“Listen, children. Listen, travellers. Listen, all who sit by the fire. For what I tell you is not mine alone — it is the story of stones, of beasts, of bonds, and of us, The People. If my tongue falters, the stones will remind me. If I speak too proud, the beast at my side will nudge me — ‘Get it right now!’ So let us begin…

In the first dawn, our great ancestor awoke, shaped by earth and sky. He wandered long, hunting, gathering, never starving, for the world provided. One day, a man was there — or perhaps he was not. He was seen, yet unseen, guiding without command. He pointed to stones, day after day, and said only: “Pick one, choose one, take one.”

At last the ancestor lifted a stone that called to him. The man smiled: “This gift is all things you shall receive. Pass it to the child who comes after you, or it shall be lost. This is your home’s stone. Wherever you keep it, I shall be with you.”

When the ancestor turned back, the man was gone. And so began the first hearthstone.

Later, the ancestor found the first woman, across a river. He gave her meat, she gave him roots. He showed his stone, she showed hers. From that day, every home had two stones. Two stones, one fire. And so began the bond.

And when her belly swelled, puzzling them both, a great beast came and stood by her side. It would not leave. At the child’s birth, it guarded her. And so beasts became our watchers, guardians, and kin. From that day forward, no hearth was complete without stone, bond, and beast — the sacred three.

When a child grows, they must leave the hearth and walk until a stone calls to them. Some find it soon, some not for many seasons. And if one returns empty-handed? That is no shame. Either you find the stone, or the stone finds you. One tale tells of a man who searched half a life, cursing his fate — until he tripped over a rock he had kicked in anger. “You!” he shouted. “Don’t hide so long!” The People laughed, for he had searched so far and missed what lay before his eyes.

At death, a parent’s stone is passed to a child. The one who takes it becomes a Keeper. They carry not their own alone, but the voices of all who held it before. Some Keepers give up self and bond for the burden. Others bond still, weaving their mates’ stories into the stone. What matters is that the line continues. To be a Keeper is heavy, yes, but honourable. And sometimes, when they pass the stone on before death, they are freed. Then they walk anew, find a stone of their own, even in old age. What was burden becomes gift.

Beasts, too, have their say. They are no slaves. If mistreated, they may leave, though often they return only at death, to stand once more before vanishing to the wild. Some stories tell of beasts correcting Keepers mid-tale, nudging them until the forgotten detail was spoken. Even beasts, it seems, carry memory.

There are times of great death. When tribes are lost, children carry stones too early, weaving fragments of stories into what they can. Others abandon hearthstones to cairns — Weeping Stones — saying, “We gave of ourselves so the bond might live.” Travellers camp near these cairns, finding dreams of stories not told since the stones were laid. Once, in desperate times, such stones have been taken for great builds — but never without retelling, never without giving new life.

And so we live. With stones, with bonds, with beasts. We measure time in suns and moons, in seasons and stories. We laugh at those who claim to be the Stranger. We mock ourselves when a stone hides in plain sight. We keep our hearths honest — never mocking them, but letting children play, knowing even a toy rock may be true.

Every stone is a truth. No truth is higher than another. Sometimes stones disagree, sometimes councils argue, but more often than not, the circle bends back to balance. For we are The People. We remember. We wander. We bind. We survive. And as long as we pass the stones, as long as beasts stand guard, as long as bonds are made, we shall not fall silent.*