" He questions. "Yes, you know him?" I ask. He smiles tenderly, "I do, he is the blacksmith   who runs the shop Phoenix Fire that makes the weapons for the royal guard. He is quite skilled,” He informs me.

“That’s what you get for messing up with me.” “You ruined my shoes.” He yells, glaring down at his scuffed white sneakers. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before grabbing me, Mr Grumpy.” I smirk, folding my arms across my chest. His eyes widen at my words. “What did you just say? Mr Grumpy?” I laugh at the look on his face. “Yeah, you heard me—Mr Grumpy. Fits you perfectly, don’t you think?” His eyes narrow, and he steps closer, towering over me. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

I wiped my sweaty palms on my sweatshirt, faking nonchalance as I stepped up onto the sidewalk alongside them. Them being my daughter and Flinn Coltridge. Flinn Coltridge, my brother's best friend. A man-whore. A cocky bastard who knew he was God's finest work until then. A decadent, egotistical work of art in a Prada suit. Too bad the work of art was a masterpiece.