Then the man we thought to be the High Priest rose, and, bowing his head, asked the severed head about the Anvil. After a few moments of silence, the voice came out the air, from the mummified mouth, as withered as parchment. How shall I describe it to you? It was an old tone, crackling, fragile, like straw as one walks upon it, like the elytrons of a coleopter, like book pages as one turns them. There was neither saliva nor emotion there. It was not a clear sound, but a silent murmur, as though grains of sand were falling upon paper...
Nonetheless, the High Priest seemed to understand without effort. He slowly nodded, entirely focused. Eventually, after deep sighs and highly ritual gestures, he translated the response from the talking head for our profane ears: “The Wise One spoke words
