by Curate Farimon, Keeper of the Rites for the Dead

When I first met Stone-Shaper Tozka, it was on a cliffside overlooking the village of Xor-Hist. He had requested I
meet him on this rocky perch before dawn or, rather, he demanded as much if I had any hope of speaking with him.

As my winded horse announced our arrival atop the cliff with sputtering, wheezing neighs, I raised a hand to greet the elder, if only to show that I was unarmed. In a low rumble, Tozka remarked that the journey must have been a difficult one, and I had already blundered my way into explaining how relaxing it had been to ride pre-dawn into the lush tropics of Solstice, when I realized he had been talking to my horse.

What is her name, Tozka asked. Gray Maybe, I said, as I lowered myself from her. Named for her boundless potential. Tozka seemed to appreciate this.

The Stone-Nest have long been admired for their skills as craftspeople. Tozka's title alone, stone-shaper, is a reflection of the importance of these skills in their society, with skilled crafters often being raised to prominent positions.

Joining him by his campfire, Tozka handed me a stone cup filled with a warm broth. It was savory with notes of wild herbs and smoke. Bone broth, Tozka said. I began to ask Tozka a volley of questions regarding funerary rites, but as quickly as I started, Tozka raised a claw and turned instead to the cliffside, just as light broke over the horizon. Brilliant swirls of gold and amber burst across the sky. The first rays warmed my skin and washed away the pre-dawn chill that had seeped its way under my skin.

Tozka downed the remainder of his broth and turned toward a rocky bluff beside our camp. He took a piece of chalk from a small satchel tied to his waste and outlined a standing rectangle in the rock, near about the size of a door. He then handed me a pickaxe.

We chipped away at the rock for hours and I was certain that the work was hampered by my pitiful efforts, but Tozka seemed unbothered, stopping often to help guide my strikes and offer advice. I was once again a student working beneath the guidance of a master, and I felt an academic giddiness return to me that I had not felt in, well, let's leave the decades uncounted.

The work was done just as the sun began to set. I admired the large stone we had cut from the bluff, having just pried it loose and allowed it to fall toward our camp, crashing down just shy of the fire. Tozka sat beside the stone, chisel in hand, and began to chip away at its rough sides. I reached for a chisel so that I could join him, but he shook his head. Now you may ask your questions, he said.

We picked at a platter of cheeses, mushrooms, and meats and warmed a pot of broth over the fire. He returned to chiseling while I began my questions and learned, quite startlingly, that we had just carved out Tozka's burial coffin.

He explained that his people bury themselves in coffins made of stone, a departure from their Tide-Born and mainland cousins who see the very act as a separation from the cycles of birth and death. To be buried in stone is to not return to the Void, nor the Root or Tide. Instead, the act is one of continuation. It is their duty, Tozka explained, to maintain their stone nests and temples by offering themselves to the walls and foundations, making their way to the Void only when their stone cracks centuries after their death.

They can commit themselves to the development of new stone buildings by marking plots of land with grave-stakes bearing their name. These can be small endeavors such as new homes or hatcheries, or larger ones, such as craft halls, if a family line dedicates the entirety of their lineage to their continued development. Alternatively, individuals can devote themselves to the repair of walls, floors, or village pathways, all of which are seen as equally worthy causes.

Additionally, not only did the Stone-Nest never abandon their xanmeers, but they also retained the knowledge of their creation. Tozka explained that the size of such a project was daunting, even for the most dedicated family lines. It had been many centuries since a new xanmeer had been built on Solstice and Tozka felt it would be many more unless a concerted effort was made.

I asked, with some trepidation, what he intended to dedicate his burial stone to. A road, he said. He had felt for some time now that their reclusive nature had led to a splintering of their tribe. This had once been an act of survival, which allowed them to hide their numbers from invading Mer. Now he worried that tribes would die out and disappear without notice in the many caverns of Solstice. Thus, he wished to be the first stone to start a road connecting all Stone-Nest villages and, perhaps one day, Sunport itself.

I suddenly understood, firsthand, the gaze of a Stone-Nest artisan. One capable of peering deep within stone in search of its promised design, but now turned outward, into the far-flung, and distinctly hopeful, future.

With the sun having fully set, we were left once again alone in the dark by the light of his campfire. The both of us sore, sweat glistening off skin and scale. I was unsure of how to break the silence we found ourselves in, but, as if reading my mind, Tozka said that now we'd rest. And so we slept beneath the stars, Tozka's burial stone just beside us, but not for a moment did I find this macabre. It was an intimacy hard-earned and one that I would not soon forget.