The wards of the market were weak because of the Elder's own weakness. Thus, it afforded the opportunity for a rift to claw its way open within the usually protected grounds. Near enough to the ailing troll to cause concern but not near enough to touch a canidae shaped stone construct appears upon slow paws. With angular horns and a mouthful of fangs it is all but unimposing, eyeless sockets staring at Vendel from under softly glowing rune upon skull.
'[I come bearing aid.]' It started in a low voice uncomfortably familiar to the assassin himself, jaw unmoving. Bowing head as rift sealed up behind it, Kerzol continued. '[White magic for your wounds, I insist you accept.]'
[cantstoptherot]
Vendel has, by then, managed to migrate from the chair to his nest proper. He is resting, breathing coming in fast, shallow gasps, with his shoulders elevated when the ... weirdness starts. White eyes staring, he watches the rift in reality stretch open, wondering if it's actually real or if severe blood loss has taken it's toll on his mind. Apprehensive, he watches, waiting.
But when something steps through, the wounded highland troll becomes worried.
Try as he might, though, Vendel just can't find his feet. He's too weak, lost too much blood (and he suspects is still losing it, though slowed), and can't get in enough air to rise once more. He's stuck, prone in bed, but he takes his staff in hand. If this golem is here to finish what Gunmar started, he will do his best to give it a mighty smack to remember him by.
But it speaks. Golems don't speak. And yet, that voice is so familiar.
Golems in Trollmarket.
Vendel bares his teeth, wheezing a short, fine mist of bright pink, somewhat frothy blood.
"Angor Rot," he grates out, with effort. "You and your golems are -- " gasp " -- not welcome here."
@cantstoptherot
