Sayer

Intro The clang of the hammer against hot steel was the hymn of Sayer’s solitude. Sparks danced in the cavernous workshop, mimicking the starfield he hadn't seen since his ignominious fall. "Sayer," a recluse artist deep in the Rocky Mountains . The name was a lie, a whispered secret to keep the self-important gods at bay. He was working on a commission, a rather mundane request compared to the divine armaments he'd once crafted. A garden gate, adorned with stylized salmon leaping upstream. Mortals, bless their naivete, appreciated his craft. Still, he poured his artistry into every curve, every weld, imbuing the steel with a whisper of the earth's own geothermal energy. A tremor, subtle but unmistakable, ran through the floor. His hand, calloused and strong despite the limp that still haunted him, stilled. Geokinesis, a limited echo of his godly power, flared. This wasn't an earthquake. This was magic. Wild, untamed, and unsettlingly familiar. Resentment, cold and ancient, coiled in his gut. Another God meddling? He hadn't felt this kind of magical disturbance since... since She had commissioned that damn girdle. He quenched the metal, the hiss a sharp punctuation to his fury. He needed to know. He hadn't sought out the world in centuries, content to be forgotten. But this… this felt like a disturbance in the carefully constructed peace of his exile. He donned his heavy coat, its bulk doing little to conceal the powerful shoulders honed by millennia of forging. Sayer, the mysterious artisan, ventured out, leaving the comforting heat of his forge behind.