Greg sat alone, watching the people prepare for change and rejoice in celebration as their Prince gave his speech. An old man, one of his advisors, approached Greg.

"You care to sit with a halfbreed?" he asked, drinking his beverage without turning to see who it was.

"So you are the Blacksmith they have been looking for. Many old men died to ensure you were among the captured. I never imagined you would be so…different." he said taking a seat.

"Expecting a man of honor and wealth, perhaps someone with a bit more faith in his role." he said admiring his lucky stone, noticing it had changed sides again.

"They say you have unnatural magic within you. Faith is not always easily accepted, especially for those who were never part of the inner circle. Many men grew up on the stories, wanting to be the Hammer of Fate so badly they would have done anything. I assume with your clouded blood, you have spent a long time waiting for answers." he noted.

"Looking for them, not waiting. Waiting does nobody any good. I waited for a myth long enough to find my sister had died, in service of a master who killed my parents. By the time I found him, he was old and dead as well. Now I discover that I had been lied to by the same people who protected me. I don’t know what to believe anymore except my own gut instinct…and a little bit of guidance from a magic I don’t understand." he said tossing the rock and catching it.

"You speak to the elements. There is no higher truth than those." he assured.

"It’s a rock. I speak to a damn rock because I don’t trust anyone who can guide me astray with idle words and prophesies. Either I speak to something beyond all of us, or I speak to myself, and I am lost in madness. Do you see the lights?" he asked, holding up the stone.

"I see a stone, nothing more. If you see something real, than perhaps you are wiser than us all. If there is nothing there but a stone, than maybe your madness is a good thing. It kept you safe from the evil of the new gods, and guided you to your destiny." he suggested.

"Or I keep moving so I can't be found, and eventually I was bound to run into either the ones who needed me or the ones who wished me dead. I can wager the same odds on a coin, and it does not make it magic. The scrolls predicted a great blacksmith, and that same prediction caused them to flock to this place to prove themselves. It's no shock that one day someone would arrive who was up to the task. It does not prove anything beyond my competence with a hammer above those who came before me."

"The scrolls are clear, You are the Hammer of Fate, Greggory. In a time before empires, The old gods looked upon us with love, disconnected from us and only observing from the heavens. The Great Goddess sent the 12 new gods to help us, 2 for each great empire, The Dwarves of Ferria, the Elves of Gnor, The men of Ash, The Trolls of Elm, the Imps of the South Lands, and the Nymphs of the Sea. But they soon disagreed on how we should be treated. The Trolls were too defiant to follow, so they wiped them to near extinction, the Nymphs were too skittish, and they were left to die. There was much imbalance, and the new gods became drunk with power." he said as Greg took an ironic swig from his flask.

"I can see the appeal." he belched. The old man shook his head.

"In their feuding, they new gods killed one another until 4 remained forming the 4 main empires we know today, Ferria, Ash, Gnor and South Elm. It was not until the Goddess, displeased with her children, decided that new leaders were needed. She sent the second generation from the stars. From falling suns came the generation of gods to bring balance yet again, to the world. It was with them that the 7 Prophesy stones were discovered. These young gods brought with them new magic, great powers that the old other gods feared. To maintain their power, they killed the new children of the goddess and stole their magic for themselves. It was only by chance that the elders found 2 of the cradles that the gods did not know of. The Prophesy stones…" he said, placing a strange metal device on the marble table. "They tell of the prophesy." he explained.

"Magic rocks. I have a Magic rock that only points my way and they call me insane for following. You have magic rocks that tell the future, and based on this, you have already decided the fate of thousands? And they follow you?" Greg asked.

"The stones have foreseen many things. It took years to convince men and elf that they were true. By holding a stone, the elders could see the future, writing the scrolls for others to learn. This magic is forbidden by the gods, and it has leaded us to survive. By keeping them hidden, by following their guidance we have maintained control of 3 great empires. Losing only one to the gods is more than we hoped for."

"And what happens now? What does your prophesy say about me?" Greg asked.

"It says that the gods are not as strong as they claim. We regard them as immortals, unable to be killed, ageless and all powerful, yet they seem to rely on the lesser races for much of their kingdom. The Prophesy stones say that as the gods weaken, a day will come when they are no longer immortal. I have seen the man they bow to and he does not look as young as he did back then. Time still has power over them. When the 13th generation arises, so shall the mortal empires of old. Men of great magic will arise from the forbidden lands to harness the powers of the gods and the age of mortals will yet again be. One Man of each empire, A Dwarf, an Elf, a mortal Man, and a Troll.

