Newlot’s thin fingers pecked and darted precisely, assembling arrangements of intricate magicks on his desk, or work table. His eye holes were puckered and sewn shut; the several eyes in his jagged metal crown blinked, searched, and focussed independently. His forked tongue flickered through his clicking beak. With the faraway hisses and varying susurrations there came from the intricacies before and around him the smells of rose and ashes, thorns, vinegar, summer, deep stone, and the stars of Orion’s belt.
Newlethe, his mate, stood in the rigid doorway, bearing his supper on a cold tray.
“Newlot, my friend, your supper is prepared.”
The supper moved and cried.