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The bronze sheet rang with each blow of the hammer.

Over and over again, the Smith struck the thin metal, subtly bending it until it was

no longer flat, but had taken on a roughly cylindrical outline.

His eyes never wavered as the hammer went up and down, up and down, hundreds upon hundreds

of times, giving a dull ring with every stride.

When the metal no longer bent easily under the hammer, it went back into the fire, turning

a faint red before the blows resumed and it cooled once more.

The Smith could feel the hammer as if it were an extension of himself, almost as if he

were molding the metal like clay rather than smacking it with a tool.

Every stride was precise and measured, calculated to do just enough, but not too much, twisting

the malleable bronze without rendering it so thin that the helmet wouldn't protect

its wearer.

The heat from the forge had long since incinerated the hair on the Smith's hands and forearms.

Thick callus covered his palms.

A patchwork of shiny burn scars covered him from fingertips to elbow.

Dirk and Grime had stained his white tunic until it was a series of overlaid brownish

grays.

Yet despite his appearance, the Smith was a man of status and distinction.

The helmet he was making was bound for the head of a warrior aristocrat, the Lao Chou,

the most powerful man in this Truscant city of Tarkouna.

...