Clang, clang, clang, went the iron hammer on molten steel. Each blow sent a thousand liquid sparks exploding from the soft and malleable metal into the air, lighting up the room like a midsummer’s fireworks display. Jon Ames shifted his grip, adjusting his meaty hands through his heavy leather blacksmithing gloves; eyeing the cherry red file closely, almost suspiciously, as if he were trying to determine whether it was more suited as a plow tiller or a sickle, .
Ames raised the hammer again and brought it down with three rapid strokes in quick succession, finally deciding that this particular metal would, in fact, become a sickle. He flipped the file over on itself and began hammering at a slow and steady rhythm, watching as tiny flames leapt up with every strike of his hammer. He felt a small surge of satisfaction in his gut as the metal slowly began to take shape. Good, clean work with good, clean fire. he thought.