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[center][color=DarkGray]Perfect. Perfect. Perfect creature. 

To kill a Turncloak King is an achievement that few can claim. An accolade that few of the fearsome in this land know to be true to themselves. 

[h3]"I am thirsty"[/h3]
 the man claimed, a statement directed to the two Bloody Golems sniffing the area. [h3]"Help me get something to drink."[/h3]

The Golems' heads shot upward, their empty eyes fixated on the Kingslayer. For a singular moment there was silence as even their maddening gibbering halted in the wake of Perfect's command. To any normal man, they would have seen such an order as little more than the cries of a hunted animal, an adjuration saturated with the misplaced optimism of the doomed. But this man showed no remorse, as though he were an empty man filled with memories of a past life; a dangerous combination, indeed. They had witnessed him place a blade through a man that all other men feared. This was no creature to be hunted. This was a creature to be moulded, improved, to be [i]completed[/i]. 
As the armoured man faded into the dusty sand, as though he were consumed by it in the manner of a ravenous wolf consuming a carcass, the first Golem roared. The scream was chilling, blood-curdling, and utterly disturbing. It was the sound that a man would make after his throat was slit and blood would bubble forth from his mouth and the wound. The sound of imminent death. Perhaps these creatures were already dead and merely animated by a power far greater than they. 
The first Golem grabbed Perfect by the arm, gripping him in a macabre three-pronged claw of pock-marked bone and almost slinging him into an embrace, holding him high above the ground. It was [i]carrying[/i] Perfect. There was little the man could do to struggle against the far-larger Golem, who wielded strength far greater than any man. Any resistance was ignored, and the duo of ghastly animates made use of their incredible strength and speed to scale the walls of the canyon, forever leaving it behind. 

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[center][color=DarkGray]The Golems transported Perfect for hours upon hours. Though however long the journey truly took was unknowable. The sun did not budge from its perch in the sky, nor did the faint penumbral shadows it cast turn and twist and grow to the rhythm of their creator. They traversed desolate plains of shadows, outcrops of jutting stone, oases that had been consumed by inconceivable horrors of all shapes and sizes. They paid the Golems no mind, and continued to endlessly harvest the trees that seemed to flower with buds of human flesh. Long was the journey. Those who had hearts would have had them filled with similar shadow upon seeing the things that they had passed. Occasionally they would cross the path of an Empty creature feasting upon the newest kill: a poor wandering human, lost in the wastes. Legs would flail and claws would flutter ravenously in the night. Frenzy. That is how such a land would be described. One with no end, one with no remorse, no hope. Forgotten. 

On what would have been the ninth hour of their crossing, something loomed in the distance. Rising from the horizon like a bloodstained spear emerging forth from the ribcage of an unfortunate foe. A tower. One that seemed to have been constructed long ago. Perhaps it was made with love and planning. But since that time it had seemed to have simply faded with time. And who could say how long this world had sat, untended, against the ravages of time. It had perhaps once had bricks of marble white, but now blackened and burned, crumbled and rotting. The Golems did not approach close. The first placed Perfect gently to the floor, and seemed to urge him to the strange, isolated construct in the distance.[/color][/center]