This is what he craved most of all: the unsung violence, the chaos before the storm, the bewitching, alluring boundaries of vehemence and brutality. It sang in his veins, singed along his flesh, clambered and coiled its way through his soul, and at once, he was back along the battlefield, whisked away to compatriots and crusades, blood and death, disorder and onslaught. It was so natural, so innate, a breath of fresh air to his savage lungs, a taste, a rush, of frenzy and bestial discord, and he only answered Wessex with a smirk, with a snicker, with the perfection of a warrior sculpted from sinister hymns and ferocious cries. “Attack.”
The darkness hid away the monster, but only for a few moments – they must’ve disturbed it, awakened it from the shadowy domicile. At first, he couldn’t tell what it was, narrowed his stare as his fists curled, as he brought his vicious enchantments to life (never quite buried; the necromancy seething below his skin, a flowing, blistering toxin, venom and death in spades). It shifted and maneuvered in the folds and veils, and he stepped forward, armed with only his own power, strength, and invocations, though he eyed a few rocks and rubble clustered on the ground.
He was only mildly surprised when the beast finally unraveled from its midst; all stone and gravel, manifested into some living, tangible being. The Reaper was used to pinnacles and shades of demons, of infidels, but most had existent flesh, muscle and fibers he could cut, slash, tear, and lacerate with a blade. He shifted sideways, watching it carefully, deliberating studying it at a swift, keen rate, pondering over the best way to extinguish the incoming tyrant – it kept growing, far larger than both of them, so suddenly they were Davids to its petulant Goliath. Deimos could hear Amalia in the distance, far up the stairs, asking if they were all right, but it was too soon to grant her much of an explanation; the golem gave forth a mighty roar, and its stare seemed pinpointed solely on Wessex.
The soldier knew the fellow patriot could take care of herself; she was hardy, she was mighty, she was strong. But he’d seen glimpses, tiny cracks in the mask she bore, and he wasn’t about to leave her to her own devices. It took only a moment for him to grab a rock nearby and hurl it at the golem’s head, hoping to distract and deter it for an instant, raise the alarm towards himself. His voice reverberated through the floors, a roar for Amalia to hear, because she might’ve had more information on a world filled with unfamiliar giants. “What is the best way to dispatch a stone creature?” He didn’t have any weaponry meant to cut into rock; no bombs, no machinations, except the glint of his own enchantments, and they’d have to do for the moment.
The seething rampage of his designs pulsed, pervaded, his existence – slithering and combing their way across the cellar floor, raw, malicious intent serpentining towards the voracious creature. It was death and damnation, meant to delay, meant to wither, meant to decay, meant to erode, meant to give them more time to contemplate and figure out the best way to counteract boulders and crag. Without the right munitions, they’d be stuck – and while he could endure, while he could persist, he wasn’t sure to what enduring lengths the other inhabitants contained.
