Exactly on the stroke of eight, the breeze strengthens and the dust devil gathers. My master takes shape inside the cloud. Difficult to discern at first, his great and terrible features soon sharpen.
I have brought the traditional offering. I have recited the oaths. I have laid waste his enemies and prospered his followers. My neck is laid bare to his mercy or hunger, but I fear not: I have been a faithful and constant servant.
It is not enough. His shape falls back to dust, dispersing onto the winds. I must redouble my efforts to bring about his return.