A Familiar Flame

​                Red crystal glinted in Sarenth’s peripheral vision, like a fire lit dangerously close to her ear. With every step she took it flashed again and petulantly vied for her attentions. This was why she hated jewellery and ceremonial garb; it was so needy. An old cotton shirt knew what it was and had made peace with that fact. There were no insecurities, no neurotic cries for attention to manage, and no pretensions; it was just on the torso and on with the job. By the mere virtue of not being so demanding and getting on with the job at hand, it got far more attention than the ceremonial clothes ever would.
                What the ceremonial garb did achieve, however, was getting Sarenth far more attention from elsewhere than usual. As a priestess of the holy red dragon she was only used to gazes being turned on her in the temple, generally while she carried out her duties. As quiet prayers and murmurs to the dragon escaped pious or fearful lips, eyes with nowhere else to look tended to fall on her. It had been deeply disconcerting at first, seeing people known and unknown apparently mumbling prayers to her as she polished the marble windowsills. When that many dragon-fearing eyes are turned upon a person, they make sure to get right into the corners with their duster, even on the particularly pointy and corner-rich statues. But today, walking the streets towards the temple in her crimson dress and robe combination, bright red high heeled shoes, gaudy sanctified jewellery and matching pink blush, the eyes were on her for a different reason. She wasn’t just a resting place for eyes without a place of their own to go this time, she was the destination to which they had been heading.
 
                Sarenth’s trusty, self-confident and less-flashy clothing was currently enjoying a day off, resting on the back of the chair in her chambers. Bright sunlight was warming its worn threads and reflecting from the small patches of scratched brass on the buttons, making it feel as if it had just been finished by the master tailor. It was the first time in goodness only knew how many years that the clothing had been able to relax on display, rather than lying crumpled on the floor overnight or exploring the laundry regime. All-in-all, it was rather pleased.
 
                The bright crimson gathering point for lost perceptions continued to stride through the familiar streets. Monumental white-stone buildings encased the roadways from either side, whole rows appearing to have been carved from a single block of stone. Each one smoothly flowed into the next, with elaborate sills, fasciae, carvings, and window frames protruding like they were on the point of breaking the surface of water. Every window offered another opportunity for someone to gawk at her as she clicked along the pathway towards the temple, and many of those opportunities were being hungrily taken. It was as if they had never seen bright colours before.
                Feeling more watched than ever before, the eternally watchful gaze of the red dragon notwithstanding, Sarenth kept her own head facing forwards and tried to avoid eye contact with anyone. Her face was a mask of determination and forced neutrality, despite her desperation to scratch an itch on the back of her thigh. It was being caused by a loose thread irritating her on the inside of the seam, and Sarenth suspected that it was just another of the dress’ wild pleas for her attention. The was no way she could be seen to do something so distinctly mortal and un-divine as scratching her posterior by so many witnesses though. Irritated behinds weren't the kind of thing that the holy red dragon wanted to be known for. Nobody worshipped at the church of the itchy arse, no matter how well-dusted the windowsills were.
                She focused on keeping herself from squinting as light assailed her from all around. Not contented with just shining down from the blue skies above, the sunlight also bounced from the polished white buildings and the pale roadway, exploiting every angle of incidence it could find. It was a battle between maintaining her composure, the composure expected of one who represented the holy red dragon, and not allowing the summer brightness to conflagrate her retinas. Sarenth wondered how she ever usually coped on sunny days.
 
                A light breeze wafted over the resting casual clothes, carrying the scent of dusty summer streets and dry stone, and airing their fabric folds. Outside the window and down on the ground below there were footsteps tapping and clicking this way and that along the street as everyday life and business continued. Countless other normal shirts, jerkins, and trousers would be creaking away as they moved, soaking up sweat and capturing dust from the ground. But not today for Sarenth’s; they lounged in an easy fold and lapped up the respite.
               
                Mahogany doors which were taller than Sarenth’s home and banded in shining brass stood closed at the front of the temple. Running across each of the wooden panels were brass reliefs depicting the holy red dragon in a variety of scenes from the fables of history. One told of his valiant incineration of a rival’s followers during an ancient holy war, as well as some of his own followers in an unnecessary display of strength. Another showed the dragon sitting upon his hoard of treasures, and below it was the image of him stealing those treasures in the first place from Sarenth’s ancestors. The city of Dracumbra had followed a complicated path to worshipping the dragon.
                Sarenth pushed the door open just far enough to enter the body of the temple. Ahead of her, lit by dozens of high-set windows and several flaming torches along the walls were a series of small, white, stone altars. Each one was sat atop an octagonal plinth with enough space for a small group of worshippers to surround it. In the centre of the temple was a broad circular fire-pit, wider than Sarenth was tall by a significant margin, with another altar in the middle. Where the others were brilliant white, this one was charred black from the fires of many ceremonies past. Today would be just one more layer of soot and ash. Behind that, against the back wall of the temple, was a final, much larger altar. It was elevated on a platform to tower above anyone who worshipped in the temple, with a curved staircase arcing around one side.
                Closing the door softly behind herself cut off the bright sunbeam which had shone through the crack, dimming the whole interior of the temple slightly. Sarenth walked along the aisle along the centre, around the fire pit, and headed towards the much larger altar at the rear.
                "You're late." Boomed a voice from behind the altar. Two words it seemed to carry all the disappointment and judgement of a sentence thrice its length. This voice had had a lot of experience in being disappointed by things and letting them know about it, regardless of their actual performance.
                Sarenth's eyes darted up to the clock sitting high on the back wall of the temple. It was an artwork of mechanical engineering, filigreed in gold and silver with intricate draconian forms twisted and wound to form a network of opulent timekeeping. It had always given her the impression that time kept by this clock was far more holy than that kept by others. Behind the face the cogs were clearly visible, turning and ticking away. The holy red dragon loved those kind of mechanical intricacies and the fact that they were shiny was so much the better. Sarenth loved them too, but the clock was far from the most impressive mechanism in the temple.
                "No I'm not." Sarenth finally replied, after her deep internal assessment of the clock face. "I've got here exactly on time to start preparing."
                "One must always be earlier than they need to be to show proper dedication." The high priest snapped, annoyed that she was talking back to him again. As with many things the high priest said, it wasn’t so much an argument as a nonsense statement which invited no rational or logical rebuttal. Sarenth suspected that he made it all up on the spot to have something, anything at all, to say and vocalise his frustrations. He then held it against her that she didn’t consider his new facts to be common knowledge, which as a bonus for him.
