When you were as old as Ben was, and tinkered with Time as often as he had, you learned not to panic at the mere smell of smoke.
The large orange dragon that was sitting on top of the temple, however, was a historically legitimate pantswetter.
Ben rolled and rolled away from the dragon, away from the burning temple and into the hedges that surrounded the grounds. He came to rest in a patch of damp grass.
"Looks like someone's been panicking here already."
Taking care that he wasn't seen by the dragon, Ben got to his feet and surveyed the scene. The dragon was casting his head back and forth, scouring the grounds in search of something - something he quickly found on the other side of the temple. The dragon hopped down and out of Ben's sight, which gave him a moment or two to focus on the otherwise wholly remarkable scene just a few yards to the left of him: an aging rock band was packing up their gear from what looked like a successful gig. Empty beer cups littered the temple grounds, young couples were wandering off into the night, and more than one pair of undergarments lay strewn about the place.
"Ah, youth!" Ben sighed.
It wasn't until Ben saw the roadie curling lengths of cord around his forearm that he realized that something was more than unusually wrong. Electricity still had a ways to go towards being harnessed.
"I hate this place," Ben muttered as he stepped over a large, snoring figure. The man reeked of Groovy Ghoulie, that really excellent black-tar shit that they grow in lightless catacombs, exclusively in the chest cavities of dead musicians that have been dead for at least a decade. Some say that two hits of the stuff will give you the exact feeling of what its like to be dead.
Be really didn't see the point.
He looked up as the side door to the temple flew open, and a crazed, hippy-looking girl rushed out and headed towards the crew, shouting at a woman who was packing up what looked like a rather intricate and multidimensional drum kit.
"Granny! Granny! That dragon's humping the bus!!!"
The woman, hereafter known as 'Granny' (age, 87, most recently of West Teacup, Throwfarthertanyoushire, Kent) dropped a number of cymbals (to great acoustic effect) and charged off the stage and into the temple, screeching a few words that even Ben hadn't heard before.
This had gone far enough.
There was only one way to set things straight. He had to round up the crew, and get them to sort things out once and for all.
It wasn't going to be easy. Nothing ever was when Xeno was involved.
Ben produced a white quill pen from his jacket and drew a smooth, blue arc in the air. Within the arc, he found four jeweled skulls bobbing in the void, leering at him.
"Ah, Benjamin. Back for another go, are you?"