Clang!  Clang!  Clang!

 

The incessant ringing sounded throughout the valley, even reaching as far as the mists atop the mountainside.  In the small village at the foot of the hills, few paid it any heed.  Even the animals around the mountain went about their business, undisturbed.  The sound of Hestus’ forge was commonplace in the shard.

 

The noise originated from a small cave on the side of the mountain.  Even through the midday sun, one could see the heat radiating from the opening.  Yards from the entrance, your average farmer would be overcome with exhaustion.  Deep inside the cave, however, stood Hestus, next to the roaring inferno of his forge.

 

Hestus was the tool-smith of the small village of Dinashae.  Lining the entrance of the cave was a retinue of hoes, the light from the flames of the forge making them glisten.  Several pairs of shears were hung on a series of poles nearby.  Two massive scythes dwarfed the display, their blades unsoiled by the dirt and dust they would soon be exposed to once they were distributed for labors.

 

Directly next to the fire stood a short, barrel-chested man.  His muscles were tightly bunched, and he held a large hammer in his hand.  Again, and again, he raised the hammer above his head, and slammed it down on the anvil in front of him.  A curved strip of metal glowed cherry-red, and sparks flew all around as he struck it.  His ample beard displayed several spots where it had been charred and burned from these stray sparks.

 

With each successive strike, the thought kept running through Hestus’ head, “This is so much easier in the Dream.”  The curved strip of metal slowly began taking shape in his hands.  This was to be the first of a set of sickles, used alongside the scythes in harvesting the grain crops.

 

As often happened while working at the forge, Hestus’ mind began wandering.  The repetitive strikes lulled him into a sort of daydream, while his mind mulled over the actions of the night before.

 

On his shard, Hestus was but a simple blacksmith, working to craft implements to make people’s lives easier.  In the Dreamcity, however, he was a Dreamsmith and ruler of a powerful house.

 

Hestus’ beard parted as he gritted his teeth, a scowl crossing his face.  He continued pounding the curved piece of metal before him with even more force.  Last night’s dream had been far from pleasant.

 

Halfway through the night, their house had been invaded by a newly formed guild, intent on taking over the house.  The new guild had planned their assault well, waiting until their entire membership was dreaming before moving out.  They had spent the previous few nights scouring the dream, and seeking out talismans to aid them in their conflict.  They were well stocked indeed, bearing many powerful chakrams, as well as elemens to supply the immense powers they released in the initial assault.

 

He and his housemates had been pushed back into the interior of the house, making their stand far within its chambers.  As the invading forces pushed their way through the defenses and dreamstructs placed to protect the house, Hestus had committed all of his energy to crafting tools and weapons to aid his house.  The process left him very weakened in the dream, but he handed out chakram after chakram to his initiates.

 

The battle lasted several hours.  The invaders had pressed into the heart of the house, but hadn’t had enough time to begin corrupting it.  With the power of the house itself, they had forced the invaders out.

 

He knew it was only a temporary respite.  The attack would continue this evening.  The attack was likely continuing even now, while he was awake.  Hestus had faith in his members, however.  He had faith that they would keep the house from falling to their foes; or, if the house did fall, he had faith that they would band together and reclaim it.

 

Hestus’ thoughts came back to focus on the strip of metal before him, and he let the hammer fall to his side.  He sighed, and shook his head.  Reaching down, he picked up the piece of metal, and glared at it.  Then, he threw the strip of metal into the forge, spitting after it.

 

The metal strip fell to a rest in the hot flames of the forge.  The curved, metal strip that had been destined to become a sickle had been pounded straight and edged, into a short sword.  The red flames of the fire glistened off the blade, resembling blood, before the blade began melting down into a shapeless pool.

 

Hestus threw his hammer down on the floor, and stomped out of the cave, anxious to get home and go to sleep.