                Sarenth rolled her eyes. If it had been possible to roll her mouth too then she would have done it.
                "Well? Get on with it then!" The high priest shouted, apparently completely astounded that she could have the cheek to arrive on time and then not panic about getting to work.
                "Yes, holiness." Sarenth complied, forcing obeisance over her flippancy. She could feel his flared-nostrils and righteously furious gaze following her along the temple, making up a new requirement for her to fail before she disappeared. She didn't give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes with her own as she strode around behind the altar towards the hidden staircase leading down to the undercroft. The high priest was still pivoting like a slow fleshy drill and watching her go just in case she walked the wrong way or neglected to have an extra arm or something. She had half a mind to ask what he should have been doing to prepare instead of watching her head down to the undercroft, but couldn't  find the will to face his self-righteous backlash.
                Carved steps led down in a spiral below the altar, the bright daylight above giving way to dim torchlight from wall sconces. They were ingenious automated mechanisms, cogs rotating the torches into oil and striking flint at the press of a button on the wall. A familiar clockwork ticking, muffled by the thick stone walls, accompanied Sarenth's descent and led her into the undercroft proper. This was her realm, away from prying eyes and those who insisted on staring at her gaudy dress. The undercroft was a place of preparation and concealment, where the rituals and ceremonies were made ready and their secrets protected. It also provided an excellent venue for Sarenth to slouch, rub at sore feet, and most importantly hide from the high priest when he was in one of his moods.
                A rectangular table, carved from the same stone as the rest of the temple, ran along the length of the chamber. Its smooth white surface was pocked and decorated with scratches from slipped tools, dragged dishes, dropped clockwork mechanisms, and sundry other items relating to the worship of the dragon over the years. Running along the walls were shelves and cabinets to contain those items which, when not employed in gradually eroding the furniture, were Sarenth’s responsibility to use in the pursuit of appeasing the holy red dragon. Between them were banks of small levers and buttons, in the same brassy clockwork that drove the clock and torches, set into the wall.
                At the back of the room a single great lever of wood and brass protruded from the floor, standing taller than Sarenth and even the high priest himself. Elegantly curved and scalloped like the scimitars of the Dracumbra militia the handle shone in the torchlight, polished to a sheen by Sarenth’s diligent efforts in cleaning and the regular use it enjoyed. It loomed like a monarch on their throne, watching over the preparations in judgement of the rituals to come. Thankfully, the servants of the holy red dragon soon learned not to worry about the opinions or judgements of mechanical constructs.
                From the nearest cabinet Sarenth swiped up a vial of some sticky yellow oil, a paper-wrapped parcel of petals, and some fine wooden wicks. Spinning on her heels in a whirling flurry of excess dress and depositing her goods on the table with a series of quiet clinks. Next came a handful of thumb-sized glass jars from the glassware shelves which required a greater measure of care. Careless materials retrieval had caused more than one glass breakage in the past, and it was always a risky business to sneak the broken shards past the high priest without his notice. Even harder was convincing him that the one remaining whole vase was all the temple had ever had, despite the empty spaces for five more alongside it. That one had earned Sarenth snide comments and fire-pit scrubbing duties for two full months.
                Years of repetition, following a decade of tutelage and mentorship from the other priestesses, made themselves manifest in Sarenth’s hands as the incenses and tinctures of blessing took form without any attention or thought. She’d heard some of the natural philosophers in their smoky rooms and bloodied operating theatres claiming that memory and soul were contained in the head, locked away in the wrinkled folds of a brain, but that didn’t seem right to Sarenth. Every memorised pattern, ritual, and recipe of her working life definitely came from her arms and hands. The head never got a look in, which was why she so often dropped the glassware, she supposed. Either way, she’d never had to cut up someone’s poor uncle, lost to disease or attack, to work that much out. The dragon wouldn’t have looked kindly on that sort of behaviour, mostly because it didn’t involve burning anything.
                Above the surface in the real light of day, Sarenth’s casual clothes could feel a fold morphing into a crease. It had been years since they had hung on a chair long enough to generate a real crease, a nice straight-line one from being folded in a drawer, hung on a chair, or left on a hangar. They thought that this was how the ball gowns of the world must feel, treasured enough to be given years off at a time, before one glorious sparkling performance. On some level, the casual clothes knew they were being silly, getting these fantasies about being like a fancy dress. No-one would have noticed, but hanging silently in Sarenth’s room, a blend of leather and cotton was making an attempt at blushing.
                Aromatic smoke formed a thin serpentine layer across the ceiling, drifting upwards from the tapers lit inside Sarenth’s concoctions. Several of them were spread across the table, evenly spaced to run the length of the room and sending narrow, wispy trails upwards like the supports of an ambitiously delicate bridge. Luckily it wasn’t intended to transport heavy freight, but the scents of worship, such as they were.
                As the red-dressed priestess whirled around the chamber, collecting another stack of materials from the cupboards and running over hypothetical arguments with the high priest in her head, the smoke built up above her. Despite the thin vapour trails building it from modest vials of oil, the cloud at the top of the chamber was growing vast. Reflections in the brass clockwork dragon that Sarenth was now tending to started to dull and swirl, and she paused her work. If the cloud got any larger then it would start to interfere with her breathing, which was generally a sensible time to do something about it.
                Sarenth moved towards the nearest bank of levers in one smooth, fluid motion, accentuated by the cascade of red fabric from her dress which still vied for whatever attention it could find. Air currents from the flapping of the long hem and sleeve wafted upwards and swirled the smoke into eddies against the ceiling. Cold brass met Sarenth’s palm and she pulled the heavy lever down, feeling cogs and bearings inside the wall start to turn. From all around the sounds of mechanical parts in motion started to fill the undercroft, as the unseen gears performed their duty, and a grinding sound rang from above. A series of square gratings along the ceiling of the undercroft slid open, allowing the incense smoke to rise out of the chamber and into the body of the temple. Light from the windows high above started to pierce through the grating, casting tiny rays of light through the smoke and spotlights across the preparation table.
 
Every sunray that fell through the window of Sarenth’s chamber was still lovely. The breeze and the scents were just as refreshing as ever. But the clothes hoped they would see Sarenth again soon. It wasn’t that they were ungrateful for the time off, of course; respite was appreciated and allowed them to get air in and among their seams. But Sarenth was their mistress and protector, she gave them purpose, and after spending so much time around her so often this extended and unexpected absence was jarring. They missed her. She would be back eventually though, and in the meantime, they told themselves, it was a tremendous opportunity to stretch out and relax.
