Thiosulfate

The synthetic prophet snaps open its wings. Billowing fabric chars to ash and rains down on the watching crowd. Though it continues to burn, it never fully dissipates, burning continuously in red flames, smokeless but somehow still choking, sulfurous.

Scattering light in its cloaking ribbons as the light of the setting sun scatters in the sky behind, the minds of the awed crowd transfix upon him. The chemical idol rears up on its hind legs, one foretalon clutches a cruel, golden axe. The hatchling below watches as the artificial eyes of the prophet gaze impassively in the distance. The axe lowers with a thud. The nameless infant, now a deity. Veneration, exaltation. It is the purest, most innocent sacrifice a dragon can make. It is the only thing that holds the meager clan together under threat after threat, mere beings at the hands of the elements. The gods will look fondly upon us! Rejoice!

So sayeth the Chemical Idol