The Crimson Order

In solemn red robes, they gather round, Their golden masks, a mysterious bound. With tools in hand, they work as one, Their task, a secret, just begun. The crumbling wall, a backdrop makes, For their deliberate, measured strokes and makes. In unison, they labor with gentle care, Their red attire, a symbol to share. The doorway worn, a path reveals, To a hidden truth, their work conceals. Their masks, a shield, a hidden face, A guardian of secrets, in a sacred space. In this still scene, a story's told, Of dedication, and a mystery to unfold. Their crimson robes, a symbol of their might, A bond between them, in the silent night.