 
                Flickering shadows betrayed the presence of worshippers entering the temple, stepping across the gratings and kneeling alongside the various altars. Sarenth kept up the flow of aromatic smoke whilst she organised, checked and prepared the collection of clockwork automatons. Arranged in rows facing towards her, resting on a trays for ease of delivery, was a set of roughly doll-sized identical clockwork dragons. Each one was a masterpiece of mechanical design, the manifold cogs and articulations crafted with passion, love, and extreme mastery. They were also hideously expensive to repair or purchase, and so Sarenth had been lectured and berated on their proper care and handling countless times by the high priest. The time he shouted at her for carelessly breathing on them and causing condensation had been pretty bad; she’d been placed exclusively on wall polishing duties for a month, and that had only stopped because the other priestess working at the time walked out to serve a new temple. The worst had been when she returned them to the shelf and racked them from right to left. He’d blown his lid and claimed that it was ‘obvious’ that the idols must only be returned from left to right, threatening to call for a draconic inquisitor to investigate Sarenth for any other signs of blasphemy.
                Reminiscing about past injustices, Sarenth was distractedly double-checking the idols for wear or jams. As her hand moved to grab one of the clockwork dragons by the back her fingers closed too early, as If she was out of practice in picking things up. Instead of grabbing the idol, she pushed it hard towards the edge of the stone stable and onto a perilous trajectory towards the floor. With a surge of butterflies or similar invertebrates in her stomach, Sarenth frantically threw her hands down and caught the idol awkwardly before it completed the journey to destruction on cold stone.
                Her fingers splayed uncomfortably around the dragon as the articulations moved from the impact with her hand. Metal segments shifted and Sarenth yelped as she felt the flesh pinching and tearing between the articulations, plates, and gears of the automaton. Wincing and hissing with the pain Sarenth delicately placed it back onto the table, and squeaked as the mechanisms shifted once more to trap her skin even harder. Less carefully this time she snatched the idol up and tried to manipulate the joints apart to free her hand from its peculiar manacles. Plainly she could see blood trickling out of her fingers and across the brass, flowing down across the outer bodywork and dripping inside. With an agonising jerk Sarenth finally managed to pull herself free of the idol’s grasp, setting it quickly down on the table and shaking her injured hand for want of anything more practical to do. When shaking had run its course, flicking droplets of blood around the undercroft, she resorted to sucking on the cuts and torn flesh as if she could ingest the wound and leave nothing but healed skin in its place. As with every other injury she’d attempted this on, it didn’t work.
                Removing the hand from her mouth to stop it filling up with blood, and trying not to drip on anything else, Sarenth cradled her injury and snatched up a towel from one of the nearby cabinets. A few spots on the floor gave away the game that something had transpired here, but Sarenth was confident that she could clean it off before the high priest noticed anything. Cumbersomely with just her good hand Sarenth wrapped the towel over her cuts in messy folds and twists, trying to fashion a self-holding bandage whilst ruining the cleaning supplies. It stung as the fabric clung to the cuts and tears on her hand, but at least there wasn’t a free flow of blood into the undercroft. That was for very different kinds of ritual which had been outlawed for several centuries.
                Jars clinked and wobbled as Sarenth hastily grabbed herbs and salves from high-set cupboards. Occupying a corner of the stone table away from incense burners and clockwork dragons she did a passable one-handed job of cutting, pressing, mixing, and grinding her ingredients together. She also did an excellent one-handed job of swearing at herself and the perilously pinchy idols, but only because the handicap didn't really affect that too much. Regardless of the quality, creating a balm for her cuts to stem the bleeding was slow with only one hand, losing time which should have gone on preparations. The high priest would almost certainly notice any deficiencies in the ceremonial aids, and he’d kick up one heck of an undignified stink about it, even in front of the worshippers. That was his style, or lack thereof.
                Hurrying her treatment, in order to mitigate the shouting in her immediate future, Sarenth slathered her newly created paste all over the pinched and torn hand. Blessed as it was by both the holy red dragon and a basic understanding of coagulants, the balm quickly stemmed the bleeding and its inherent staining risk, providing a cool feeling of relief as it did so. Sarenth tossed her bloodied towel into a basket on a shelf to take out later, possibly in the morning if timescales demanded it. Allowing the towel to sag in the basket Sarenth refocused on getting ready for the ritual and keeping the incense topped up. Whatever it was about divine, ancient creatures that made them so holy, they apparently couldn’t abide a temple which wasn’t filled with just the right kind of smells from burning oil.
                “Don’t do it like that!” came the venomous razor voice of the high priest. Sarenth’s head snapped around to the staircase, but no-one was there. Suspiciously glancing from side-to-side she examined the room for any stealthy old men who might have been able to sneak in without her notice. “Don’t just stand there either!” his voice snapped again. It sounded like it was coming from…        Sarenth looked upwards and saw a pair of white judgemental eyes glaring through one of the grates, attached to a leathery, ageing face.
                In the body of the temple, several of the worshippers tried to avert their gaze, confused and uncomfortable with what they were seeing. The high priest was standing, folded at the waist with perfectly straight legs, with a gaze fixed purposefully downwards and shouting at the floor. They felt like it was an invasion of privacy or a betrayal of dignity to watch the respected priest’s eccentricities. None of them understood what the floor was doing wrong, nor how it could be accused of standing around, but nor did they wish to question it.
                Surely the smoke must be stinging his eyes, Sarenth thought, bewildered at his intense focus and unbroken gaze.
                “Nothing to say for yourself?!” The high priest pushed, apparently yearning for confrontation. Sarenth didn’t understand why he wouldn’t just leave her alone and let her get on with things. The fact that he felt the need to peer through the floor at her instead of conducting his own duties above was infuriating; doubly so having just had her hand ripped apart for this ritual.
                “What do you mean?! Just… What in the dragon’s name are you going on about!?” Sarenth shouted back at the high priest in frustration, as he loomed over her like a well-dressed preserved meat. Here she was, rushing around in an undercroft, pulling levers and mixing up bits of dead plant with sticky oil, all with a mutilated hand, for this! Being shouted at through a ventilation brick.
                “Don’t you talk to me like that! Show some respect!” the high priest snapped back, furious at being talked-back to. “And don’t take the dragon’s name in vain.” He added as a theological afterthought.
                Sarenth opened her mouth to start replying, but he cut her off.
