Carving the wax heart of this gigantic golem. I harden it with some ice.
Using the constant flame of the candle, the wax algorithm engine drips, loosening or freezing the wheels, and the wax itself is recycled into a container that shapes a new candle.
The hoist around my waist makes my joints ache. The dizzying heights are almost anathema. But my work here is comparable to Michelangelo's.
Only that his works are what we see through a glass darkly, mine are living beings.
This war golem is not the only character of wax. I myself have been pieced together by candles. But the candle burns within, outside, I am just a well dressed man with interesting skin.
This wax is special. After a mixture I have chanced upon in a parchment, which we believed to be from the Library of Alexandria, it is almost frictionless, and yet coats almost always evenly certain surfaces, making most useful for manipulation. Manipulation fine enough to mimic a type of intelligence for artifices. I'll call it, artifical intelligence.
After Galileo's discovery on the speed and nature of light in that dark night, our guild put up candle towers over long distances and set up a net of flickering light. Using the finest prisms and lenses, focused on an eternally and yet slow rolling paper, we can send over messages thousands of miles away.
Rome shall fall. It is neither Holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire. The burning of our guild shall be avenged.
When we practiced our alchemical sciences, the priests of the cathedrals have sniffed the air of the candles burning. The Inquisition quickly came.
In a fit of irony, most of the Candleguild were burnt at the stake, and our guildhall razed to the ground with papal fires.
There are shifting eyes and sniffing noses everywhere and those that want to quench the heat. Fight fire with fire.
