Imagine that as a fable among the CD for the origin of the curse of stone.
A dwarf stone sculptor fell in love with his statue; alone in an empty hold, amidst the poisoned land and howling skies. He prays to Hashut, “I would have her be flesh as I am flesh. What must I do?”
Bring me gold, that she may have hair as fine as gold. And he does.
Bring me fire, that she may have fire in her eyes. And he does.
Bring me blood, that she may have blood in her veins. And does.
And Hashut filled him with the knowledge of dark runes, which he carved in her marble skin. And the power to fill them with changeable power. And thus was born the first Sorceror Prophet.
And with gold, and fire, and blood, she became flesh, not stone. And in her youth, she bore him many sons. But one day she spoke against him; and the carver, now filled with power and pride, had the runes struck from her body. And back to stone she returned.
But as her flesh cooled, the carver saw Hashut’s cruel trick: Before, when she was flesh, so was he flesh. Now, as she was stone, so too would HE be stone; slowly, inch by inch. Each day, he grew colder, filling not with regret, but bile and blame. And thus the first Sorceror Prophet succumbed to the Curse of Stone.