                “And what I mean is the way you’re letting your arms hang limp and wet by your sides like that. You look like a peasant, not a dedicated servant of the holy red dragon. What’s that all over your hand, hm?” he demanded. She could just make out the sanctimonious pout through the gaps in the stone. “Can you not even prepare simple oils without making a mess of it?”
                “It’s not one of the oils!” Sarenth defended angrily. “It’s Hellega’s balm for-”
                “Don’t you try to deceive me you wretched liar! I know the oils when I see them” the high priest bellowed with ill-deserved confidence.
                ‘Maybe once you did.’ Sarenth thought for want of anything productive to say. ‘Before you turned in a demented, cantankerous old crab.’
                “Nothing else clever to say for yourself? Then hurry up! The hour of the ceremony is almost upon us.” The high priest ordered. He rose up, away from the grating, and moved away to continue his own work.
                “Insane strip of boot leather.” Sarenth muttered, snatching up her ingredients and starting to mix again. On the floor above, the worshippers were pleased that the high priest had concluded his argument with the ground.
 
                Silhouettes continued to move past the gratings as the temple kept filling. Every year for the ceremony of the dragon’s blessing the whole pious population of the Dracumbra descended upon the temple, and judging by the number of shadows most of them were already in place. Pre-empting another verbal assault via the temple floor, Sarenth crossed to the back of the room and the single large lever rising from the floor. It rose at a slight angle like a finger pointing to the sky. Sarenth imagined it was saying ‘Look up there! At the sky! That’s where dragon’s live, not underground like this!’.
                Disregarding the admittedly sound imagined advice from the hypothetically anthropomorphised lever, Sarenth reached up with both hands, took a firm grip around the brass and wood, and pulled downwards. At first the lever took her weight easily, and her efforts only succeeded in lifting her feet off the ground, but gradually she felt some motion start to creep in. Sarenth descended slowly and heard a satisfying clunk, which heralded the first cog engaging, just before her feet touched the ground. Switching her grip, she pushed the lever down for the remainder of its trajectory.
                The smaller mechanisms of torches and suchlike had cast the shadows of sounds which seeped through the stone walls and whispered in the background of audibility. This one, the grandest contraption of all, bellowed its presence as a command to take notice and show deference. Vibrations shook the undercroft and made loose leaves and fragments on the stone table dance, as a dull, rhythmic clunking started to ring out. In the temple above it would be more muted, but down here it echoed off the square walls and amplified itself.
                Habitually, having performed this several times and practiced it many, many more, Sarenth counted along with the clunks. They were the metronome for the rest of the ritual, setting the pace and the timings of everything else to come. Although there was much about this ceremonial nonsense which Sarenth felt to be a frustration, the built-in timer was a masterpiece of clockwork engineering that even she could appreciate. Every piece of intricate metal machinery had been crafted with meticulous care to work in the same time signature. By listening and counting along with the steady, hypnotic beat of the gears the cues for every other action were plain to hear and readily presented.
                Clunk… clunk… clunk
                Sarenth picked up a winding key from the idol cabinet and took her place by the first automaton, counting and waiting.
                Clunk… clunk… clunk
                A hexagonal pin on the back of the first automaton fit perfectly into the key’s socket, and Sarenth wound one complete revolution for each clunk. When the mechanism stopped turning she removed the key, moved to the next idol, and waited.
                One… two… three… four… one… two… three… four…
                The second idol was given the gift of temporary life, gated by the cogs and wheels inside. It stood idle like its predecessor for the moment, but intricate timing structures inside were counting down.
                One… two… three… four… one… two… three… four…
                Another idol was prepared, and then another and another, all running to the rhythms of the temple. It was like a heartbeat which drove all other activity,but without any of that messy blood business. Except for Sarenth’s, which was still soaked into the towel.
                A flash of light through the grating signalled the ignition of the fire pit, right on cue with the rhythms of the clockwork. Lifting the broad tray which held all of the idols, Sarenth started to ascend the spiral staircase, taking regularly spaced steps in time with the clunks. As she emerged into the body of the temple she was finally able to see the ceremony which she had been facilitating from below. Each altar was clustered with worshippers in various shades of red. Some of them merely wore armbands or headscarfs, and others were decked out from head to toe in crimson, but none stood out as much or shone as brilliantly as Sarenth. She rose from the spiral stairway at the back of the temple with her collection of automatons and, although the worshippers were engrossed at their altars, it was impossible to miss her entering their peripheral vision.
                Clunk… clunk… clunk…
                The crimson priestess almost floated across to the high priest and placed the idols of the holy red dragon on the altar in front of him. He kept his gaze off her and trained towards the burning firepit, speaking his praise of the dragon’s wise incinerations and merciful burnings whilst reciting the words of the ritual, but Sarenth could hear a tapping of his fingers on the back of the altar. She looked down and saw a small piece of paper resting out of the sight of the worshippers, immediately feeling anger rise up from her stomach when she read it. He’d actually gone to the effort of leaving a note berating her slack attitude and slow walking speed when descending the stairs earlier. Sarenth tried to catch his eye but he was still intently focusing elsewhere, and there was no way to attract his attention without alerting the worshippers and disrupting the ceremony. All she could so was roll her eyes, crumple the note up, and get on with her duties.
                Clunk… clunk… clunk…
                Sarenth carried the first idol to its assigned altar, bowing her head to avoid the gazes of the worshippers. Her ceremonial garb meant for her to be the centre of attention, but not for her to engage with that attention in any way. With the clockwork dragon positioned at the centre of the flat, stone surface of its altar Sarenth crossed back to the high priest’s platform at the back and picked up the second idol.
                Several times Sarenth had argued with the high priest that walking out to each altar one by one was pointless. She already had the tray, so she could just carry it around the temple and position the idols in one round trip. The high priest had taken a staunch position against this of course, on the grounds that the ceremony had to be carried out as it always had been. Carrying the idols one-by-one was clearly written into the holy scriptures. Whenever Sarenth asked him to show her that passage he was too busy to find it, and he had ordered her not to waste her own time on such matters in his absence, but assured her that he knew the rituals inside and out. Single trips were of the utmost importance. Reluctantly Sarenth had been forced to accept it, but she also took the chance to shoot the high priest a filthy look every time she climbed back up the altar steps for another clockwork dragon.
