Novel & Cerita Castle Crashers Blacksmith

"T-The McDaniel family's back mountain chapel actually collapsed?" Another whispered, "What kind of people are these? That guy glaring daggers must be the head of the McDaniel family, right? He looks like he wants to eat someone alive." "My goodness, what level of martial arts master could create such a massive crater? However, the impressive one is that young guy in the pit. His clothes are completely shredded, but he's still standing!" "That old man in the black robe has such sinister energy. Since when did the McDaniels have a monster like that inside their estate?"

Damien sat on a sofa, his gaze shifting from Layla's face to fully focus on Cassius. "I'm a blacksmith. I heard you have a lot of vampires in your midst, and I want to trade here," Cassius explained. Damien remained silent, his gaze fixed on Cassius. "You will receive a higher percentage of all profits," he added. Damien stared at the floor, then slowly looked up, nodding his head with a smirk. "You must really think I'm a fool to lie to my face!" Damien bellowed, causing Cassius to shudder. "You have one last chance to tell me who you really are and who sent you."

The door slammed open just then and all heads snapped to the door. A tall robust man in a crisp black suit, casually strode in with two other men on his tail. Pipe hanging on dark lips, head bald and a face carved from hell. Don Montello; Costa Nostra’s roughest famiglia who built their empire through outlaw biker culture. Alessandro’s shoulders flexed with sudden wrath as his blood turned molten steel. He jerked up to his feet immediately, the table rattling from the force as he reached for the man’s suit and slammed him painstakingly against the wall it almost left a dent.

The air inside the lower forges was a sweltering suffocating wall of sulfur, coal smoke, and radiating thermal heat. Down here, deep within the subterranean roots of the Obsidian Hold, the rhythmic thud of heavy iron hammers striking anvils echoed like a frantic metallic heartbeat. But as Silas and I stepped off the stone lift, the sweating blacksmiths and forge masters immediately ceased their labor, dropping heavily to their knees on the soot-stained floor.

Curious about what the Grand Ghost Smith looked like, I looked through the window: The hall, almost half the size of the central square, was filled with busy craftsmen. Like knights, most of them were men. Many repeated mechanical motions—crafting weapons, inlaying gemstones, assembling armor. Yet for some reason, merely watching their movements made something feel as though it was flowing through my fingertips. A few minutes later, someone threw a crooked, discarded dagger out of the window. I picked it up, examined it carefully, and said to a craftsman seated by the window, “May I borrow your hammer?”

The blacksmith stall smelled like smoke and iron. I loved it immediately. Heavy tables were covered with tools, horseshoes, nails, and rough chunks of raw ore that glinted under the hanging lanterns. A few finished blades sat further down the display, their polished surfaces reflecting the warm festival lights. Bjorn wasn’t there tonight. Instead, a broad older shifter worked the stall, carefully weighing small chunks of ore for another customer. I hovered near the end of the table, studying the raw metals laid out on a cloth.

Hrodgar’s smile was beatific. Kemp and Kenward walked through the city and towards the industrial side of town where the loud metal smiths and smelly tanners worked. They found one of the larger blacksmiths that had been recommended to them and owned by a man called Farsh. He was not the Master Smith but well respected. Farsh wore a thick leather apron covered in burn spots. A tunic of the same thick leather covered his torso and left his huge arms bare. His arms were enormous, as with most men in that trade, and the arms were also covered in thick, matted hair, much like those of some type of large apes seen in travelling side shows.

He had already deleted her from his awareness. Victor Russos stood by the forklift, a shadow in a dark wool coat, watching the flatbed reverse into the bay. The engine died. Kamden Travis jumped down, ignoring the rain that soaked into his leather jacket. "Customs giving you trouble?" Victor asked. "Patrols are heavy," Kamden said, heading for the back. "We took the long way. The new route’s clean." Berg Copperfield jammed a crowbar under a crate lid. The wood splintered with a scream of complaining nails. Inside, packed in grease and foam, lay rows of matte black steel.

They were a newer model from the past year with blacked out windows, and all three of them were pulled to the side of the road, just outside of the city limits. I figured they were probably just stopping for a break of some kind and decided to pay them no more attention. Pretty soon I arrived and parked close to the barn. I could see that the lady Heather had been there. Some of the guys were walking along with piles of brownies in their hands, munching away. Heading into the barn I found Chip, taking the motor off of the wrecked motorcycle. “How did ordering go at the store?” I asked him. “Everything went good, so it should be here right on time.”

I raised an eyebrow. Damiean shrugged, like it didn't matter. “I don't care about that. I needed a blacksmith and he is very good so I took him. I haven't seen your blacksmith to be able to compare them,” he answered. I parted my lips to speak only to be stopped by the loud sound from John as he suddenly started hitting the red hot lead from the fire. He moved closer to me and I shuffled backwards a little. “Take that thing away from me,” I hissed at him.