Words of the Constant
A formidable structure.
It doth slumber 'til the spark of life be bestowed upon it!
Behold! A piece of the golem!
Though battle be my calling, I do not loathe the smith's craft.
I know not these runes.
It doth seem Lord Insect hath struck a fell bargain.
What vile force could claim so many souls?
I doth dare these stone warriors to rouse from slumber and cross blades with me!
Curses! 'Tis stricken!
Aye! At times, some witchcraft is the only course.
This infernal contraption hath no spark!
'Tis broken.
A flame to banish the shadows!
Bah! The eggs have been spoiled by non-meats!
Good! Let it rot!
Its spiciness intrigues me not!
Odd looking armor for a beast...
Remnants of a fallen foe.
I despise the thought of hiding one's face in combat.
There will be no escape for my foes.
Even the sturdiest armor will sometimes need repairs.
A formidable weapon against non-meats.
A shield against the elements.
Well, it is technically made from a beast.
Waffles are no way to prepare for battle!
'Tis an iron golem.
'Tis not battle ready yet.
The seed of an iron golem.
Bestow upon it its rightful arms!
We have severed the iron golem's limbs and yet it still stands.
The forged beast is cursed!
What doth he veil from us?
It doth form a wall unseen? Witchcraft!
'Tis dead but its parts may bring new life to another.
Cursed iron harpies!
It slumbers.
Clockwork from a cursed contrivance.
Shall it be resurrected, or its steel organs claimed to renew another?
'Tis friend, no longer foe.
I shall sunder thee, O metal menace!
It slumbers.
How may one kill with this?
This helm doth be possessed by the spirit of a cunning warrior.
What use would a warrior have for such leavings?
Let no soul flee the arena!
Njord will not be pleased.
A warrior trusts not cursed toggles.
What maketh the gear-wright now?
He hath left his gauntlet in our realm.
These runes hath taken physical form.