                Once Sarenth had completed her final trip she took her position to the side of the high priest’s altar. Seeing her return through his derisive stare the high priest walked to his position in front of the fire pit. He was bellowing out the tale of how the holy red dragon came to be worshipped. An attacking army had been marching towards the gates of Dracumbra, ready to raze everything to the ground and salt the earth or some such nonsense, when the holy red dragon swooped in to save the day in a wall of flame. It was one of those stories that had been gradually pruned by the gardeners of history to remove any unpleasant shoots or branches that led into undesirable directions. Like the fact that the army was only attacking because the dragon had been eating their livestock and burning their homes, and it happened to live in the mountains behind Dracumbra. Several historians argued that the army was never going to attack the city at all, merely pass through as a hunting party, but they were all found as piles of holy ash shortly after making such claims.
                While Sarenth quietly considered her own cynicism the high priest was still preaching away, pausing slightly here and there to re-align himself with the beat of the temple. She would have thought that after all this time he would have the timing a little better, but saved that little smug judgement for herself. If the day ever came that he finally pushed her too far, she wanted to have a stock of spiteful holes to poke in his grand delusions about himself. It didn’t make her feel good when she thought about it because on some level she would just be shouting at an increasingly infirm old man, but the part of her mind which yearned for their confrontation to come to a head still clung on.
                Clunk… clunk… clunk…
                Right on cue the firepit burst into a spitting, sparkling, crimson flame. Crackling filled the temple as pockets of flammable powders underneath the blackened altar were dropped into the fire by the mechanical heartbeat. Sarenth always felt that this was a little underhanded, but couldn’t really reconcile why it felt worse than the secret room of scented oils or the worshipping of a murder-dragon. Regardless, she looked at the extravagantly luminescent fire with derision.
                “Oh holiest red dragon! We beseech you to visit upon us with your majesty! We beseech you to keep us safe from those who seek to ransack our homes and burn our families.” The high priest bellowed to no-one in particular. Sarenth had always found the final line a little odd, since the dragon had a much greater track record for burning families himself than protecting against such things. In fact, that’s all he really seemed to do when visiting.
 
                Sarenth’s casual clothes were also coincidentally considering a prayer against burning. Despite being no strangers to direct sunlight they found that lying motionless in it for this long generated an awful lot of heat. Whenever worn they would find themselves dipped into the shade at regular intervals, since their mistress suffered as they did from the heat. But now there was no deliverance from the dry glare of the sun and it was starting to become oppressive. Throughout their threads and hems there was conflict, caught between wondering if their time of rest was less of a blessing than they’d anticipated, or if they should appreciate the warmth for what it was. A little too much of a good thing was, they decided at last, better than none at all.
 
                As the fire burned, Sarenth counted the beats. It was as much to keep her mind occupied as anything else, but it was always nice to check that her timing had been accurate. Right on cue the clockwork dragon idols, in almost perfect unison, started to walk across the altars with their own mechanical articulations. The long segmented necks swayed from side to wide, fixing a tiny dragon stare at the worshippers nearby. Sarenth could see the bright excitement on the faces of the children seeing this ritual for the first time. Even now she could recall the amazement she’d felt at her first experience of the temple’s automatons, squeezing herself among the thronging worshippers to get a glimpse of the altar surface. Back then her eyes were at the same height as the dragon’s face, and she had sworn for weeks that it stared straight at her. She supposed that that must have been the moment she decided to commit herself to the temple and its intricate machinations. Somehow, even the high priest hadn’t managed to extinguish those flames.
                The temple was now filled with metallic footsteps to accompany the heartbeat and the crackling of the fire. All ringing out together the tiny sounds swelled to a rhythmic chorus, an anthem by which the idols made their way across the altars and towards the fire pit in the centre. Sarenth’s gaze meandered this way and that around the temple as the automatons made their steady progress, until a small commotion caught her eye. Around one of the small altars there was a murmuring which quickly grew to an excited squawking, despite the lack of tropical birds in the vicinity.
                Clunk… tick… tick… tick… clunk… tick… tick… tick… clunk…
                Like the ripple of someone’s favourite boots cast into a pond by their angry spouse, the chatter spread outwards through the temple. Sarenth rushed as gracefully as she could past the wave-front of the excitement and to the altar at its centre.
                “It’s a sign of the dragon!” she heard a man say excitedly.
                “He will return!” Said another, with an understandable mixture of anticipation and anxiety.
                Doing its diligent duty of catching any and all attention, Sarenth’s dress allowed her to make quick progress through the mass of people and up to the altar for a clear view of the drama. The sight stopped her like a brick wall stops a high-velocity tomato; there was a trail of blood behind the dragon idol, dripping out with every step.
                "It bleeds the dragon's holy red. This is the favoured altar, and we must be the chosen! He will swoop down to retrieve us as surely as the sun will set!"  A woman boldly speculated with theistic grandeur.
                “No, you short-sighted fool! It’s an ill-omen. He will return to spill our blood for the lack of tribute we have paid him!” Another amateur theologian interpreted.
                Sarenth simply stared in silent horror as her own blood dripped between the articulations of the idol. She’d forgotten to clean it out, and now some conclusions had been jumped towards with athletic vigour. Between oncoming panic of the high priest finding out about what he’d done, and the implication of how much she’d really been bleeding, the shock held her in terrified paralysis. There was absolutely no way she could confess to this; the high priest might very literally start to breath fire himself, leaving completely aside the wrath of the holy red dragon.
                Regardless of the hysteria within, the heartbeat of the temple kept thumping on. As the idols, even Sarenth’s bloodied one, reached the fronts of their respective altars they paused and lifted their mechanical heads high on elongated and segmented necks. Facing the fire pit as one they each unleashed a gout of yellow flame from the tiny fluid vials and flints stashed inside their intricately manufactured mouths. Most of them burned without smoke. But blood apparently didn’t burn as cleanly; grey-black clouds drew yet more attention to the sullied idol, dragging it away from the main event.
                Clunk… clunk… clunk…
                A rumbling and vibration filled the temple as unseen heavy gears were engaged. Chains, levers and pulleys built into the thick stone walls started to haul on their loads, rattling in their cavities. Skyward flames from each of the automatons pointed to the concave, vaulted ceiling of the temple as dust started to fall. Like the unrolling of a great armadillo, vast sections of the roof structure started to shake and slide against one another.
                It was a spectacle every time. Like fish scales being pulled back one by one the temple roof opened itself to the bright blue sky, allowing sunlight to burst in like an excited puppy. It immediately filled the temple, eclipsing the red firelight and bouncing off the white stone until it could be seen in whichever direction one looked. Normally, being visible in every possible line of sight was a reliable way of holding attention. But not when a metallic effigy of the dragon-turned-god bled on the altar it seemed.
