Disclaimer: Don't own anything!

Author's Note: A teacher's willing to help me put together a portfolio for my college admissions. Sometimes, I think I'm really blessed by the people I've got around me.

Going to see Real Steel tonight. It looks awesome. I've recently begun replaying Twilight Princess a) because it's such an awesome and beautiful game and b) because I have an awesome idea for a sketch, but I need to get to a certain point to sketch it, so yeah.

-/-/-

Don't live down to expectations. Go out there and do something remarkable.
~Wendy Wasserstein
-/-/-

He'd been around forever. Or at least, that's what it seemed like. No one seemed to remember him ever arriving in the capital. He'd simply always been there.

He was one of those men that seemed both timeless and aged. He was old enough to have wrinkles carved into his skin, but they were not so deep as the scars. The scars were old, some nearly blending into brown, smooth skin. But there were rougher ones. A jagged one bisected the right half of his face and another cut diagonally across his lips. There were more, many more, too many to count.

His hair was short, coal black with ash streaking through it. He wore his beard neatly trimmed and it almost hid the thin scar that traced up from his throat. (Theories have been running around since he first came, though no one remembers specifically when that was, that the original wound was much worse and it had made him mute, for no one ever heard him speak a word)

His smithy was a little box of a building with holes cut out, most for ventilation, but one that counted as a door. The forge was all clean lines of worn bricks, his tools kept neat and polished. He liked to work inside, away from the sun's harsh light. There was pottery on the shelves, though most of the bowls and vases were empty of anything but air.

The first time Kratos met him, it's a few days after he's no longer fully human and was still trying to get used to the idea that Yuan's blood ran inside him. He's tired of seeing the same sites, so he walked around—carefully, mind you and never without Noishe's familiar protective presence—and he found the little boxy smithy with the brick forge and the scarred man inside.

The first time, Kratos said, good afternoon and asked several questions, but when the blacksmith refused to speak, Kratos fell silent.

(He comes often, despite the lack of words in the air. The forge is pleasantly quiet and the blacksmith, whoever he is, never seems to mind his presence despite his being obviously human.)

-/-

"Good morning." Kratos greeted, even though he knew the blacksmith would do little more than nod in return before going back to his work.

The man's eyes—sharp and dark like obsidian—glanced up at him. "Is it true?"

At first, Kratos thought he was hearing things. Voices didn't really belong in this place. "What?"

The man cleared his throat. "Rumors been goin' around that says you and your friends got a plan tha's ten pounds o' crazy in a six pound bag."

"Rumors spread quick around here, don't they?"

"Suppose you should be used to this, boy. They true?"

Kratos thought on the plan that the four of them had been slowly concocting at mealtimes. Mithos' theory of the Summon Spirits—something about it felt very right and more research into the subject hadn't provided anything that discounted it. "…That would depend on what you've heard."

"The Spirits." The blacksmith said it like most half-elves said it; something that was irrefutable and there, despite their never having seen it. Like music in the air, Martel had described it once.

"We haven't decided anything yet, but yes. That's the plan."

The blacksmith shook his head. "'S no use."

Kratos tilted his head curiously. Despite the man hardly ever saying a word, he had such interesting things to say. "Why d'you say that? Don't you believe in the Summon Spirits?"

"A bit."

Kratos' eyes slid to the carefully crafted bronze emblem—small enough that it could fit in the palm of his hand—that hung above the forge. "Isn't that Efreet's symbol?"

The blacksmith grunted, unfolding himself from the floor so that he could get a small hammer from the rack. He was built thick and powerful, very un-elf-like. Really, the only hints at his heritage as being anything less than pure human were the angles at the edges of his eyes and the triangular tips to his ears, but even those were less pronounced than most.

"What's it for?"

"Protection an' blessin's on any metal the fire touches." The blacksmith was only half paying attention to him, Kratos could tell. The dark, shiny eyes were intent on his work—a thin, long sword with a gracefully twisted hilt.

"So you believe in them when it suits you?" From anyone else, the words would have been harsh or accusing. From Kratos, it was simply a question.

"They ain't done much for the world so far, have they? Look at these times. Death, war, plagues 'n famine. If they existed, we'd be better off."

Kratos hummed in acknowledgement, but not agreement. He still found the notion of believing in the Summon Spirits as deities rather strange. "…Why today?"

The man didn't look up, but Kratos felt the question.

"Why speak to me today?"

"Because you don' look like a stupid person to me. Yer supposed ter be too smart for crazy things like this."

Kratos shrugged. "Crazy or not, it's our only shot."

"For what?"

"To free those other people still trapped in the ranches. For any chance at peace!"

"You think stronger weapons means peace?"

"Of course."

The blacksmith snorted, shaking his head. "You're very young, or very human."

"Or I'm both." Kratos offered, which only made the blacksmith snort again.

"Even worse."