*A distinct song filled the workshop as Targhan worked, his powerful arms flexing with each mighty blow. It was anvil-song, a melody in which the notes were the clanging of his hammer against the red-hot steel, and the rhythm was that of his swinging arm. Sweat glistened on the minotaur's brow and dripped from his chin, sizzling as it struck the red-hot steel on the anvil. Targhan stood hunched over the anvil, his massive form barely fitting into the claustrophobic confines of his shop. Complete...