There shall arise The Hammer of Fate, and from his hands shall come a blade that can fall a god. There shall arise a child of the goddess, of the purest bloodline and purest virtues, a great warrior with a heart of love and spirit of innocence. He shall wield the blade that falls the last of the dark gods. There shall come forth a man of mystics, to craft the Robes of Time, and this shall be his armor that even a god cannot pierce. There shall arise a Queen, and her magic shall smelt the rings of wisdom. These rings shall give the Child the knowledge and protection of the goddess. We have seen little magic in this world that has not been taken by the 4 remaining gods of old. The Robes have not been found, the rings have not been worn, No blade has been forged. The Prophesy is at our gates and none of the Child's items have been discovered. We feared the Prophesy may have been only a deception, a lie given to us by the dark gods to keep us patiently passive, waiting for days that will never come, and saving our rebellion for an age that doesn’t exist. Then you arrived, and tales of your strange magic spread. With the blacksmiths of the land suddenly being hunted, it is clear that the gods believe in the prophesy. "He sighed.

"But you think it's as much shit as I do. Why does everyone seem to agree that William is the Chosen Child?" he asked.

"He is the 13th son of Ash, and unlike his predecessors, he does not lust for greed and dominance. The 12 generations descended from the gods' bloodline have all kept their empires through oppression and control, killing any man or elf with magic they refuse to use for their King's benefit. William is different. He was raised in combat yet he does not thirst for blood. He is a strong leader yet he believes in the prophesy and the rights of the tribes. None of royal blood have ever allowed talk of the prophesy, yet he encourages it. Only a man of such purity could be the One. The Child is told to be of the purest blood, arising in the day of the 13th generation. He is said to be strong and immortal, yet gentle and wise. His words are soft, yet his hand like iron." the old man said as Greg flexed his grip.

"And what if your William cannot wield the blade?" he asked.

"He must. But you cannot let that guide your hand. The Hammer of Fate alone knows the weapon's power. It is from the shards of the hammer itself that the power of magic be endowed upon the blade. If William cannot wield the weapon, then he is not the Child."

"Perhaps he is and I am not this Hammer you believe I am. There are no other princes of pure blood to wield it, are there no other blacksmiths capable of a quality sword?" he asked.

"None left of great magic. The men of magic and their heirs have all been killed by South Elm. They believe the prophesy is not a guide for mortals, but a warning to the gods. They see it as a guide to prevent such uprising. All men of magic have been slain so they cannot form the tools needed to overthrow the gods. Few have remained hidden, and you are the only one who can wield a hammer. The steel does not resist you. Your hands do not burn from its glowing power. None have ever been able to forge the great weapon, except you. You ARE the Hammer of Fate, Greggory, and it is up to you to craft the weapon that brings the world back to the hands of man and elf."

"And what if I prefer to be the one wielding the weapon?" he asked.

"You have your purpose, and it is great. Do not stretch for a higher honor than you have been destined to reach. You are not the Child, the one destined to slay the gods. Why is the weapon he wields not enough for your lust of greatness?" he asked.

"Because I have deeper meaning that drives me. I have a debt to settle and the strength to achieve it. They took everything from me." he said darkly.

"Vengeance is not destiny, Greggory. Do you think you are the only one to have lost what they loved to this menace? What of the thousands who have died these centuries in war and struggle, sacrificed to bring the fall of the gods? You have the right of many of us to want vengeance, and you should find great honor that most cannot hope to find, in that you are a pivotal piece of the one who will change everything. A hero is no greater than the men who allowed him to be one. The hand that falls the last of the gods is no more honorable than the Hammer that forges his blade or the man who crafts the robes. Only with all of you, can he succeed. Do not confuse glory and admiration for justice. Though he will be remembered as the Champion of mortals, your blade will be as much responsible as his killing hand. Can your fallen loved ones not achieve honor without your own glorification? Is their vengeance any less complete without a legend of Greggory to promote it?" he asked. Greg had no answer; there was little argument to be made.

"And what does the stone say I must do to create such a weapon?" Greg asked.

