Deep within his volcanic foundry ...
Hephaestus, god of Toysmiths, strikes his mighty hammer on a knot the white-hot steel against his divine anvil. Sparks fly from the hot metal, which dim into scarlet embers and become the stars in the sky.
The hunched deity pumps the celestial bellows and the sacred fire of his titanic furnace rises towards the heavens.
He wrestles the glowing metal with his own bare hands, twisting the alloy, bending it, folding. The sweat from his brow falls to Earth and forms sulfurous springs.
Having shaped the matter, he plunges it into the waters of his cyclopean tub. It hisses powerfully and gives rise to a column of steam that billows forth from the monumental crater of his volcanic abode and fills the hearts of mortal men with fear of that great peak.
The Toysmith god raises his hand, holding aloft the mustachioed glasses of his right and celestial design. He strokes his other hand across his stubbled and heat-scarred visage.
"Really more a Gene Shalit than a Groucho," he mumbles, and throws the toy on the pile.