To what extent does a Blacksmith forge? Does he construct until his metacarpals are no longer functional? Or until he can no longer take no more? At what point does one consider life outside his/her profession; what is that point where they take up a new hobby, forsaking their prior joy. Naught when the ideals of others are voiced; never when outside opinions are given. But, when one can no longer find enjoyment in the task. 'Twas not the case for the Blacksmith, however--betwixt the theories of forgetting their fondness of their practice can they rekindle an old flame. A metaphysical flame in which has been dimmed to the point where it was a mere spark. It illuminates once more to satisfy the dormant urges of the entity.

Think naught of the condition of others--pay heed to the Unknown. He who traverses the abyss of forgery in search of beauty. A phantasmal radiance flooded the room of the male who constructs; an illusory smog invaded the space of the room as it seeped into narrow gaps. A blacksmith's pride was wrapped in clothed digits as its ascension begun. Below it passively rested an anvil with a slab of Lostnium on its surface. An amalgamation of gaseous Mystogus particles became attracted to the end of the anvil, where it revolved ferociously around it. Like a worshipper to a God, did the particles scurry to the hammer. With the hammer at the epicenter of the mist-like particles, the aerial descent of the hammer was initiated as it collided with the slab of metal. Negative particles that had been terrorized by the Mystogus particles had started their own revolt as they violently collided with each other. And as a result, did sparks of electricity surge throughout the room. Yet his construction was finished; clad in tarnished gold, was the male able to finish his creation, a lance. Archaic inscriptions made up its length as surreal proportions took up its form. Lilac the core of the lance--crimson the exterior that coated its innards. In and out did the air go, as his chest puffed outwards then inwards. An ethereal flame illuminated the room as the Mystogus particles cowered in fear at its radiance. The aforementioned gaseous specks retreated into the pores of the Blacksmith as the piece of armor shielding his head was removed. The crimson imperfection was twirled between the fingers of the Blacksmith before its base was slammed upon the ground.

"It is still missing the final piece. I must find it...."

Before leaving his domain, the Blacksmith tossed the lance on a transparent rack before opening his wooden door. And with that, did the torment once more surface. Not his torment, no--the torment of the beings embedded within his weapons. Their souls ever so resilient in bidding to their fate sought retaliation in the form of agonizing screams and bellows. While evil could not be seen by their eyes, it could be heard. They considered Deucalion the Blacksmith a demon, but if that was the case, it meant Night was the Devil. Only after he closed the door, did the traumatizing spurs of the deceased cease.

O bless the Unknown, for they are all that should ever be known.

I sought refuge upon the surface of snowy design,

But I am just a line.

One who is and one who is without,

One who is led to run about.

I know my purpose and it stays the same;

Let them know, O let them know, what needs to be said--its like I'm playing some twisted game.

When that purpose has been fulfilled, does my existence crumble away

No longer shall lead aim to play.

Because I am simply a line amongst others

Parallel to the line of impregnated mothers.

O, bless the damned, for they rot the Earth with decaying malignance. How beauteous the cadavers of galvanized souls jittered to meet their ‘Queen’. She granted them the privilege to seek he who lies beyond, as such was her duty! Scarlet the ravishing auric secretion that encoded her frame in sublime radiance--charcoal the void that rested within her heart, observe!; Behold! She who brings the Devil’s Exodus has been defied by one who stands below her! My, oh my do the hymns of whispering serpent tongues penetrate her invigorated ears as her previous assault proved futile. ’Twas her time to bring pandemonium!; a temporal juncture in which she could bring ruin. Yet, the opposition’s will proved to be ceaseless, as wondrous peepers sought out his change in form. Cerulean beauty favored the android’s petite form as the energy-based projectile was formulated from the male’s accumulated energy and shot towards the grounding underneath her. Baleful the intent of she who seeks destruction; acrimonious intentions fueled her very soul! Benevolence has been tainted, for Mother Nature’s gratuitous gesture to humanity has been partially shattered. 18’s bodily figure found itself ascending skyward as the aforementioned auric beauty influenced her aerial transcendence. As she scaled the atmosphere, the aggressive projectile shot by the antagonizing individual lay betwixt the harbinger of death and Mother Nature’s gift. Cue the destruction of the Earth’s outermost layer, and enter the chucking of earthly rubble as the android used her biceps to stretch over her figure as a thinly layered ergokinetic shield--formulated by the gracious cerulean energy-- transmogrified the trajectory of the rubble.

❝Clever. Not many make my feet leave from the Earth. This spatial displacement shall not go unnoticed, nor shall it be forgiven.❞

Here is where the bird is set free; no longer shall he be restricted by the metaphysical bars of depravity. Upon this day, Zeus' wrath shall surface within the corporeal plane. Its mythical standing transmogrifying itself into an anomaly of reality. Its existence was frowned upon, due to the fact of its capabilities. A bolt so mighty that even Titans quiver in fear!; a line of pure lightning that soars through the sky to pierce the exterior of its targets. Such a energy-based weapon is now adamant within the cranium of Alexio as the lightning he had previously obtained expanded in its AoE/Radius due to the fact of his energy and his blade's passive being able to attract lonely electrons yearning for acceptance.

