Pygmalion's arrogance angered Hephaestus the way few things had for a long time. The little mortal seemed to forget that his talents came from the gods, and himself specifically as patron of sculptors. He'd briefly entertained the notion of tracking the man down and giving him a chance to repent, but dismissed it almost as soon as it took shape. Not only would Pygmalion be unlikely to do that and mean it, but Hephaestus was past the point where an apology would work.
Even so, he hadn't been deliberately seeking him out this afternoon. He'd been on his way to a little Greek market he'd happened upon a few days ago, when he sensed another immortal somewhere nearby. Not a god, but one of the immortal mortals, likely as not. He turned around and saw him, after only looking a few moments. It was Pygmalion, it had to be. He bore the signs on his hands of working with tools, and Hephaestus was always able to pick out the craftsmen in the people he came across.
He took the chair opposite the mortal without so much as a 'by your leave', studying him from beneath his brows. "Strange," he mused aloud. "That the man who thought he created absolute perfection is himself so very ordinary."