II:

Once, long ago, there was a little old Tinker, with a little old shop, tucked away in the dingiest corner of a little old city that is now gone from the world. Though merely a tinker, the least of all artisans, he was also a genius of his craft: for it was said of this Tinker, that he could make whatever you wished.

He'd work wonders with the humblest of materials: once, a poor farmer came to him for a weapon to protect his family, for a cart of his produce had been looted and wrecked by bandits while his son was taking it to market, and the farmer's son himself beaten and left for dead. From iron band of a broken cart-wheel, the Tinker made an iron blade and crossguard, and crafted a hilt from one of its wooden spokes, bound together with strips of hide from the poor old carthorse the bandits had cruelly slain in their pillaging.

Thus armed the farmer learned to use his uncommon blade through much practice, and thereafter he brought justice to the bandits by the edge of his sword, becoming renowned as a mighty warrior, and a terror to brigands throughout the land.

On another occasion, a simple washer-woman came to the Tinker, and begged him for a dress for her faithful, hardworking daughter, who secretly desired above all else to attend the kingdom's grand ball. She could only offer a small bag of coins, mostly copper, with a precious few silver pennies mixed in. But the Tinker took her coins, and told her to send him her daughter to be measured, along with one of the simple frocks she owned.

When the night of the ball came, the young woman was arrayed in the most wondrous gown the kingdom had ever seen: though woven of simple dyed linen, it was so beautifully adorned with finely wrought copper ornaments, and so intricately embroidered with silver thread, that it outshone garments made from the rarest of silks. The washer-woman's daughter was the belle of the ball that night, and she attracted the interest of a handsome young lord, who would later become her husband.

The Tinker made many such creations for many folk in need, taking but little payment for his services, and sometimes taking none at all. But alas, one night, he fell asleep at his little workbench, and never woke again. The good people of the little old city where he lived mourned the kindly old Tinker sorrowfully, and gave him as a fine a funeral as that of any king.

Amid the pomp and ceremony that surrounded his burial, the Tinker's shop was all but forgotten, for it had been as humble as the Tinker himself, and had contained nothing of any great value.

But one day, a young man from afar who had heard of the renowned Tinker, came to that little old city, with a fervent wish burning in his heart. He was sad when he learned the Tinker was dead, but having come so far he still went to find the little old shop, which had sat untouched since its owner's death.

Within it, he found the little old workbench where he'd been told that the little old Tinker had labored on his last night. Atop it lay the broken pieces of a brazen vessel, whose original form and purpose could not be guessed at from its bent and shattered remains, along with a number of different metal files, resting on a bed of bronze filings beneath a thick blanket of dust.

But in the center of the pile of abandoned tools and metal shavings, somehow untouched by the years of accumulated dust, was the object the Tinker had made from the filed-down shards of the vessel on his last night: a gleaming bronze key. With awe and wonder, not quite knowing why, the young man took the key, and clutched it to his breast.

And then he made the first wish, upon the Wishmaker's Key.