Forgers of Hephaestus

smack crack whack 

the clinking clanking sound of hammer hitting anvil

the hiss of a fire, the crackle of the coals

the rattle of chains holding up the works that would be turned to art in the hands of a maker - a forger

grrr, whirrr, spur on the machines inside a forge of metal,

metal is love in this world, the outside definition forgotten

whether it is the crunch of a sword, the chink of armor, or the squick of metal being carved and molded

the squelch of something old being melted and manipulated into something new

Art and weapon, forged in the same fire. 

Both will be coated in something like paint, but only one remains hot after its use. 

One will be held like reverence, the hush of a prayer
The other will be held like forgiveness, the hush of apology when it drives its point home into the heart of purpose

the cough of Death and the schink of removal haunts but the forger cares not

The forge does not care the purpose, the user, it only cares for the creation

the drive, the passion, the groan of the building around them

the home they've made in fire

 the hiss crackle crack reminders that this is where the forgers belong

and the rattle squelch bang reminders that the metal belongs in the forgers hands.

whatever happens to the creations outside, the forge does not care

the outside is forgotten

this, these sounds, are home and hearth

the forgers do not need anything more than hiss crack whirr