The burly barbarian orc sat before his anvil, his powerful arm swung back and forth like clockwork, working in tandem with the rhythm of his breathing as he hammered away at the glowing red-hot slab of metal. He focused intently on his work as sweat dripped down his bulging biceps and forearms. It dripped down his forehead as well, stinging his eyes slightly as he worked, but he paid it no mind; He was exceedingly resilient, and this was his passion, his sanctuary, and he loved every moment spent here amidst the marvelous display of glowing embers and flying sparks. Each strike sent shockwaves through the ground. Igor’s muscles rippled beneath his taut skin with each forceful strike. His eyes were locked on the task at hand - shaping this piece of raw material into something beautiful, deadly, and precise. It was an art form to him; each blow calculated. Each blow deliberate. Each blow strong enough to slightly alter the shape of the iron, but just gentle enough to not overdo it, landing like a symphony of power, masterful skill, and near flawless precision.
As the Orc worked, his eyes glowed with an eerie golden-orange light - a testament to the power he wielded over fire itself. Every now and then, he seamlessly summons a burst of fire to manifest over the iron to heat it at will, as the light reflected into the depths of his eyes like tiny dancing flames. It was said that very few orcs were born with an affinity for fire. This orc had honed this rare gift to near perfection. He couldn't help but feel a persistent, palpable thrill course through him. It was like nothing else was present at this point in time except for him, his sledgehammer, and the red-hot slab of iron. This was his domain; this was where he belonged.
The rhythmic, powerful clang of his hammer against the iron echoed throughout the space around him.
