There is a clatter of bells as a Martian priest sits up. He has taken off the augmentics that replaced the lower side of his face and jaw and pulled back his hood. His elderly face was smiling with his eyes - if not the ruin of his jaw. Wearily, he rummages through the pile of materials next to him until he finds his voxsponder and sockets it back into his neck with a binharic whine.

"Do you enjoy April's sweet showers?" groans that mechanical voice through rust and age. "The drought is pierced to the root. Projections indicated that it would continue indefinitely, so I was assigned to manage a project to ship in ice from off-world, but..." the red priest's fingers reached down to cup a flower growing alongside him. "Zephirus has come, breathing life into each sweet root."

He brought the flower up to his nose and took a gentle breath.

"If you would, you may sit with me. We can enjoy the rain together. I can tell you of the Scribe, and how she brought her knowledge unto us."