I squat in the heart of timber and stone, Fed by split bones the forest has grown. I breathe when you feed me, I sleep when you don’t, I speak in soft crackles but answer no tone. I turn raw to ready, and cold into home. Name me, and winter admits it is owned.

Without my first, I cover shiny skulls. Without my first and second, I'm an abbreviation, I guess. And as a whole, I'm a small, young part of the lungs of the world.

The stone is darker than midnight, it may be carved with marbled white stories. Made for strength and protection, this geological darkness is also a Pokemon.

In the green garment of the earth, I rise with a gentle grace, a natural knoll nudging the sky, where wanderers rest and winds whisper tales.

In the heart of the forest, where the pine needles lie, a beast warms its belly, breathing heat with a sigh. Enchanted flames dance upon its iron skin, a guardian of warmth, where meals begin.