                With continued mechanical strain and the sound of stone grinding against stone the roof opened further and wider. In under a minute the body of the temple was entirely without cover and illuminated fully with radiant sunlight, except for one vast T-shaped shadow which fell across the high priest's main altar. High above him was an enormous perch, made for the terrible talons of the holy red dragon himself. The ceremony of the dragon's summoning was once again at its zenith.
                On any other day all eyes would have been turned up to the perch in tense anticipation. It had been many years since they were last blessed by a visit and the inherent conflagration risk it carried with it, but every summoning ritual was worth careful observation. Better to see the fire coming, so that there was at least a small chance to flee. But not today. Not with a miracle to witness.
                Sarenth started to panic as religious fervour started to take hold of the worshippers. In a few short seconds they had become convinced that the dragon had given a sign of his return, and though no-one could agree on what that return meant it was very much a big deal to them. There were shouts of this altar being more holy than the rest and this idol being a true vessel of the dragon. Speculations were cried about the end of Dracumbra, or perhaps the start of a golden age of Dracumbran life. All it was, really, was the consequence of an unsafe toy that could easily open a wound if you were daydreaming whilst holding it. This was how 'relics' and 'saints' were created, Sarenth thought guiltily. In years to come wars might be fought over who got to keep this dragon, or a part of it, unless it was burned in another of the holy red dragon’s blessings, of course.
                Sunlight made the drying puddles of blood glimmer and sparkle, drawing even more attention now that they were bright against the white altar. The high priest lowered his reverential gaze from the open roof, expecting to see the loyal worshippers of the dragon searching the skies for their reptilian liege, but instead found them clustering around one of the minor altars, obsessing over one of the mechanical idols. They were ignoring the whole purpose of the ceremony and insulting the holy red dragon for the sake of a trinket! And who was at the centre of it all? The girl; hand still covered in oils, staring dumbly at the idol with the rest of them, and probably loving all the attention. As if that beacon of a ceremonial dress wasn’t enough, she had to go and pull some kind of stunt to get even more eyes on her.
                Resolute in his opinions about Sarenth, the high priest stormed down from his dais and past the fire into the sunlight. None of the crowd seemed to notice that he’d stopped reciting the prayer of the dragon, busy as they were trying to get to the blessed idol.
                “What is going on here?!” he boomed, pushing through the mass of bodies. “Let me through at once.”
                Sarenth snapped around to tell the high priest that she wasn’t stopping him from getting anywhere but caught herself in time. It was highly unusual for him to take out a bad mood on anyone other than her, but she supposed that these circumstances were deeply peculiar. Even by his perpetually furious standards, the frown lines on his face were distinct and deep; whole altars could have been hidden on the angry, leathery folds of his forehead.
                “What did you do here, girl!?” he accused pre-emptively, shoving a young man to one side to get past.
                “I haven’t done anything!” Sarenth protested in desperation. The truth would be staying very much buried this time. “The idol is… bleeding.”
                “Bleeding!? What hogwash do you expect me to believe next? This isn’t the time for games, nor is it remotely funny or clever to distract attention away from the unveiling of the dragon!” he bellowed. “Is that smoke coming from the idol? What did you mix into it?”
                “I mixed everything right! It’s burning the blood.”
                “You will say absolutely anything to-” he started, but quickly he reached an impasse. Finally able to see the surface of the altar there was indeed a trail of tiny blood spatters at regular intervals, leading up to the mechanical idol. The smell of organic material burning was undeniable. On some level, he was scared that he might have to admit that Sarenth hadn’t been lying to him. There was a lot of working out to do regarding religious implications and all the rest of it, but that was nothing compared to discovering that the girl might be telling the truth.
                “I… you must… there… hmm.” He said. It was probably the closest Sarenth would ever get to an apology from the high priest, but she was too distracted to realise that. Her mind was firing wildly trying to think of how she could get herself out of this without committing religious fraud. Normally she would rebuff accusations of wrongdoing with logical or physical proof that she wasn’t trying to sabotage the high priest. Even then, however, in every innocence, she failed to convince the high priest of anything. This time he was actually right. She genuinely had spilled blood into an automaton and allowed the worshippers to think it was a miracle from the dragon… it was untested territory.
                “You see, your holiness?” said a woman in the throng. “It is a sign that he returns!”
                “Will he cleanse us in purifying flame?” asked a man from one side.
                “Will he purge our enemies with vengeful flame?” said a young woman somewhere else.
                “Will he seek tribute with avaricious flame?” enquired a third worshipper.
                “Quiet down! We have no idea what kind of flame he will bring when he returns.” The high priest declared, accepting that some level of flame was guaranteed. The red dragon’s legacy was very particular on that fact. “And we know not whether this is truly a sign from the dragon or not.”
                “But it is the ceremony of the dragon’s summoning!” Shouted a voice from the other side of the altar.
                “I know perfectly well which ceremony it is, Julius Drake. I believe I taught you that fact several years ago.” The high priest’s words cracked across the man like a whip of theological judgement.
                “We must worship the idol to appease the holy red dragon!” said one of the previous voices.
                “Must we!?” the high priest challenged with growing fury. He was accustomed to that wretched Sarenth not listening to him, but the other worshippers were usually more obedient. For them to presume to tell him what must be done to appease the dragon was too much. Far too much. “We must do what the scriptures say we must do, and nothing else!” the high priest bellowed over the crowd, an edge of intense fury to his shaking voice. “Is this how you would have the holy red dragon find you? Failing to observe his ritual and instead cooing over a crude mechanical imitation of his glory?! You all invite a judgemental flame upon yourselves.”
                Sarenth thought that might be taking things a bit far, but had no intention of turning the high priest’s attention back on her. When he eventually connected the dots of her wounded hand, her mention of Hellega’s balm, and the bloody idol it would be bad enough. Inviting another berating before that point was nowhere near her agenda.
                “The holy red dragon’s intentions are not ours upon which to speculate, nor do any of you have the right to deviate from his rituals. Now all of you: GET BACK TO YOUR ALTARS!”
                The high priest stood at the bloodied altar, panting. Whether it was from the shouting or the raw outrage, Sarenth was unsure; both were equally likely explanations.
                Slowly, but immediately after being told, the worshippers reduced their crowding of the sullied idol and returned to their original points of prayer. Very few of them understood the relevance of being spread evenly among the altars, which Sarenth felt was worrying if they suspected a bloody idol meant that the dragon truly was going to return. Whatever the emotion behind his flame, when it entered the temple it would burn all the same. As long as the worshippers were spread evenly among the building it meant that at least a few of them would survive to continue his religion. The high priest’s own altar was behind the line of the perch and above a reasonable flame level for a reason.
