[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/hSbxgyH.png[/img]
[sup][@Pyromania99][@Rune_Alchemist][@PaulHaynek][/sup][/center]
An average dude? The colloquialism caught him off-guard for a moment there, before a smile flickered over Isidore’s expression. The young ones in his employ rarely had the gumption of acting so casual before him, not unless they were well into their drinks, and those who did lost it after the first month or two. He had run a tight ship then. Perhaps he could loosen up. Just a little bit.

[b]“A pleasure as well...”[/b] Isidore’s mouth twitched. [b]“…dude.”[/b]

No, he may be in a body stronger and faster than he had ever been in his youth, but he certainly couldn’t act as such. The instance of mirth left him, and a cold, exacting serenity settled into his veins once more as they continued their way through the prison. Cells fell behind, iron bars ruptured or wholly missing, indications of individuals more monstrous than the ones that fell into step behind him. Isidore let his senses out, feeling with a nostalgic clarity the tingling of his skin, the prickling of his thumb. His intuition told him to stop moments before the sounds did, and the scraping of a blade against the ground warned his companions to do the same.

It was a monster, in the truest sense, inhuman and horrible, twisted beyond recognition, mutated beyond any of evolution’s more interesting mechanisms. Distended bones pushed out of skin, eyes shrivelled in sockets that went deep, deeper. The work of a sadist of a sculptor, discarded to rot within these blasted corridors. The raven-haired man felt his heartbeat pick up, a thrum of chemical energy trickling into his limbs.

He smiled, all teeth and restrained violence.

Augusta’s words trickled useful information into the ears of the ignorant, marking the creature as the worst sort of predator: an ambusher who used bursts of speed with no talent for stealth, a pack animal who could not survive alone yet wandered unaccompanied by others of its craven kind. A pathetic, cursed being, for whom death was more blessing than affliction.

[b]“The world, it appears, seems to see it fit to balance your beauty with creatures of immense crudeness, Augusta. Such affront, I believe, should not be stood for.”[/b] As he spoke, Isidore wrapped one length of chain-and-shackle around his left arm, covering his forearm in coiled links. He hefted the other chain by the loose end, feeling the comforting weight of the cuffs on the other. The man turned to the others, eyes lightless in the dark corridors. [b]“I ask you avert your eyes, if tolerance for base violence was not something you've built in your past life.”[/b]

He would certainly take a crack at it.

In his right hand, Isidore began to spin the chain, allowing centrifugal force to accelerate it as it whipped through the air in a perfect circle. Stepping out into the hallway, he regarded the creature in its entirety, watching as it turned to face him. A sword was long. His chains weren’t so long. The creature wielded that blade in its right hand; Isidore’s left arm, wrapped in chain, faced it. A fight was settled before the movements were made, in the gaps between frenzied exchanges. He had been a spitfire in his youth, vicious and relentless.

Isidore envisioned it.

It would lunge, trusting the length of its arm and sword versus a swirling chain.

He would throw it instead, release the chain that had built up so much dizzying force.

It would land. Disrupt. Give him the opportunity he needed to close in.

Swing his armored left against the extended blade, knock it away. Disarm. Stomp on the outer side of the knee. Unbalance. Reach with his right to grab the back of the skull and slam the monster into the ground. Debilitate. Stomp on its skull until it turned to paste until his heel.

The creature attacked.

Isidore acted.