The Turned Behemoth launched itself forward with astonishing speed for its size, its numerous scythe-like limbs blurring into a deadly windmill of chitin and sharpened bone.
The sheer force of its charge ripped through the air, carrying with it a wave of the cloying, sweet stench that had filled the factory. Andrew instinctively recoiled, but Marrow was already moving. He met the Behemoth's initial assault with a precise, almost disdainful parry.
His sword, a flash of silver against the creature's dark carapace, deflected one of its massive scythes with a jarring clang that echoed through the vast space. Sparks flew, brief, bright punctuation marks in the suffocating gloom.
