Heavy boot at the point of the rocky precipice, Duke Braddock looks at the immense wall of fire blocking passage to the domain of the Black Artificer. His lips are pursed as he folds his muscular arms over his broad chest, his dark hair short and spiky from the rough cutting he gave it at the edge of his sword, still slightly itchy in the breeze but determined to ignore it. His square jaw sits resolute, shifting the bronze breastplate on its straps slightly before glancing towards Ania at the foot of the tree, idly sketching him in her book.
“So, this thing’s just… always on?” He gestures with a hand toward the wall of fire down below as his other hand slips idly to rest against the hilt of his sword, a position its grown accustomed to in recent weeks.
Ania laughs, a soft musical sound as she finishes a line then looks up at him from beneath strands of red hair, “Yes, Sir Duke. The Black Artificer does not appreciate guests, strangely.” For a moment her green eyes lock with his grey before he breaks the connection, glaring into the fire. She licks her thumb lightly, smudging a charcoal line of the sketch before looking back up. “What are you thinking?”
He puts a hand on the holster of his revolver, thumb hooked behind the hammer, standing straighter as he cocks his head slightly, “I’m wondering if he knows we’re here.” He points down from across the field, “There’s people there, what’s that about?”
Ania stands, adjusting her breeches slightly before moving towards the cliff, closing the book as she does and slipping into the bag slung at her elbow, “I don’t know. Locals bringing offerings? Mayhaps others seeking the Artificer’s counsel?”
She glances over, noticing him scratching at one of the tears in the blue denim pants he’s wearing, stained from knee to hip with dots and more of blood and old earth, tucked into the heavy armored boots as he shifts the position of his feet, clicking his tongue in thought. In the distance the rumble of thunder could be idly heard.
Duke raises an eyebrow at the sound, looking toward Ania, “Thunder? You think it might rain?”
She shrugs, instinctively pulling her cloak over her shoulders and lifting her hood, “Mayhaps. It will not be an aid to us, I would guess.” She gestured to the fire as she tucked her back against the small of her back under the cloak, “I must think that the Artificer would account for inclement weather in his defenses.”
Duke nods idly, narrowing his eyes looking at the fire and its thick black smoke rising into the air, “You’re prob’ly right.” He rubs his eyes, letting out a long breath of frustration, “Any magic advice for me?”
Ania shrugs again, “Don’t just run into the fire?” She laughs at his aside glance at her, gesturing at the wall, “Well? The kind of magic necessary to break through something like this would require teams of magi and millions in coin. The best I can offer is to not test its veracity.”
He sighs, nodding, internally groaning at everyone’s need to not speak simply. He purses his lips again, cocking an ear to the sound and holding his breath, catching something as his jaw sets hard.
“That’s not thunder.”
She stops, listening more closely, before turning the whole of her attention to the conflagration, “It has a rhythm. Steady. Like…”
“Footsteps.” His voice is quiet, but she can hear the underpin of excitement in it.
He leaps from the outcropping down and slides down the short embankment, coming to a stop some 20 feet below, and drawing his sword, running his hand through the roughly cropped black hair, his face barely able to contain the smile on it, “Come on!”
Ania moves down the ledge and embankment with less fervor, the infectiousness of his excitement causing her to smile in spite of the potential danger as she watches him rush forward. Once on solid ground, she began to jog behind him, drawing three crystals out of her bag she had prepared the night before in case there was trouble. She’d call after him, but even in their short time together, she already knew he wouldn’t be listening.
Smiling a warm, charming smile, Duke approaches closest of the people in the field, keeping the sword low and holding up his other hand, “Hey! What’s going on?” Here, the booming of the footsteps could be felt through his legs, sending a thrill of fear into him that only made the whole experience all the better.
The person, a woman, turned toward Duke with the surprise one would expect toward encountering the dead, “Who are you? What do you want?” She half turns on him, a dagger in one hand as she drops the parcel she was carrying in front of her, eyes wide from behind loose curls of brown hair. Her companion seems oblivious to the scene behind them, standing closer to the fire and the approaching noise.
Before Duke can answer, the wall of fire is interrupted by the tremendous form of a stone monstrosity. All at once, lacking any recognizable human features but seemingly cobbled together from rough and pitted dark grey stone, with long arms dragging in the earth behind it as short thick legs boom and thunder with each step.
Ania is still long strides behind Duke, but she knows the look of jubilant wonder on his face at the sight. She tries to call out to him, to draw his attention, but between the thundering of its steps, the roar of the flames, and his own single-mindedness, she is unable.
The woman turns quickly from Duke, gathering up her parcel while keeping an eye on him as he stands still, staring up at the grand stone creature, the pair of people moving their parcels near to the feet of the thing then quickly fleeing away in the most respectful flight Duke or Ania had ever seen.
And still it stands, unmoving, towering over the small people and the smaller parcels, as Ania places a hand on Duke’s shoulder, breathing heavily at the run to get to him, “It is a Golem, Duke.”
He glances at her, confusion apparent, before returning his attention back to the Golem, “Naw, he was a hobbit, this thing’s huge.”
She blinks at him, opening then closing her mouth, “No… what?” Shaking that away, “Never mind, a Golem is a construct given life through the will of its maker. A guardian of ways and a worker of tasks, but not a thinking thing.” She lowers her voice, “Not alive in our meaning, but often a living thing in the eyes of their maker, as a soul is needed to animate it.”
Duke sets his jaw, drawing in a deep breath, “So… I can’t technically kill it, but if I do, we might upset the Artificer?” Before she can respond, he continues, moving the sword from one hand to the other, “And if I do kill it, that’s a good thing? Setting a soul free?”
She blinks at him once more, the casual ease he spoke those words giving her pause, “The only way to… kill it? The only way is to destroy it utterly, and I do not believe your sword is up to that task, Sir Duke.”
He nods, smiling warmly, “Yea, that’s what I figure too.”