"............."
There is a forge in a place where no life walks, flies or crawls, a place of creation in a void of life suspended in time and space, hanging in an eye of the storm that never ends and halfway between the world of men and... Elsewhere. It is a small thing in truth, no larger then a man can stand upon and still do work on the anvil, a thing that is neither metal or stone but something more ancient then both sucked into the eye from a realm beyond all realms at the moment the eye appeared, an anvil that rests upon that solitary rock as the winds of the Eye rip and tear at anything foolish enough to come here.
Tears at the ragged clothes of a muscled and scarred man who is there.
His clothes are gone bar for gloves, boots and an apron of leather that shimmers unnaturally from the purple and black fire of the forge - flames that are not true fire but something else, something more... Something older. He works the forge in silence, no words passing his lips and no sound ringing through the forge - even as showers of sparks spray from his anvil, raining across the small rock in a rain of light in a hundred colors, each blow releasing a shockwave through the suspended void and throwing the sparks far into the cold emptiness beyond where they are caught by the Maelstrom.
It is a harsh place. A cold place. A dead place.
The smith does not appear to care, not reacting even as the sparks burn his arms and face leaving smoldering scars that shine with their own power only to fade and heal once more to pristine flesh,a necklace ever so red humming without sound around his neck, he does not appear to care as the Eye lashes out at him in waves of energy that pass the forge rock by with only a hairs breath separating them from him. Care, in the end and in truth, he does not. And so he forges on, bending materials no one smith could touch like him, that no other smith could comprehend like him.
In his hand he wields the Hammer of Creation, a tool of a make no mortal, immortal or other smith can craft beyond him in any timeline, in any reality. A hammer that pulls light in like the void that lies its core, that releases the light that is not light of the dawn of all things with each strike, that leaves a trail of stars in its passing and bends fate with every caress upon its goal.
In his ruined socket lies the burning Eye of Eternity that sees all things, a gaze that sees every connection of time and life and laws of nature and man, an eye that sees the potential, beginning and end of all things.
On his finger, light reflecting of it in the colors of all the spectrum known to mortal men and ancient dragons lies a ring - a union of all aspects of the world that birthed him. A ring that is a promise that is an oath, a ring that is inspiration and a union of things once shattered.
In his chest, where a mortal heart once beat its steady beat lies a crystal that shines with a light that is more then just light - a radiance that is Balance, a glow that is truth, a sensation that is Justice, an emotion that is Life... In his chest where his heart once rested burns the Essence of Harmony, of his hands made in a land struggling to achieve balance in all things.
And upon the anvil, shaped by his hammer, guided by his sight, inspired by his ring and his past and in harmony by the beating of his crystal heart...
Lies no metal or gems, lies no stone or wood or liquids or any physical object.
No, for he has passed beyond such, passed beyond the trappings of a smith of men, of dwarves, of elves, of dragons, of spirits, of loa and of ancient vile gods.
No, instead of the materials of lesser smith's he is pulling it all in, all that the world is: the storm, the magic, the elements, life and death, time and oblivion, the light and the void, dawn and dusk.
Upon his anvil, fueled by flames that do not exist he forges what only one other has ever done ever before, a craftsman from the dawn of all things who shaped worlds, a craftsman that looks up from his work a reality away and stares into the void towards this lone man standing in the center of it all with his blazing eye, pulsating heart, shining ring, star trailing hammer as he lands the final blow upon his creation.
And across the world all feel it.
Mortals rise from sleep or stumble as if waking from a dream, as if a nightmare had washed over them all their life only to be lifted.
Dragons rise to the skies, hearts beating as they feel the core of all things shift, as paths and locked fates are no more.
Elementals stop in their rage and eternal habits, locked in a moment as what has happened flows over them, shacking them to their cores as they feel their parts become something else.
Shattered gods of old and burning lies stop in their assaults and chaotic feasts, throwing themselves into darkened corners and shuddering in fear of things they can not see or feel but know are there.
And far away, surrounding a bronze skinned giant who shaped worlds and forged life, a Pantheon lose their step, something impossible appearing before their eyes as they turn to follow the gaze of the Smith who noticed before them.
And far away, in the centre of all that is stands the lone man, the forge gone silent, the hammer shattered, his eye burned out, his heart in peace and accepting finality he clutches what was once thought to never truly be, now crafted from will and essence, now made by skill beyond that of gods and titans, now shaped where all things begin and end, resting within the palm of his hand as it spreads from his hold.
A spark that was thought forever lost by those who could truly see.
Hope.
