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.

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.

The more nonsensical I am, the better I work Once broken , I'm useless

I can be found at the bottom of a fleet, Or discarded from the corn you eat. I am the frame that keeps out the sea, Or the husk left behind for all to see. What am I?

I have a square base and rise to a single point, but I'm not a party hat. I was built by ancient hands, but I'm not a ruin in the traditional sense. I hold secrets within, but I'm not a diary. What am I?