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The bronze chisel made a sharp but not offensive noise at the surface of the basalt. Old Walker's fragile hands tapped the growing mark into a curve with calm, ancient perfection. The letter turned upwards, terminated, and the Sculptor lifted its tool from the stone. It wiped dust from the chisel, then wrapped both tool and mallet in a canvas wallet, which it tucked away neatly in one of the saddlebags at its side.

The sentence wasn't finished yet. It terminated just before the end, like so:

[color=cornflowerblue][i]Trust not your kings, for they will overwhelm you with the splendor to which they were crowned; And trust not your elders, for they may deceive you with the wisdom in which they have grown; And trust not your elected leaders, for they can blind you with the charisma with which they were born; Only trust God, who is splendid, wise, and[/i][/color]

The rest would one day run 'great, yet has earned none of these things.' Following that, 'For you, the Chosen People, have given unto God Her temples, enriched Her knowledge with your prayers, and spoken Her word with holy fervor.' It was one of the many entries in the Tome of Sayings, which was the first book in the Voice of the Painter. It meant, of course, that the Meteran people should bow before no-one that they themselves had not shaped with their own wishes for the future.

Yes, it was one of many hundreds of entries in the Tome of Sayings, with all its poetic contradictions. There was still plenty of room to be carved on the slab, but Old Walker was done. When work would continue, they did not know. Why work had ceased, they did not know either. That was just how things would play out.

The Sculptor stepped into the winter snow and caught a snowflake on its fingertip. Bringing it to their eye, Old Walker could see ice in all its minute geometric perfection.

They did not ask for the memory, nor did they try to block it. It was one of their own, as most were.

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[i]It was their first winter in the Valley. The caravans and herdsmen had weathered countless snows before, but this one would be cruel, not in the wrath of its wind or its cold, but simply because it struck when they were all far from home.

In the spring, Old Walker knew- Whether in the present or in the memory they did not know, for time is fluid- this place[/i] would [i]be home. In the mountains, any earth whose winter has been conquered will yield before the mortal heart. It was happening before their eyes. Tents were shared, children wrapped in the furs of their mothers, beasts fed with the shared hay of which some families had brought too much and others too little.

When spring broke, this place would be home. And those who shared a home would be family.

The people looked up when the great rufous shadow passed among them, three pairs of footsteps padding just loud enough to be heard from inside a tent. No one who looked upon it could doubt whether it felt the cold; Old Walker's bulk had accumulated that strange aura only borne by those who have walked many miles through many blizzards unflinching. The wind flicked its feathers but could not touch its skin.

At its side was the Kernel, tucked under one foreleg while the other three walked on their palms. Its curvilinear blue not-flame flickered and clung to Old Walker's plumage. Everything it touched seemed to become a transparent outline of blue and black, illuminating the shape of the world without its content.

A hain family was huddled in one of the caves together with their goats. They bore the cold better than humans or goblins, though still not as well as the goats, and had given up their tent for the more vulnerable, knowing that they had enough furs for the night.

Old Walker lifted the veil from their cave and looked in, long neck swaying. One of the hain looked up, cradling a small kid. Old Walker quietly nodded and stepped in. The goats did not stir at the touch of the Prophet.

Taking the Kernel of God from under their arm, Old Walker set it down gently at the hain's side. Her eyes widened in wonder and a little fear. Old Walker stroked her head and left. 

The warmth of the Kernel was already starting to fill the shelter. The Sculptor would return for it before dawn.[/i]

The snowflake had melted in Old Walker's hand, and others had taken its place. They walked on.

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