The thing with the hammer, is that it is an extension of the human who holds it. From the sinew of tissue to the sparking of gleeful neurons, they become a temporary machine. With every inhale of eager lungs and hammer strike, their vision is born. Nothing was more true than this for Dalton. Slaving away in his prized, smoldering smithy.
Upstairs, he could hear the foot traffic through the ceiling. A clear indication that Angelica had her hands full with patrons looking for a meal and a drink. Soon he’d be booked with orders to fill. A list that never grew any shorter. Not that he minded. Some days though, when the armor or weapons came down to him, he’d sigh at the wanton abuse. Little care invested in the majority of what he received. Sometimes having to outright refuse service because of the damage done, barely fit for scrap at that point.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, his hammer then rang out with renewed purpose. Attempting to buff out a particularly banged up chest plate, he missed the sound of the door as grinding open, the base dragging against the stone floor. Only to pause mid-swing when he caught movement in the corner of his eye. “Piece o’ shit really fucked this one up.” He grunted, tossing the massive hammer down on the adjacent workbench. Letting clang aggressively against the the other waiting tools. Clearly fed up as he swiped his hands over his trousers. “I told ‘im not to mess with those gods damned go..lems.” The words faltered on his tongue as he beheld who actually came down the stone steps. Someone not Angelica, or any of the other members. He chewed on the end of his cigarette for a tick, eventually sketching a brow at them.
“...Need somethin’, lil miss?” Patrons never came down to the smithy. All orders came through Angelica so to find a stranger in his space, braving heatstroke, put the halfbred giant slightly on edge.
