Mmmm.” The Chamberlain stared down his crag of a nose. “A rather crude representation.”
The chill current of air that danced around the apprentices feet seemed to whisper into his bones in a strangers voice. He shivered in his robes and looked down at the squat clay figure on the scarred tabletop. It was short, with pendulous breasts sagging over a rounded belly. Rough gashes represented eyes and mouth on the boulder of a head. “You had said that you believed that the Crone would strike tonight, sir, and that it only need be ‘indicative of her visage’. I had thought that you were in a hurry, sir, so I didn’t worry overmuch about the art of the thing.”
“Mmmm. Just so, just so.” Echoes travelled slowly through the air of the stone chamber, bouncing a gentle oh-oh-oh back and forth. “I have many preparations still to make before the light is swallowed. Prepare the altar for me, I will be back before that candle burns to black.” His finger, all bone and knuckle with just the palest hint of flesh, extended towards a fat and guttering candle shoved into the top of a bottle. The flame was yellow gold, with a blush of red creeping into the bottom. After the red would come the green, and after the green the black.
“Yes, sir, I’ll have it waiting for you, exactly the way that we planned, I swear to it.” The apprentice bowed, his hands grasping each other inside voluminous sleeves. As soon as the Chamberlain was gone from the room, however, the candle burned to blue. Dropping to his knees so fast that the stone nearly drove him to cry out, he prostrated himself before it. “Mistress.”
The blue flame flared bright as morning and thickened, wending its twisty way upon whatever eddies of air it could find. It’s tip elongated, touching the boy on the back of his neck, bidding him rise. “Smaaassshhh iiit…”, a bodiless voice hissed in his ear.