Stepping up to the Anvil, I lick the metal with my scorching blue flame tongue. Blade dances, twirling in, out, and about, the wind wafting the smell of sweet bread through hair and heart. Like a snake I strike the metal with piercing blows and cool it down with an opened Heart, passion of the deep, dark waters, quenching the thirst of connection, spilling out unto the earth. Magic is afoot . . . Reach up and strike below, be whole at the Anvil!
