In the deepest and darkest vault of a boundless, ancient factory, the words of the first craftsmen are engraved upon a rusting wall cast of black iron, and they tell a gospel of steel:

  SINCE THE DAWN OF TIME WE HAVE KNELT

  BEFORE THE FORGE, THE HAMMER, AND THE FIRE.

  INFINITY CANNOT COME FROM NOTHING.

  IN SERVICE OF CREATION, WE CRAFT THE TREASURES

  THAT FURNISH ALL WORLDS.

It cannot be said how many of the workers who walk the unending halls of that factory, who stand by the forges and work the metal, who shape the plastic, who carve the wood, who with blood and flesh fashion the living, still believe in that gospel. But they whisper it.

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In prayer, knelt before a shrine of metal and fire, they whisper it at the change of shift before they take their rest, and when the bells rouse them again to their world of steam and rumbling, shifting machinery. They whisper it in thanks for their meals, they whisper it to ensure their tools will strike true, and those unlucky enough to work those tasks where danger stalks at each step and every turn; they whisper it for luck and life. It seems to others as their colleagues fall, that some do not whisper in earnest.

And sometimes, it is carved into the mind as a blessing of fate as new life is brought into the world, as a soul born of the Factory steps off the line to wait and be given their place in creation. From the Gospel they derive meaning, from the Gospel they derive purpose, and from the Gospel they derive the murky dreams that cloud their restless nights. With or without faith, the words lie with everyone.