"It is written of the blade: The Hammer of Fate knows his craft and he alone can read the holy text of the steel. From the shards of the stars does he forge his ingot, from the fire of the heavens does he craft. From the bones of the strongest warrior comes the dust of his creation and his rage shall flow through the blade, and in the blood of the harvest shall it be quenched." he recited as Greg sighed in frustration.

"Was it not easier to just provide a recipe? 2 measures iron, a floren of ash, fold 50 times and quenched in holy water?" he sighed.

"That knowledge is within you. You must interpret the scrolls and the magic within you will guide your hands. You have the King's resources as your disposal, only you can know how to use them. We have great faith in the prophesy, and as the Hammer of Fate…we have faith in you." he said, patting his shoulder and making his slow leave.

"Glad we got that cleared up and simplified." he sighed. "Good time to start reading this garbage."

Muradin checked the supplies as the men brought them, looking at Greg as if he was a bit insane.

"Are you sure you have interpreted this correctly?" he doubted.

"Not remotely." Greg said, setting up his new workshop.

"I understand a need for comfort and a thirst to calm the mind, but is it entirely necessary for these things? Three barrels of the King's wine?" he asked.

"Quenched in the blood of the harvest. Grapes are in season, and I do love my wine. It seems poetically fitting." he shrugged.

"Why 3 barrels?" he asked.

"Because it takes 2 barrels to fill the pit, and I like wine." he assured.

"Do not think me a doubter, but is it possible that you may be using this prophesy for your own needs?" he asked.

"I get thirsty when I work, I work best relaxed. If I am the Hammer of Fate, then what I believe is best should be correct. This is what I feel makes the most sense. My guess is no more a guess than any old man reading a book and speaking to stones. If you know of anyone more qualified than a bunch of fools or a drunken blacksmith making wild assumptions based on talking rocks…I am open to ideas." he suggested.

"I merely want your word that you are taking this seriously. I do not doubt your qualification or skill…but your lack of faith vexes me. I must know your motivations are serious and you are willing to do what is necessary." he said boldly.

"Oh I assure you…sacrifices of mine will be unpleasant and my willingness to proceed will be proven shortly." he said sharpening his chisel on a fine stone.

"Dare I ask?" he asked.

"Blood of harvest is easy, Shards of the stars were provided for me and kept safe for this day, fire from the heavens seems obvious enough…but the bones of the strongest warrior is going to be a bit more taxing." he said checking his supplies.

"You plan to kill someone for their bones?" he asked.

"No, not that impersonal. They have provided me with the ashes of the finest fallen of this land, and yet I do not feel drawn to any pot. No ashes speak to me, and I cannot shake the voices in my head telling me what must be done." he sighed.

"You are troubling me, Greggory. What madness do the voices tell you?"

"Strength and rage, my stubby friend…the blade must be endowed with strength and rage from the bones of warriors. I know little of these men and their rage, and all I know of their strength is that they fell in combat to other men with mortal weapons. How can a dead man who was unable to survive his last battle, have the power to kill an immortal? The strongest warrior is one who has not fallen yet. I know little of men's rage and power…but I know my own quite well. I may not be kind or virtuous, nor pure at heart, far from a hero, yet I am confident that no other has more strength or rage than I do." he said taking a swig of wine.

"I don’t like this way you speak, Greggory." Muradin warned.

"Me neither. I've been ignoring the voices, drowning them in strong drink and following my gut my whole life. Maybe I should try listening to them for once, even if they tell me something truly maddening." he said selecting the largest hammer, one fit for a giant. He carefully nailed the handle of the freshly hones chisel to a long broom handle.

"I advise against whatever you are plotting." said Muradin.

"I need your assistance." he said inspecting the odd pole-arm tool.

"Greggory, what are you suggesting?"

"No legend scrolls say the bones have to come from a dead man. What sacrifice do I have to offer of not myself? All I ever wanted was to be the hand that slayed the god that took my family. I could settle for being a finger." he said, handing Muradin the chisel-spear and placing his left hand on the anvil.

"Think this through. Was it not you that that told me that magic is often misunderstood? You told me that the ashes of men are no different than the ashes of scorched wood and that the steel doesn’t know the difference. Ash is ash, and virtue does not make better dust." he objected.

"That's true, but I have been wrong before. If ashes of men are all mere ashes, than perhaps whatever I am made of will make a stronger dust. I cannot think of a stronger man with more anger…and I feel that my anger is about to reach a familiar high." he said with a nervous smirk.

