Castle Crashers Blacksmith Novels & Stories

It curled and blackened, the secrets turning to smoke. "We aren't going in blind," he said. "I have a contact. An engineer. He worked on the ventilation systems for the Foundry before he developed a conscience and a drinking problem." "A rebel?" "A survivor. His name is Silas. He operates out of the Slag Heap." Saoirse tightened the towel around herself. "Take me to him." Tristan shook his head. "No. The Slag Heap is the bowels of Oakhaven. It’s where the 'Ironless' live—the people my father deemed useless for the war effort. It’s dangerous, dirty, and crawling with informants. You stay here."

‎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.

Chastity admitted. “I remember you telling me that.” We chatted as we walked. When we arrived at the blacksmith shop there were a lot of people. Eventually we found the person in charge to get more information. According to the organizer we were broken down into groups with one blacksmith per group. The group could select an item they wanted the blacksmith to make then the blacksmith would create it, explaining the process as they went along. There were only three blacksmith, but due to us being who we are it would just be us in the group.

It was only an illusion that there was actually a giant building there. However, what laid before them was not an illusion. On both sides, as far as she could see, were little shops. It looked like a town from the middle ages. To their right, was a blacksmith's shop. A man with a gray beard and a black apron was busy clanging away on what appeared to be a sword. He'd just pulled the piece of metal out of the fire and had it laid against a giant anvil. It was red hot and sparked with each strike of his hammer.

"Good. I saw a blacksmith." We walked back to the humble shop. Cassius didn't browse the wares spread across the tables. His eyes locked onto a single longsword with a simple, unadorned crossguard. He picked it up, his grip instantly sure and practiced. He tested its balance with a slight, fluid wrist-roll, a movement so economical it spoke of a thousand hours of training. The hammering from the smithy stopped. A burly, sweat-soaked man emerged, wiping his hands on a leather apron. Before he could speak, Cassius addressed him, his gaze still fixed on the blade. "You crafted this?"

And that was how he ended up tapping his healing magic that left him currently worn-out. The guy kept murmuring stuff when he was tending his wounds about some things he couldn't understand. It was about something that's going to happen. Something about darkness. Ceremonies. Well, he did really felt like there was something wrong but he didn't know what it is and he doesn't want to start thinking about it. He was staring blankly outside by the window of the carriage when his thoughts were interrupted by his brother. "Kaylus, is everything okay?"

Alexei The Foundry is a bodyguard’s nightmare wrapped in iron and steam. It sits on the eastern edge of the lower district, a sprawling, blackened cathedral of industry where Silvercrest turns raw ore into plowshares, horseshoes, and weapons. As we ride through the wide gates, the first thing that hits me is the noise. It is a rhythmic, deafening cacophony. The crash of drop hammers, the hiss of quenching troughs, the roar of the blast furnaces. It makes communication impossible. It masks the sound of footsteps. It masks the sound of a bowstring being drawn.

Giant was saying, "that was all we asked of you. And you grudge us the food." "Be glad I didn't grudge you fire too." Craster was a thick man made thicker by the ragged smelly sheepskins he wore day and night. He had a broad flat nose, a mouth that drooped to one side, and a missing ear. And though his matted hair and tangled beard might be grey going white, his hard knuckly hands still looked strong enough to hurt. "I fed you what I could, but you crows are always hungry. I'm a godly man, else I would have chased you off. You think I need the likes of him, dying on my floor? You think I need all your mouths, little man?" The wildling spat. "Crows. When did a black bird ever bring good to a

She shivered and looked away. As they turned down another street, the entire block was filled with blacksmiths. Everywhere flew anvils and hammers, and the ping of metal rang throughout the street, each blacksmith seeming to echo the other. There were also clay pits with large flames roasting slabs of red-hot metal, on which they were forging horseshoes, swords, and all sorts of metal work. Caitlin noticed the faces of children, black with soot, sitting by their father’s sides, watching them work. She felt badly that the children worked at such a young age. Caitlin looked everywhere for a sign of Scarlet, of her Dad, of any clue of why they were here—but she found none.

He held up a thick piece of iron shrapnel. "The metallurgy is crude," Cord said, turning the jagged metal in the morning light. "They cast it thick to compensate for the impurities in the iron. It’s heavy. It lacks tensile strength." He tossed the shrapnel back into the crater. "If Iron Crest forges our barrels, ours will be lighter. And they will fire further." I looked down the beach. Silas’s wolves had rounded up the survivors. There were only eleven left out of the thirty that had made landfall.