"I don't care what cursed, forbidden art you used to stand back up, boy," Bruga growled, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register that vibrated in the chests of every man present. "I don't care if you can talk to beasts or patch your broken bones with dark sorcery. You are running on borrowed time. Your spirit is depleted, your core is a hollow shell, and you are standing in the middle of my valley."
You three go and contain these hounds." Bruga roared to the other layer 4 and chiefs, his massive muscles swelling as he gathered every ounce of his Layer 4 physical essence into his arms.
The air around his massive bone club warped and distorted, turning a deep, dangerous slate-grey. "I will personally grind his skull into powder this time, and I will make sure there is not a single piece of his soul left to crawl back!"
Far across the clearing, standing amidst the sea of severed limbs and rabid, howling Blood Hounds, Sol slowly tilted his head.
