The demon rises from the hole, sending a flurry of dust and spores into the choked air of the dead plains. Aeons of stillness is disturbed; unknown lost ages of this impossibly slow metabolic process come to their end. The demon slips a short blade from its sheath at his side and slides its edge across his palm. He moves his hand in a slow arc over the ground. Drops of blood spatter over the fungal carpet and soak in immediately, feeding the starving landscape. The machine has started, the gears of this long forgotten place begin to creek into life once again. The demon's blood whets the appetite of this hungry place.