Mantle of the Prophet

Bromme Sol Shethiid pulled the cowl of his robe up from around his neck to cover his head, ducking into the grand audience chamber.  Even as a low-ranking lector in the Order of the Noachome he knew better than to enter the presence of the prophet with his head so disrespectfully exposed.  Besides, he was late and was hoping that he could go unrecognized in the crowd along the edge of the room amongst the recent influx of pilgrims.

Fundamentalists

Like so much of the Iconoclast commune, the mighty windmills were terribly over-engineered and full of beauty.  Lithe and deft of hand, da-Aer waited atop the tower as the feathers were rotated to orthogonal by her solidly-constructed older brother, ra-Grewyn, and the great wingblades creaked to a stop.  She leaned out over the edge to inspect the brightly-painted sailcloth feathers of the three wings.  Three of the primaries on one wing had been torn by a particularly savage storm two days before but were only now finally dry enough to be repaired.

"I need another thirty-five degrees clockwise," she hollered down into the bowels of the tower.