From The Cailleach:
Darkness.
Silence.
A time before time.
In that time, the Cailleach came.
She came from the north, from further north than North, atop a throne of storms. Blue-skinned and white-eyed, her breath so cold that it shattered stars, she sought a new home.
Beneath her, she spied a mass of rock. It had no shape; no peaks nor valleys, no trees nor rivers, no birds nor four-footed things.
It had no gods.
The rock called to her. She sang to it, and it roared at her. Make a home here, it said. Sink your hands into me. Make me anew.
The Old Woman of Winter was pleased. She landed on the rocks, making the whole world shake.
Waves crashed against the shores, leaping up to greet her. Amid swirling storms, the Cailleach set to work.
The crone plunged her hands into the eager rock. Grinding and breaking and pummelling the stone, she forged it anew.
The Cailleach made mountains. Armies of mountains. Legions of mountains. A stone forest of bristling teeth; a galaxy of temples to snow, cold and screaming wind. The wind swirled around her, urging her on, cladding her creation in icy armour.
After time uncounted, the Cailleach looked about herself. She was nearly finished. All she needed was a seat from which to observe her home. With the last of her strength, she built a shoreside mountain that towered above all the others. Finally, she climbed atop it and lay down to sleep.
