Watch where ye stand; this forge was not made for your kind. ‘Twould be a shame for ye ta come all this way only ta burn yerself up. Funny, aye… but a shame.
A job, you say? Tha’ word means nothing to my kind. We have no jobs. No professions. No hobbies.
We have only the Great Work, That-Which-Must-Be-Done.
My kind was born of Gaea, Mother of All. All my brothers, born in that single moment.
Bastard sons of the Wretched God – I shall not honor him by name. The pain of our birth broke the World and killed our Mother. This is our eternal shame. It falls to us, to dress her wounds.
Stoneborn take no wives, sire no children. When a brother falls to the Hunger, we mourn.
We weep. We sing. We return to the Great Work.
We do this, knowing that we shall fail. What is broken cannot be unbroken.
Until the End of Days, we shall toil in the belly of the Realms of Man. We shall keep your fires lit, unless the last of us is no more.
When the Hunger comes, the flame falters. The warmth bleeds away. The Hunger is our shame; they are the same. Now you understand, yes?
Then leave me, now, Son of Arkyn.
For there is Work to be done.