All his life, he had wished to be a master blacksmith, forging weapons capable of slaying beasts that no human had ever dared to fight before. From a simple wolf, through a manticore, ending on... The Thunder Draconic? As if it even existed outside of legends. Blast. So often, he found himself thinking about something that was so far ahead of him.

Still, a forge master had only one goal: to forge. And so he forged. Hammer and anvil, cold steel and flames, his fingers battered and bruised, his muscles sore daily, the flames burning his skin... But still, he forged. Who was he to make a difference? He only wanted to provide. He would rather remain unseen, yet know that it was his work that made all the difference in the world.

Every weapon wielder was hardened by the mind and tempered by the heart. He, however, hardened with flame and tempered the cold steel.

He would craft a weapon that, one day, would slay even a dragon. But every great weapon needed a great blacksmith, and so... he forged. One day, the world would forget the names, forget the bones of beasts, crumble to ash—but the steel... The steel would remain cold, and the grip wrapped in leather. Everything would be gone, but not his weapons. His weapons would remain. A great weapon... From a great blacksmith.