While the screams of Veran provided a rhythmic backdrop of agony, Rex turned his predatory gaze toward the market square of Caldmere. There, the air was thick with the scent of pulverized limestone and the metallic tang of blood.
Brant Hollow was a different beast entirely. He wasn't a philosopher or a silent observer; he was a fighter, a man of action who met the chaos with a ferocity that actually made Rex's blood sing with anticipation.
Brant was currently a whirlwind of steel and grit, his blade whistling through the air as he carved a path through the debris, his eyes locked on the massive, monolithic golem that had turned the market into a slaughterhouse.
Brant lunged, his movement a blur of practiced lethal intent. He slid beneath a swinging stone limb, the wind of the blow ruffling his hair, and drove his blade upward with a guttural roar.
SHIIIIING!
