Tossing
his mace to Steven, David hefted his copper-tinged spear I his hands, sweat
glistening on his brow despite the chill in the air. Steven, a burly lad with a
clean shaven head and a beard down to his mid chest, clenched his fist around
the hefty mace with an iron grip, his other hand wielding an equally hefty oak
cudgel. Heinrich had no doubt that between the two of them, they would work
fine. He was merely worried about being overwhelmed by the Crawlers.
Peeking
over the counter, he could just make them out in the dim lighting of the old
pharmacy. A total of five clamored above the shelves, moving like spiders on
stolen limbs stitched to grey swollen bodies. The heads, hanging limply from
the shoulders, were split down the middle and bald, opening and closing in a
demented parody of a mouth as tendrils of sewed tongues slithered out, black
ichor dripping from the pale pink extremities. Moving on four or five arms a
piece, this left each of them with four arms held high in the air, rusty knives
and trowels held in dirtied hands, with an array of other sharpened bits of
metal jammed into the back of the creature, easily within reach of the arms
should they have need of them.