Then, that's when it happened! The weapon that kept the Titans at bay; the mythical weapon whose mention struck fear. Its formulation occurred in Alexio's open palm that resided behind him as the generated lightning slowly was drawn into the open hand as it began to form the shape of a lightning bolt. A tool in which hands shouldn't even be able to encase within digits of affirmity now remained tightly clenched within the Traveler's left hand as he observed the room's hue change in addition to the solidified ground that soles stood above. From a deity's benevolent silver, into a warmonger's tainted scarlet; the color transition signified passiveness entering a state of aggression. His form slowly changed as his right leg, which is what was in front of him slid forward only a few feet as his left hand's position swiftly moved from behind his body into a javelin throwing position. Before the bolt left his hand, an incantation that spoke directly to the lightning was said softly.

"Tip of my Arrow....Bone of my Sword....Pierce his body for your velocity and piercing capabilities stand unmatched...Absorb my will and soar...Reveal your potential..."

As it came to an end, sparks of lightning emitted from the bolt as it cracked before being thrown forward, aiming towards the assailant. As the incantation stated, the bolt's speed and impact (piercing aspect) capabilities remained unrivaled. 'Twas the beauty of Zeus's Wrath, for even a Titan that manipulated density and body composure for the sake of hardening its exterior would succumb to the bolt's ferocity. As for Alexio, now that his form has changed, his oculi remained on his opponent and his recently thrown bolt of lightning as his sheathed blade began to gather more electrons, via electron influence using its energy as miniature sparks of lightning were projected by the male unintentionally. The will of Zeus coats his body, and so it shall always be.

'Do you hear it?'

The ghastly hymns of the tormented that have been forced to succumb to depravity at the hands of the Unknown. O how they rejuvenated the soul of those whose souls were tainted with the malignant belief of transcendence! Listen to the amalgamated psalms of the entities who have been depraved of divinity; Hearken!

'Can you hear it now?'

He can; he who is referred to as the Blacksmith as his runic engravings remained etched upon the exterior of his hammer as it brought down the wrath of the Gods upon the enchanted anvil. Mystogus circulated throughout the room that forbid sunlight's entry, seeping through every narrow gap that proved to be oblivious to the human eye. The metal that overlapped the surface of the anvil cringed as it was hit with the full brunt of runic magick whose purpose was used to reinforce. 'Twas the job of the Blacksmith, to reinforce and intensify the parameters of items that would prove to be efficient within the heat of combat. The bladed object was lifted off of the anvil as malevolent aura radiated from its hilt. Silver was its coating, as a gaseous crimson was its emitted bloodlust--such were the components that made up the weapon. Instead of tossing it upon a rack, where numerous other weapons crafted by Deucalion rested, the Blacksmith impaled the grounding with the blade. A aforementioned crimson shaded smoke enveloped the room, as its contents were transmogrified; it cascaded the room in its malevolent aura only to change the purpose of its contents. Each item that was tainted with the traumatizing aura, that gave off consecutive shrieks from the metaphysical, rose from its original placement to levitate within the air with the crimson coating around its form.

Such activities of beauteous displays of magick were interrupted by a calling. A voice that bypassed the refreshing screams of the cursed and spiritually neglected. It was he who defied reality, the one who could command the Blacksmith. An ethereal flame illuminated as its ascension was halted at ceiling level before the incorporeal flame took on a spherical form as the Blacksmith's body dissipated upon his entering of the flame. The same spiraling flame appeared above the duo that occupied the crust of the planet as the Blacksmith's descent was performed. Leather soles connected with solid ground as his body rose from its crouching position.

"Sorry I'm late....Crafting got a little....Intense...."

Praise be unto him, he who has defied the Devil's awakening with the psalms of lore. Songs of luxurious benevolence that would cause one to enter a trance; spirit-lifting hymns capable to cause the mind to divert from its current placement within the physical realm. All would seem like an illusion, and the world would hold no significance. 'Twas the beauty in the spiritual chanteys of the Ascended. Yet, he does not welcome the worship of those who are unknowing; people who have yet to discover the unknown don't have the authority to perform such a praise! He doesn't see himself as an iconic idol among humanity, instead, he sees himself as a Drunken Fool. He sought out luminescence and was greeted with angst at the Gods of the Herald. 'Tis all he wished for--to be acknowledged by those who stand above him. And now, a wondrous mind guides him to an unknown region.

He had been given false recognition for a feat not attainable by his own power; misguided acknowledgement was tossed upon him as the achievement had been given. O, how the misplaced commencement tormented his very soul! Such an act is what caused the Advisor, Cronus Tsukimi, to resort to less ethical means. He fell to the nurturing embrace of a bottle; he descended so far psychologically that he began to succumb to the Devil's succulent nipple. Oddly enough, this was all solely from unrighteous praise given to man, when it should've been given to a God.

Leather soles rapidly collided with the luscious grassland that overlapped earthly crust as droplets of intoxicating ale dripped onto the ground. Venomous was the liquid sloshing within the wooden container; the hour-glass shaped wooden contraption held the poison of humanity! Tattered clothing cascaded the traumatized males body as he stumbled further only to drop onto his knees. A quintet of harmonizing containers rested passively on his lower back--or was the harmonization just in his head? My, did Man prove to be useless as he began to succumb into the clutches of depravity. Eyes of static positioning transitioned forward to reveal their form. If one were to gaze into his eyes, one would see fogginess. A sheathed iaito passively relaxed on his back, to where its ebony hilt could be seen over his right shoulder. The malevolent's ale now coursed through the Man's veins, as a grumbling sound surfaced from the confinements of his stomach, before he was up on his feet again.

"Y--you...are..a...(hiccup!)....eh...um....PEBBLE LOVER!"

The exiled now commanded his mind, with the help of the malignant elixir. A resonant owl emanated from the sheathed steel that awaited its showcase to the world, as Cronus spoke to the pebble lover.