What hand forges the will of man, and bends it to greater purpose? Agostino lay silent in his bed, crude blankets tossed carelessly in restless sleep. Every muscle ached in protest of the harsh demands he had made upon a body that was being forged as well. Bereft of sleep, the bed was a tedious and tiresome companion, and so he deserted it to pad barefoot out onto the sands of the Magincian beach. The quarter moon was frozen in a clear and starlit sky, illuminating all with her pale and wanton lumina. His skin turned pewter in the cold and dying light. There was something comforting in the immensity of it all. Something that reminded him that, make his mark as he may, this world could not be broken. It was a vastness that afforded him the freedom to strike hammer to spirit with reckless abandon. To reach for the splendors this life had to offer with both hands, without fear of falling. A gentle wind stirred the sands at his feet and tossed his hair heedlessly in its caress. Reverently, he fell to his knees in the sand and rested his hands on his thighs, head lowered in awed silence. The gesture hearkened back to a distant memory of ritual, long since forgotten. He lifted his eyes to the stars, his breath a silent spectre rising to the heavens. Dizzy and drunk with the motion of the world, he found his cup filled to overflowing. His spirit at perfect peace, he waited for sleep to find him.