System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 203
The morning wind drifted in from the shores of Lake Vizima, carrying a trace of chill and damp as it brushed across the Witcher’s pale face.
Roy and Letho leaned against the blacksmith’s door, leisurely enjoying a breakfast of fried fish cakes. To their left, the inner city canal flowed in silence. Before them, along the broad and tidy street, early risers hurried toward the market to begin their day’s buying.
Behind them, the blacksmith’s door stood half open, utterly still, not a sound to be heard.
The night before, Berengar had drunk himself into a stupor with Letho. Yet after barely three hours of sleep, he had staggered out at dawn, led the two Witchers to rent this riverside forge, and, still reeking of alcohol, had begun working the moment he arrived.
He had insisted on absolute silence for his forging, driving both would-be assistants out of the shop.
“Is he really reliable?” Roy could not help but wince at the thought of the heavy price he had paid.
“That’s enough, kid,” Letho replied irritably. “Berengar isn’t some common street smith. With his master-level skill, he could easily hold a position in the court of certain great nobles. The fact that he’s willing to forge weapons for two Witchers is already a considerable favor. As for charging high fees or liking his drink, that’s nothing. Anyone with true ability has their quirks. You’d do well to show him the respect he deserves.”
“A forging master is really that impressive?” After seeing the dwarves, where nearly everyone could work metal, Roy had formed a somewhat skewed view.
“What did you expect?” Letho explained. “In some crafts, sweat and experience alone are not enough. You need talent. A gifted smith has an instinct for detail during forging that ordinary men simply cannot match. It is far easier for them to produce exceptional weapons. No amount of effort can bridge that gap for those without talent.”
“So you’re saying you’re a smith without talent, Letho. Eighty years and still not a master.”
“...”
“All right, enough joking. If Berengar can rely on his skill to live comfortably among nobles, why is he reduced to this kind of life?”
“Because he used to be a Witcher...” Letho lifted his head. In his line of sight, the warm yellow sun rose over the horizon. “Even if he refuses to admit it, there’s always a trace of wandering in our nature.”
“Or perhaps the nobles don’t welcome him.”
Roy considered it, then summed it up in a more poetic way. “Wandering is the romance of a Witcher ... hmm, I should have Dandelion put that into a song someday.”
“Wrestling Drowners barehanded is the romance of a Witcher,” Letho muttered from behind him. “Don’t forget to add that.”
...
A faint sizzling sound suddenly came from within the half-open door. Roy leaned in through the crack to take a look.
In his imagination, a forge should be filled with roaring flames, a broad-shouldered smith gleaming with sweat, hammering away at red-hot steel.
There was nothing of the sort.
Berengar stood bent over a worktable, both hands cupping something on its surface. His movements were slow and delicate, like fingers stirring the surface of a lake, tracing two smooth, graceful lines from top to bottom. On his rolled-up sleeves clung streaks of sticky gray clay. To his right lay a small trowel, its handle long, its blade shaped like a rounded brick.
“What is he doing?” Roy frowned. “A master smith working as a mason?”
“The fact you can say that proves you’re a complete layman...” Letho’s gleaming bald head appeared over Roy’s shoulder. “You think forging a good weapon is just hammering metal? Berengar is making the mold.”
“The mold?” Roy’s brows drew together. Forging was not his field. Slaying monsters, alchemy, and beast taming suited him far better.
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