The Watcher paused. “Time is of the essence,” he finally said. “The Age of the Crimson Empress is at hand.”
He raised the flute to his lips and blew again, this time softly. Spreading its great wings, the kin-raven lifted and sped south.
The Watcher watched it as it flew, and when it was nothing but a speck upon the horizon, he turned and went back to his cave. He would finish this gospel, and perhaps when he did, he would walk through the forest near the Machtvolk shrine and listen for the hymns they sang there.
Clanking and clacking, the ancient mechoservitor slipped back into the shadows and took up his waiting pen.