A squat, grey figure pumps the bellows hard into the furnace with a woosh and a roar. Sweat pours from his brow, dripping from his nose down into his thick, dark beard. The bristly hair of his hands and forearms is singed, and black smudges cover his skin. For months he has delved deeply for ore, straining beneath it's bulk as he staggers from mine to smithy and then returns. The tenacious blue-green of copper ore combines with a black grime to stain his hands. A crooked, downward-curving smile cracks faintly through a stoney visage as shiny, molten copper combines with silvery, flowing tin into neat rows of bright, bronze ingots. Day and night he beats and bends the primitive alloy to his will, delivering brutal, metallurgical sermons with his hammer. Prayers to the Master Crafter murmur through quiet craft halls and smithies and as the seasons progress so too does his skill. Like an automaton of magical origin he rises at dawn, labours trough the day and well past the sun's last rays. Slowly, diligently he beats his path from subterranean walls of stone and ore to the surface. Bench and bellows, furnace and fire, hammer and anvil in the warm surrounds of the artisan's halls. These are the instruments of his religion. These are his sacred artifacts.