A god in love with dying besieged a child of redemption, and would use that child's innocence to usurp this weakened island of Kurald Galain – to claim for itself the very Throne of Darkness. (TtH)

"I know your path,"  she replied.  "I know you spoke with the one named Hairlock, on the floor of the Abyss.  And you imagined you could do the same, that you could fashion for yourself a body.  Of wood, of twine, of clay –"

 "You don't know me!"

 "She discarded you,"  said Aranatha,  "didn't she?  The fragment of you that was left afterward.  Tainted child-like, abandoned."

 "You cannot know this – you were not there!"

 Aranatha frowned.  "No, I was not there.  Yet … the earth trembled.  Children woke.  There was great need.  You were the part of her … that she did not want."

 'She will pay!  And for you – I know you now – and it is too late!"

 Aranatha sighed.  "Husband, Blood Sworn to Nightchill,"  she intoned,  "child of Thelomen Tartheno Toblakai, Bellurdan Skullcrusher, I summon you."  And she held out her hand, in time for something to slap hard into its grip.  A battered, misshapen puppet dangled, one arm snapped off, both legs broken away at the knees, a face barely discernable, seemingly scorched by fire.  Aranatha faced Nimander.  "Here is your Dying God." (TtH)