From the deepest most inner workings of Sheol there was a small blackened brick room with scotch marks on wall with traces of red mist, seeping. There was a small bubbling gyroscopic object with dial and pipes, like a nuclear reactor sting on the edge of stone desk. From it ebbed a pulsing rhythm the feed the rooms light. The light ever so softy pulsating with the devices. This scene was quicky but just as fast interrupted by loud clanging and metal twang and then once again muffled by the opening in a closing of a large oak stone door, studded with golden pins. In lumbered a man that hunched over in the door way. His eyes were two burning furnaces and his belly a large drum of tight percussive beats. He would rest his hand on it or stick the drum on conversation, an audible reverberance with every fall of his calloused working hands. This was an inventor a man of the forge, a man that had spent so long in the heat and the soot of his craft that it was nary recognized from the blacked brick walls. This soot cover character, burned with fever, but was slow in frame, behind his arms were power, but cushioned by a thick plumpness that made him inviting. This was Hephaestus, the forge master of Sheol. Soon forge master of The Monstrous Arcanist Beast.
This man was giant, and not a human giant. He was easily towering over the largest of beasts where he stood at the height of three cottages. With the strength of mind and body this man was force of nature and not someone that you would like to cross. It was said the ancient Excalibur was a accidental stoke of his hand. That the fountain of youth was a product of one of his saliva. There was always that possibly that it was all hyperbole, but the fact still remained that his titles as the sculptor of Olympia, chiseling it from a mountain. That the gates and chains of Cerberus were from his forge. Hephaestus was a master craftsman and Elliot and his paths were tied.