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The stone told her something wasn't right.

She'd first been aware of the disturbance in the granite, the strong, dependable granite of the mountains. The ancient stones shrilled their warning to her, shrilled that something was wrong, something fundamental and ancient. She'd tried in vain for a few brief moments to ignore the warning, but it jarred her to the bone. She would follow the warning, and she would do it alone. The duties of the Mag'ud were tantamount to the protection of the valley, and when the very stone cried for assistance, she must heed its call. It was her duty to the planet to follow the outrage of the stone, find the source, and deal with it. As she traveled, fleet as the wind, her muscles hard and her paws pounding, the quartz sang out its own alarum, then the shale, then the sandstone. Something was wrong, and Myrmajaes, the Stonesinger, was determined to discern the cause of her valley's distress. It was dark when the silent cries reached their zenith. Out of breath and panting heavily, the silvery Mag'ud shut her eyes and put her head to the ground, breathing in and out with the pulse of distant tides. Whose lands was she on? That was unimportant. This land was the land's land and nobody else's. Now.

What... or who was troubling it? The rocks knew. They could tell her. Only the stone could tell. And so, paws and ears pressed to the earth, desperate for an answer, the Stonesinger waited for her answer.