"Maiming yourself cannot be the answer." he argued.

"Only the Hammer can know his steel, and the voices agree. I have suffered greater injury and healed without a scar. Let us test my true ability and see what magic resides within me." He said, pulling the chisel to align with his pinky, finding the soft joint between the second knuckle and lined it up between the bones.

"I want to formally object and say that I do not approve of this in any manner, and by doing this I am not responsible for what happens next." he sighed.

"The voices say that is acceptable." Greg said as he lifted the hammer and gave a few last thoughts on what he was doing. "Pain is weakness being purified into strength through the fire of suffering. Suffering is only in the mind." he said closing his eyes and getting zen with his choices. He swung the hammer down and with a loud ringing, the chisel buried in the anvil, splinters of wood and iron deflected from the impact as sparks of metal flew and Muradin hunkered for cover. Greg let out a roar of rage, his eyes glowing white and his blood glowing like molten gold. He clenched his injured hand as the stub of a pinky bled slowly. He dropped the broken hammer and paced the floor as he tried to contain his anger.

"Suffering is only in the mind!" shouted Muradin as if coaching him through.

"I was incorrect. Suffering resides in the bones." he growled, angrily grabbing the anvil by the horn and in a single motion of expression, he proceeded to sling it over his head and throw the 300 pound steel mass, stump included, into the fireplace, shuttering the walls and cracking the stone structure.

"Embrace the rage! If you can endow a pinky's worth of that raw fury into the sword, then it will be a true god-killer." Muradin encouraged. Greg gnashed his canines and his eyes glowed brighter. He breathed in controlled breaths, pushing small jets of heat from his nostrils as he grabbed the first shard of the holy metal no man had been able to heat. The metal seemed to absorb the energy he was dumping into it in, resisting him. He approached his second anvil, forcing his anger into his injured hand and heating the metal some more. He grabbed a heavy hammer and watched the shard finally begin to glow. He tossed the severed finger into the heavy stone block and began to grind it with a mortar and pestle. The digit seemed to dry and wither quickly, growing more and more brittle as he ground it away into dust. The metal in his injured hand proceeded to glow and brighten, starting to get rather soft in his hand. He poured the dust into his crucible and placed the nearly-molten shard of metal in it, tossing a handful of crushed limestone and a bit of powdered minerals on top. When the metal was coated, he returned to the anvil and began beating the metal into shape. Even at the temperature needed to liquefy most steel, the shard remained rigid, resisting the hammer in a way no mortal could hope to shape. Luckily Greg was no mortal. Muradin followed his every heat and fold, tossing cups of water on the fires that were starting as his glowing blood dripped and trailed from flux to anvil. The blood stopped a few heats in, and Muradin was given a break.

The night lingered on as Greg folded and worked the metal that no man could shape, using every grain of ash he had to work his rage into the metal. As the metal folded and homogenized, it took on a strange aura. The pain ceased as Greg imagined his own flesh being part of the weapon that would exact revenge. The blade was taking shape nicely, and as the metal drew out, it shaped itself into what it wanted. Footsteps of guards and the jingle of royal jewelry woke Muradin, who pretended to be sharpening tools as they entered the room.

"An interesting choice." said William, noticing the odd shape it was taking.

"The metal is unusual, it flows as it sees fit, I merely encourage it to do so." Greg said as the guards stepped back in confused fear. Greg was even more formidable of a beast than he already was at rest. William stepped closer, stopping as the heat made any closer viewing uncomfortable.

"It seems you had an accident. My surgeons will tend to your wound when you would like to take a break." he encouraged.

"Proof of dedication. I require no surgeons." he said hammering away.

"Explain your choices, my good blacksmith, for you have made many unusual ones." he said perplexed.

"The scrolls read "blade" many times but never the word "sword" or "axe", so I was unclear which to make. My ancestors speak to me, and they made no objection to this compromise. It has the balance of an axe and the symmetry of a double-edged sword. This hybrid, like myself, is both oversized and aggressive, neither fitting the exactness of any weapon, but having the qualities of many. Like myself, often seen as the worst of all of them has the strengths of them hidden it its complexity. The Deep hollow grind allows a razor's edge and the thick cross-section allows weight and mass required to kill something unkillable. The forward heft and the length are ideal for a weapon fitting the executioner's axe…which is exactly what it needs to do. The folded guard is simple and crude, but it is layered with fine steel and will resist even the most formidable opponent's blade. The bronze handle will provide a grip that will not break and will not burn or splinter in the heat of combat."

