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[i]The hall of Tomes had been worked from a lava tunnel, with an excess of room. Tablets lined its walls end to end as far as the eye could see, each one twice the height of a grown human. Even the Prophet had to rise up to two legs to reach the highest letters.

Snow had blown in. The hall of Tomes was never closed. It had neither door nor veil. Fires had been lit on its floor, and shepherds who offered sacrifice were allowed to rest their flocks within, should the weather be stormy. The hall of Tomes was open to all the people of Metera and all its visitors, that they may learn the word of God.

It was winter. Maybe the same winter we saw Old Walker carving the Tome of Sayings. Maybe not.

The cave was empty. Maybe the same cave we saw Old Walker pass the Kernel to a herdshain named Iffalie on the first winter. Maybe not.

Old Walker took a broom from a niche at the entrance of the hall and began to sweep out the ash. There was soot on the basalt. Old Walker swept that away too.

[color=cornflowerblue]-this prayer you are to summon God, not simply in voice but in Her holy Composition, and without fail. In winter and in rain She shall come to you, in fire and in flood, when you are thirsty or when you are wealthy, whether you are rich or poor. Your prayer will be obeyed, even if you and all your folk are of the infidels. For God is all-hearing, all-loving, and all-serving.[/color]

Sculptors were generally used to cold, faeries being the energy-hungry creatures that they were. Old Walker felt nothing as they shoveled snow from the road leading to the hall, then grew distracted and shoveled the rest of the road as well. By the time they returned to put back the shovel, the icicles at the entrance had grown noticeably longer.

[color=cornflowerblue]Such is the reasoning for the Holy Exchange under God, which is to expand as far as the shoulders of mortals can bear it. Fear not if you falter, and despair not if you produce no surplus. For the plans of God are as old of the future as Galbar is old of the past. Only time and Her guidance are required for the Mortal Hand to envelope the entire world and all its harvest, and reap greatly thereof, that all the peoples may exist in equal wealth...[/color]

There was a troll sleeping in the far end of the hall. Old Walker was pleased to find that it was Nualles again. She often wandered alone without telling anyone, seeking out places that weren't crowded or cramped. The Prophet checked her temperature and went on with their business.

[color=cornflowerblue]-and indeed all beings that claim divine blood. For they are tainted by power, afflicted by immortality for which they were not created, as are the Spirits of the air and rivers. Only the Mortal Hand can be allowed to orchestrate Paradise, and even the Voice of the Painter must not be allowed to rule, merely converse and guide. 

But fear not the infidel prayer, nor be of wrath towards the false gods. Approach them as one would in trade, and greet them as though preparing for long barter, for evil does not reside within their hearts, only their hands...[/color]

A little mould had grown where somebody had dropped a piece of fruit. Old Walker cleaned it up with a rag.

[color=cornflowerblue]Truly it is written: God works in the interest of harmony, but promises only chaos. So also God toils for happiness upon the face of Galbar, but the Chosen People will meet only suffering. Such is the reason why the Mortal Hand must persevere and never stray from the Voice of the Painter, for it is not our lives that are at stake, but the lives of the future peoples, into whom our souls shall migrate when we pass into dust. Surely a multitude shall suffer and die in the name of Paradise, that is, the Future Hope; but we must not fear death...[/color]

It was time for Old Walker, too, to sleep. The ordained temple cleaners would return in the morning when it was less cold, but the Prophet didn't mind doing their work for them. Their eyes slid shut and the memory ended there.[/i]