It staggered and plodded, looking lost and confused. It was clutching at pieces of a tattered screenplay, looking for comfort over its dismal state. It didn’t know its name, nor did it care. It had lost something this poor thing, it had lost its dæmon. This was the product of the experiments at Bolvangar, this cold, frightened, mass of imagery and words. A few brave souls ventured to approach it, but it was too late. The rest just stood there, with looks part terror and part compassion frozen on their faces. Some tried to approach it, to try to touch it, understand its plight. But all of us were loath to think at the savagery that had been done.

“It’s a severed film,” I whisper to myself. “So this is what the intercision does. Horrible, just… horrible.”

* * *

In a dimly lit hall, a small group of people sat around a large oaken table. A few of them read bibles and thumbed rosary beads. But all had self-satisfied grins on their faces.

A man is led before the group. He stops at a respectful distance from the table, and genuflects.

“It is done my lords and ladies. Like you said, it was only a little cut.”
“You have discharged your duties quite well Fra Emmerich. For this you shall be richly rewarded.”
“No one will understand what you allowed our agents to do, but believe us, you have protected this world’s children.”

———————–

If you’re not getting any of this, I suggest you do yourself a favour and read Philip Pullman’s books.