Stone remembered flame,
and flame a song of shaping.
From their memory rose the Maker,
with hands imbued with purpose,
and a voice of heat and thunder.

The Architect and the Builder,
Brothers standing side-by-side,
cast form upon the empty,
whispered breath into clay poised waiting,
ignited thought within the dust.

Yet in the quiet after labour,
when the stars cooled and life began its breathing,
the Builder's earnest gaze turned inward.
He sought a work unshared,
a people wrought from love and longing.

He plucked the mountain's molten heart,
and entreated the Bearded Star.
Mingled fire blazed, argent streaming.
Purpose and hope tempered iron,
till it sang with every hammer fall.

Thus were the Dwarves awakened:
born of mountain's strength and Father's pride,
their hearts bright with the heat of creation.
The deep places echoed with their rising,
and the stones bent close to hear their joy.

Then flowed heavenly gifts unnumbered:
eyes of sapphire for the Dreaming,
to mend Her sight where Evil struck;
winged sandals for Chance, swift-footed and fleeting;
Sky's Tempest wreathed in stormlight;
a silver hand for innocent Mischief;
and for the Lightbringer, armour that sings with golden dawn.

To the Dark One He offered a world entire,
a sphere wrought of night's own ore:
a jewel of velvet shadow,
that, even ruined, reflects beauty in shards of starlight gleaming.

Kings and Gods have struck their bargains,
and many vows remain unkept.
Yet the Smith bears no ire or rancour.
He tends His flame in sure devotion,
His hammer singing soft as prayer.
For all treasures wrought by hand or star,
none match the splendour of His children,
whose stout souls endure like anvils,
ringing ever in the deep.

When the Bearded Star yet rises,
its fire wakes the hidden halls;
artisans stir, inventors blossom,
and the Father's craft renews.
Their labour is His heartbeat still,
their dreams the world's reshaping.


Penned by my hand on the 14th of Valnuary, in the year 988 AF.