--
Even the gravestone orders are drying up. Not enough room in the cemeteries any more. Well, if I have to carve another child reclining on a headstone I'll go mad.
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My great grandfather made the Wandering Baron's Obelisk. I might as well be knocking out housebricks.
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These noblemen are practically statues already. Where are the frolicking daughters, the reclining wives, the life, the joy? No, John Crowley, for you only busts of glowering old men, posing for their own deathmasks.
--
The voices grow more insistent. They say Cragscleft stone went sour long ago, and trying to carve beauty or truth from it is a fool's errand.
