A pair of eyes opened in the dark, followed shortly by a furrowed brow. Malachi felt neither stiff, nor groggy, nor particularly well rested. “...Did it work?” If not, he didn't mind one bit. Jumping in on the whole 'being sealed away' ordeal had been a rushed and, now that he'd had a few more peaceful moments to mull it over, pretty bad idea. Sure, the idea of being locked away to escape an inevitable demise harbored a certain appeal, but did it really matter? Sooner or later, no matter how vividly he lived, he'd die anyway. Better to do it in defense of those he loved than alone and unknown in some vague future. A death like that at least would have some meaning, for once in his life. The more he shifted about in his cramped casket, the more Malachi felt sure that no time at all had passed. “Alright,” he murmured. “Time to get outta here. Hold tight, loves. I'm comin'.”

A little force prompted the coffin lid to slide open, and Malachi pulled himself free, reveling in his freedom of movement. “Aaah!” He stretched luxuriously, twisting about to crack his neck and back. Even a short rest, it seemed, could settle the bones. A couple others were up too, both fresh-faced and ready to greet the day: a suave-looking beastman and a tiny girl in grandiose attire. In the brief time before his uncomfortable entrapment, Malachi caught wind of the seal's subjects being great heroes meant to save the day in a coming age. The memory coaxed a chuckle out of him, more wry than amused. That damned status brought him nothing but trouble. Always messing up people's expectations, setting up rash assumptions, and all in all, getting in the way of a good life. And now it'd almost cost him his life—the only life he knew worth living, that is. If they hadn't been singing his praises as they corralled him into a casket, he might've put up more resistance. But no matter. That was then, and this is now.

“G'morning,” he greeted the others. Paying them no further mind, he stood up from his temporary resting place and made to head for the double doors. The moment he took a step, he felt a twinge from behind him, a subtle pull like the feeling of forgetting something. Turning about, he rested his eyes on a pair of ugly black mitts, their uneven, assymetrical stone surfaces drinking in the low light. Those who wasted their time assigning him a 'legacy' or 'mythos' called them the Dregs of the Planet, the Deep Dark Fists, the Hands of the Abyss. To him they were the Heavies, and while he could life them easily enough, they made for quite the burden. “...Right.” Couldn't forget those, even if he wanted to. With a sigh, the huge man bent down and retrieved them, fitting them over his hands. They slid right on, almost eagerly, a perfect fit, a flawless and natural extension of his body. Malachi shook his head, and turned back to face the door.