The Life
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.