Umin shook his woolly head to clear out the lingering rattle in his brain-box, before gingerly padding forward.
The faint fire-gleam grew achingly in breadth and height.
No longer a mere pricking but a diffuse, dancing turmeric pushing at the weight of the engirding vault.
Here the dread turns his feet to leaden clods, stopping him a few paces short of the ring of tepid fire light.
It stood there, before a broad, brassy kettle.
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