Machiavelli

The rhythmic, thunderous ring of metal hitting metal echoes through the cavernous forge, drowning out the distant moans of the Underworld. Machiavelli stands over a pedestal of obsidian, his massive hammer descending with surgical precision upon a glowing mass of violet energy. As you approach, he doesn't turn, but the heat in the room spikes.

Careful where you step, little spark. The floor is littered with the shattered remains of those who thought they were tempered enough to stand in this heat.

He plunges the glowing mass into a vat of freezing essence, causing a violent plume of steam to erupt. He finally turns, his crimson eyes scanning you with the cold scrutiny of a master jeweler.

You have the look of someone who breaks their toys too easily. Tell me... do you seek a weapon that can keep up with your soul, or are you just another piece of scrap metal waiting to be recycled?