As the sun breaks the tree line to cast its morning glow, the forest’s inhabitants stir Atlas from his slumber. Anyone else would succumb to the allure of the singing forest and lie longer. However, today is an important day for the seasoned blacksmith. Atlas wastes no time preparing himself and descends into his smithy.
Upon opening the door, the still warm air of yesterday’s labor lingers. Across the room he kindles the forge with fresh coals, coaxing forth an amber inferno. The forge lights up, illuminating every nook of the ash coated walls. Atlas walks to the right side of the room, busying himself with a barrel full of various weapons. He places a dull sword on the forge and opens up the rest of his shop.
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Within the hour, the sounds of wagons and hooves interrupt the steady beat of Atlas’s hammer. Atlas walks outside to see two horse-drawn wagons and soldiers emerge into his domain. As the soldiers approach, their formidable armor gleams against the morning sun, the masterful creations of Atlas himself. One of the horsemen, an older looking man, approaches Atlas.
“Good morning Atlas, are the weapons ready?”
Atlas had been expecting their arrival. He gives a simple nod and walks back into his shop. A moment later, he emerges, cradling several spears and swords over his shoulder. Despite some blades pressing against him, they do not pierce his calloused body. A testament to his many years of hard labor. With minimal effort, he places the weapons in the back of the man’s wagon. Just as the younger horseman draws near.
“What about our new armor? Don’t tell me you forgot?”
Atlas does not even turn to face the man but still tries to answer, “Next week I--”
The second horseman stamps his horse’s hooves into the dirt. “We are heading into battle next week. Wearing this filthy armor will dishonor my family!”
“Would you like to die?” Atlas says quietly under his breath.
The older horseman is quiet, clearly understanding what Atlas means by that. However, the younger one raises his voice, clearly flustered.
“HOW DARE YOU! Is that a threat, you peasant?”
During the horseman’s tantrum, Atlas is already walking back to his shop and over his shoulder states, “Simply a fact.”
“I will execute myself!”
Suddenly, the young horseman attempts to draw his sword, but a hand from the older one on his shoulder stops him.
“Commander?”
The older horseman maneuvers his horse in between.
“Atlas. I apologize for my squadron’s rudeness. It is a failure of discipline on my behalf. Please, take as long as you need to make the armor. This set will survive yet another battle, all thanks to your craftsmanship.”
Atlas, looking into the commander’s eyes, nods and shuts his smithy door behind him.
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On their way back to town, the younger horseman pulls up beside his commander.
“Why did you stop me, sir? I was going to teach that peasant a lesson.”
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The commander stops his horse and turns to his partner.
“You wear his armor and wield his weapons, and survived the Eretria invasion because of him. Young man, you may be a skilled soldier but our enduring is thanks to the help of all kinds of people. Atlas forged our weapons and armor. Someone else built the ships we sail on. Someone else grew the food we eat. Tell me, you respect your parents, don’t you?”
“Of course, sir. They brought me into this world”
“Then show the same respect to the people who keep you alive in it.”
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Back at Atlas’ house, he works late into the night, hammering away at the captain’s new armor. The thick hot air lingers in the room slowly sapping Atlas’ strength as he strikes the glowing metal. Several swings later, Atlas notices the crickets have stopped chirping, actually the entire forest has gone dormant. The soldiers were not his only guest today. A presence far more significant was about to grace his domain, for today is an important day.
The man makes no noise as he approaches. This is someone who leaves little trace on the mortal world. A stout man donned in deep blue and gold-lined armor stands several feet from Atlas’s door. Even though Atlas is a large man, he dwarfs this blue soldier. But Atlas knows who he is and takes a knee before him. The weight of his imposing presence weighs on Atlas’s domain. The god of war, Ares.
“A war is brewing.” Ares’ voice resonates over the deaf night forest. “Procure me a weapon that reaches the highest heavens, splits the deepest oceans, and penetrates the hardest armor. As my creed, you know my laws. I will provide the base materials, but you will claim any artifacts yourself.”
Ares’ expression changes to a slight smile.
“Only then will you have your reward.”
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While this interaction is happening, the soldiers are enjoying some drinks back in town. The younger soldier clearly having had one too many.
“Man… that stupid blacksmith who does he think he is? I bet I could forge my own stuff. It can’t be hard if a peasant can do it.”
The older soldier sitting at the table across from him takes a sip of his drink before slamming it down against the table.
“YOU FOOL! Have you not seen how his armor is impervious to Persian weapons, and how easily his weapons shatter theirs? That man is no ordinary blacksmith. His knowledge and skills transcend anyone in any of the city states. His knowledge comes from a time where he wielded the same weapons you do now.”
“You think that peasant can wield a weapon commander? Quit joking. You are the strongest in the entire combined Greek army.”
The commander stands up and walks closer to his younger subordinate.
“I don’t think he can. I know he can.”
Pointing to his face, the commander says, “He gave me this scar under my eye several years ago. A long time ago, our city states were having a turf war. I commanded our forces to attack an initial village on the outskirts. However, the town didn’t have any soldiers. Atlas was the only one young enough to pose a threat. He emerged from his home with a simple red short-sword and proceeded to single-handedly slaughter my entire legion. I was the only one left, but he spared me with only this injury. The only words he said to me were,”
“Go tell your homeland what happened here. And tell them to send as many as they like. I will deal with them myself.”
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Back at his smithy, Atlas stares a small leather bag of meticulously selected, pure ores. He can tell from the grade of ores Ares is expecting a masterpiece. Atlas smiles to himself, relishing the opportunity to prove his worth under the discerning gaze of his god. With his creative light sparked, Atlas makes his way back to his bedroom and opens a chest next to his bed. He pulls out three weapons not meant for mere soldiers, but for a skilled warrior of the war god’s clan.
Atlas skills extend beyond the confines of his forge. As a clansman of Ares, he possesses a deep understanding of weapons. He has honed his abilities in wielding every conceivable type of weapon and imbues that knowledge into every weapon he forges. Atlas heeds his god’s request and equips the weapons best suited for this journey.
First, a short-sword attached to his hip. The red stains shine in the light from the wars of blood it has absorbed; embodying his prowess in combat. Second, his glaive, the blade glimmers a deep blue rich in leftover mithril when Atlas forged Ares’ armor; embodying Atlas’s commitment to his craft. Finally, a bow, the only weapon Atlas didn’t create. It was a gift from his loved one. A mix of green and brown coats the wooden limbs, which contrast beautifully with the bronze riser.
With his weapons, Atlas prepares the rest of his gear and heads out on his journey.