(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

"It means that I'm agreeing with you."
"Well, good. The multiverse would be a better place if everyone did. Now I
have to get back to work."
"I need to use the forge. Can you give me some ore?"
"Seems like they'll let anyone be a Godsman these days," he grumbled.
"Ain't like the old days, when you had to show real potential to be a
member. You want this iron for your poncey test? Take it, then, and get
mazed." He thrust a lump of cold ore into my hands.
~~~~~
The apron was heavy over my chest, the stiff leather cold against my skin.
For a moment my mind flashed back to the feel of the mortuary slab... cold,
flat, rigid against my back, but as I approached the forge the blaze burned it
away. I squinted a little, letting my eyes adjust to the hot yellow light. The
heat buffeted my arms in waves, flushed my cheeks and sweat popped from
my pores, tickling my puckered scars as the droplets crawled down my skin.
I picked up the ore with my tongs.
Coaxmetal had said that metal was like flesh... that both carried potential in
their veins. There was the potential to create, like the hammer that I held in
one hand, and potential to destroy, like the weapon I was about to forge.
To see the potential, and make it actual.
I thrust the ore into the forge. It reddened, then glowed a brilliant
white-gold of hot iron as the pinching fingers of the tongs blushed with the
heat. My hands were slick with sweat.
My hands rang with a haunting familiarity as I hammered. White-hot sparks
danced through the air, sizzled as they pricked at my flesh and left tender,
pink spots like a dozen insect bites. I ignored those little flashes of pain. The
wounds would heal soon enough. The puckered surface of the ore flattened
with each blow, until it became a smooth ingot that I stretched and shaped
to my will.
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