                Sarenth stood by her altar, staring once again at the ‘miracle’ she’d unintentionally wrought. It was going to making life difficult for a long time. Still, at least it had drawn some attention away from her and the dress.
                “That goes for you too, girl!” the high priest shouted at her, seeing her remain by the bloody idol. It seemed there was still some attention on her after all.
 
                It was the longest ceremony of the dragon’s summoning that anyone in the city of Dracumbra could recall. The high priest must have read through every passage in the holy scriptures, from the First Conflagration (when the dragon had revealed its power to the founders of Dracumbra by burning down their original constructions) to the Test of Flames (when hundreds of the dragon’s apostles were eaten or burned for supposedly not truly loving the dragon in their hearts) and the Penitent Blaze (when the dragon swooped over a troupe of new converts and burned them, seemingly for fun).
                All the while, every eye in the temple flickered between the great open skies, the empty perch, and the sullied idol. The blood which had shimmered and glinted in the sunlight earlier in the day was now dry and dark on the stonework. Sarenth wondered if she could argue that there was no need to clean it off, since it was potentially a holy relic, but suspected that the high priest would rebuff that out of principle.
                Of course, even without cleaning the altar there was plenty to do. With the ceremony lasting ever longer Sarenth had to repeatedly rush down to the undercroft and prepare new vials of oil. Once the sun had started to set she was tasked with fuelling and stoking the great fire pit, replenishing the metallic powders which gave it the dragon-red hue. She even had to rush around fetching breads and sustenance for the faithful and the high priest, since mere hunger was a poor excuse to end the worship. The long term harm of forging a relic be damned, this bloody idol was already causing her problems.
                In the deep twilight, cold white starlight battled against the red glow of the firepit for dominance in the temple. As the night had worn on the crowds had thinned out, leaving only a core of dedicated sky-watchers waiting for the holy red dragon’s silhouette to blot out the stars. Sarenth really wished they’d give up and go to bed. Any holy dragon in its right mind would visit during the daylight hours, bloody sign or not. It wouldn’t make its first visit in years during the middle of the night when it could barely be seen; night visits had only ever happened when it was hunting through the city, and that wasn’t normally on the day of the ceremony of dragon’s summoning.
                Sarenth’s feet were killing her, her lower-back felt like it was about to collapse, her legs ached, and she was deeply emotionally unequipped to mix up any more vials of poxy incense. The temple’s heartbeat had stopped hours ago, leaving a dull silence in the vast chamber except for the high priest’s ceaseless dirge. She wondered if she might be able to slip away and go home, but between the high priest’s spiteful eagle eyes and the bellowing announcement of presence from her ceremonial dress, it was a doomed endeavour.
                “Stand up straight.” The high priest hissed between passages of the dragon’s decisive, fiery victory over some farmers several decades ago. “You look like a sack of cast-off radishes.”
                Sarenth ignored him. It was all very well and good for him, resting against the altar and wearing soft, flat sandals. He should try walking around for a day and a night in ceremonial high heels without a place to sit and then make an attempt at standing straight. He’d probably be curved into a disc of agony. Although that would still, somehow, be her fault.
                In a move which Sarenth found surprising, however, the high priest closed the holy scriptures. With a surveying look over the temple he seemed to think for a moment.
                “The ceremony of the dragon’s summoning is at a close.” He said, in a croaky, tired voice. Sarenth hadn’t noticed it degrading, but now it seemed as obvious as the temple’s open roof. “Return to your lives and maintain reverence for the holy red dragon.”
                The high priest turned to Sarenth, gave her another disdainful look, and spoke quietly.
                “I believe you have some clearing up to do. I shall be vexed if I see any dirty incense bottles or ashes in the undercroft tomorrow morning.”
                His instruction did nothing to help Sarenth stand up straight, but he seemed to have stopped caring as much about that. He was far busier walking out and going to bed.
                The remnant worshippers were not busy leaving at all, however, and did not appreciate the degree of Sarenth’s desire to leave. She would be unable to return to the undercroft until they had all finished their final prayers, and her gentle reminders that the altars would still be here in the morning fell on selectively-deaf ears. Every time she saw them stand up her heart leapt at the chance of them leaving, only to fall again when they asked her opinion on some trivial aspect of the ‘miracle’ and the dragon’s legacy. When her answers decayed from cursory speculation to dismissive grunts they finally got the message and took their leave. Sarenth made sure to lock the doors immediately behind them.
                Alone in the temple at last, Sarenth immediately kicked off her high heels and felt relief flood through her calves and feet. It was as if someone had turned a tap on at the top of her leg, allowing her feet to fill with liquid relaxation.
                Bare-footed now she shuffled around the temple, the cold stone soothing her enraged soles as she gathered up the mechanical idols and returned them to the undercroft. All except for the sullied idol. It would be more than her life was worth to tamper with that before the high priest had been able to examine it. She wondered what his warped mind would decide to be the obvious, undeniable truth of the matter, but as long as it didn’t involve her she wouldn’t feel the need to argue with him.
                At the long stone table in the undercroft Sarenth carefully washed and packed away the incense vials, wiped up ashes from burned tapers, and cleaned away spillages. Then, once it was clear, she got to work on cleaning up the idols, ensuring that their gears were sufficiently greased and cleaning out the flame mechanisms. It was therapeutic work, relaxing her already exhausted mind even further. But it snapped back to sudden awareness when she saw, inside one of the idols, dried spatters of blood which were undeniably those from her accident earlier in the day.
                Sarenth’s hands hovered, quivering, with her polishing cloth over the brass bodywork. She was sure that she’d left the sullied idol at its altar; that wasn’t the kind of mistake a person could make, even one as sleepy as her.
                Hurriedly she rushed back up the staircase, her bare feet slapping against the stone steps in a new, panicked heartbeat for the temple. Over to the bloody altar she ran, until she was close enough to see without doubt that the idol was still in place, blood still trailing behind it, and smoky, bloody stains across its metallic jaw. Sarenth’s heart thumped in discordant rhythms with the pounding in her head as she tried to come to terms with the evidence her eyes were showing her. The idol she’d bled in earlier was downstairs, but still this one had been dripping crimson.