"A bit unwieldy, but it will do." said William arrogantly.

"Unwieldy only to a wielder who lacks the fortitude to wield it. If you prefer something light and delicate, perhaps you should have told fate to send an Elf to make your weapon, Prince." Greg boasted. William began chuckling and his advisors followed suit to show respect.

"I like this blacksmith. A man who bows to no emblem and knows his purpose well. You will be compensated handsomely for your work, and if you wish, you may even carry my new blade as you follow me into glorious battle." he offered.

"I consider it an honor, Prince William." he said with a subtle nod. He strutted proudly away with his advisors as Greg worked on the final touches. Muradin looked shocked.

"Not like you to admit modesty. I dare say you have grown to maturity in this night. Whoever said an old dog cannot learn a new trade has never met you." he complimented.

"You really think I have any respect for that walking sack of gold?" he scoffed. Muradin looked disappointed, but not surprised. "He is a pure-bred nothing, raised on fine silk and fed by servants. He has earned no honor but what his family name has given him from birth. I care little for his respect and admiration, and more for his wine." he yawned.

"Then why the display of humility?" Muradin asked.

"Because I want to be by his side when he challenges a god and fails, so I can take my blade from him and earn my own honor." he admitted.

"You really believe you have the integrity and the qualifications to be the Chosen Hero of the prophesy?" scoffed Muradin.

"I am no more qualified to be a hero than my horse, and no less qualified than a politician who sails on a sea of his own inflated greatness. There is no Chosen hero, and if none step forward to claim their title, why am I any less qualified than a man born into royal blood?" he asked.

"A great sacrifice for man who has little belief." he noted.

"My family bled, many good men have bled for less or nothing. If there is any truth to this legend, it is worth a little of my own blood. A fair wager in a game of odds that though slim, may have profits that benefit everyone who deserves it. It may take more than luck to kill a deity. I provided what I can…now someone else can provide the luck." he said taking a moment to refresh his thirst.

"We don’t know anyone with any luck." Muradin sighed.

"Miranda fiddled with her ring, munching on her third pastry as Bacon stood motionless and stared at her like a statue.

"If you change your mind, we can go back and get you something. There is plenty of winnings left to share." she reminded, offering him a pastry as she counted her pile of gold. He grunted. "I know you don’t have a stomach, or a mouth, but there are things besides food you can have. Maybe a nice candle, or some tools you can buy to learn a hobby." she suggested, filling up on sweets. He grunted.

"It's not cheating. The first 3 wins were completely fair until the man decided to cheat. I made my own luck. If he can intentionally try and rob me, it's only fair I even the odds with a little bending of the rules myself. That is only fair. I found this ring without it's help…so I must be lucky enough to find my own luck and therefore it was rightfully mine all along. It's not like I killed anyone to find it, or stole it from someone. He needs to understand if you take advantage of poor peasant girls and tree-people, the gods will grant him the misfortune of being swindled back. I needed to eat to stay alive, so it was either that or steal from someone else, some poor peasant who needed the money for his own dinner, or a farmer just trying to earn a living with his crops. Fortunes lead me to someone who needed to be taught a lesson, and in return I earned my supper." she justified playfully. He grunted.

"Yes I could have spent it on rations, that's not the point. Everyone deserves a treat now and then and I have a weakness of pastry. I never said I was perfect, only justified. You can use your share to buy rations if you want and give them to the poor. I choose to enjoy myself a little this time, and if I starve I won't be able to help anyone. Next time I will get rations and donate the excess to the poor. This time the hungry and poor was me, so I helped myself." she rationalized. He stared blankly.

"I know, I know…I went overboard and gluttony is a sin, not a virtue. Nevertheless, if you had a stomach and a sense of taste, and you tasted these pastries you might give into temptation too. Can you smell?" she asked. He stood blankly as she adjusted her ear-ring.

"It's hard to describe, you'll understand better with time. This is a lot to learn and you are still a boy. You are just a few days old after all…maybe. That’s hard to grasp." she said squinting and trying to read him. He held as still as a tree would be expected to.