                It couldn’t be a miracle. It would be too much of a coincidence. Besides, the only miracles the holy red dragon ever performed involved burning, roasting, setting ablaze, or all three. Still, the questions from the worshippers regarding which kind of flame the dragon might be bringing back felt all the more relevant and urgent now.
                Searching through her own mind, thoughts being pushed this way and that like pages being rapidly flipped-through in a book, Sarenth tried to find an answer. One of the worshippers could have poured blood into it she supposed, but they would certainly have been noticed. Unless it was a conspiracy involving several of them all working together, but that didn’t seem likely either. Most people struggled to work together enough to put cabbages into a cabbage-specific box, and then move that box into a cabbage-box-specific place in a barn. Orchestrating theological conspiracies would be punching well above their intellectual weight.
                Sarenth sat on the floor and drew a deep breath to steady herself. The idol downstairs had far less blood in it the sullied idol must have had to drip that much out. Maybe she’d just bled into one of the other idols without noticing it. That would explain everything without any need for the frankly terrifying prospect of the holy red dragon returning. Whether it was the lack of sleep or raw unwillingness to think about the holy red dragon ‘blessing’ Dracumbra again any time soon, Sarenth accepted that both idols must have had her blood in them, and returned to the undercroft to finish her tidying.
                It was impossible for Sarenth’s ragged mind to keep track of how much time was passing, but eventually her work was finished. Dragging her body up the stairs she smiled weakly at the prospect of going to bed. The idols were back in place, the incense vials had been returned, and everything was cleaned up. At least, everything she’d remembered. In a basket in the corner of the undercroft was a towel, one which had been used as a makeshift bandage. Luckily, it didn’t matter that she hadn’t washed it. It was spotlessly free of any blood.
                Not content with all the attention it had received all day, Sarenth’s ceremonial dress still screamed for eyes to fall upon it. Trying to slip out of the side door of the temple in a bright red dress was folly in the starlight, and a crowd of worshippers who had found the main doors locked spotted her immediately. Had there been any energy left in her body, Sarenth would have screamed. Instead, she simply limped along towards her home, ignoring the worshippers’’ questions until they all went away.
 
                A slow creak filled Sarenth’s humble sleeping chambers. It wasn’t the slow, gentle door-opening creak of a stealthy, late-night return but a weary, tired creak from someone drained by the day that passed. Clops from Sarenth’s reluctantly worn heels against the wooden boards on her floor turned to dull thuds on her rug as she staggered towards the bed. The casual clothes were overjoyed that she had returned, and they hoped to be put to immediate use; maybe they would be getting a midnight snack or tending to some twilit business for the temple.
                Ceremonial red shoes were unbuckled and kicked onto the floor, with only as much care as was required not to damage them. There was no emotional or wakeful bandwidth for any more as Sarenth shuffled around. From the chair the casual clothes saw how tired their mistress was. Perhaps she could just use them to get a glass of water. They could be on and off in moments. It would be enough.
                Darkness enveloped the clothes as a red dress was laid down over it. They waited, sure that everything would be rearranged, or the dress would be set onto a hanger soon. But light didn’t return.
                Sarenth pulled the covers back just far enough and wriggled her way into the bed. She looked over at the chair between her and the un-shuttered window, seeing the silhouette of her clothing pile against the moonlight streaming in. It wasn’t enough to bother her; she was perfectly tired enough to sleep through the light of the holy red dragon’s fire itself. Her eyes closed.
                In the black shadow of the ceremonial dress, the casual clothes hung as they had done all day. But now they also sagged.
 
                Dawn broke, irreparably. The night was gone and daylight was here, no matter how much Sarenth’s dry, tired eyes protested against it. She scrunched her eyelids against it, wondering how it could be more irritating now than usual. Normally she rose with the sun easily. She was accustomed to waking without prompts or alarms, and beginning her day with a fresh mind. How could it be that the room seemed so much brighter now than normally?
                She rolled over to turn away from the window. It felt like she had been asleep forever, but still she yearned for slumber. A mirror on her dresser reflected a beam of sunlight into her face. She’d never noticed that before either. When did her bedroom get so annoying to sleep in of a morning?
                Her eyes opened suddenly. She wasn’t normally asleep in the morning, not post-dawn. She was late.
                The bedroom exploded into sound. A dull crimson glow shrouded the casual clothes as sunlight streamed through the usurper dress. They had spent all night seething against those bright folds of duplicity, quite literally now standing between them and their mistress. Even the shouting and scrabbling they could hear beyond the red veil failed to rouse their spirits.
                Something solid was knocked onto the floor. There was more shouting. Whatever the mistress was doing, it was clear that the ceremonial dress had not left her prepared for the new day. The shirt-equivalent of a spiteful smirk lingered.
                Without warning, bright sunlight bloomed and cascaded onto the clothes as the red dress was tossed aside. It landed in roughly the correct shape on the bed, sinking into the folds in the hastily thrown-back bedsheets. In the light of a new day the face of their mistress looking distressed washed away the bitterness of being ignored, and reminded the clothing of their gratitude. With satisfaction and contentment they accepted the rough grasp of Sarenth’s rushing hands, and felt the familiar warmth as they were worn.
                Sarenth swore a few times inside her head. This would fuel the fires of the high priest’s spite for months, even if he never discovered the truth about the idol. Trying to think of any way she could get down the undercroft without being seen, and pretend that she had been there all morning, Sarenth rushed out of the door. The causal clothes were thrilled beyond measure that Sarenth had noticed them, and Sarenth prayed that wearing them meant she herself wouldn’t be.
 
                Water dripped from stalactites adorning a rugose cave ceiling, high in the mountains surrounding Dracumbra. It kept a constant rhythm, continuing for hours as the morning’s condensation trickled downwards. Where most water fell into puddles below, communal gatherings which would evaporate back up during the day, this water found something rather more solid. It splashed against hard, flat scales and ran down in serpentine patterns, channelled along the edges of each one.
                Ignorant to the soaking, but helping to fuel its future continuation, breath steamed in the cold mountain air despite the shelter provided by the deep cavern. As light spilled in, only a distant glow from the cave mouth several twists and turns away, a titanic red eye opened. Something else had overslept, by a whole day in fact. But in its dreams it had been able to give a sign, aided by the flowing ceremonial redness which had been screaming for attention. Its source went unnoticed now, but she had performed her duties perfectly, even if there had been an inefficiency when the mechanical idols were carried one-by-one. A smile pulled across teeth which could puncture galleons. She would be spared from the coming blessing for her good work, but many would know of this homecoming, and it would be heralded by a familiar flame.