Viscous, writhing arms slowly extended, with branch-like tendrils growing from each. On every tendril, a golden ring was embedded.
The silvery figure watched the monks ahead, unaware as they were drawn into the storm, their crescent-shaped mouths opening and closing in hushed incantations, a demonic whisper. The Duke of Ivanovich pricked up his ears but could only hear indistinct syllables.
From a branch growing from the arm, a golden ring emitted a dim white glow, and black mist poured out. The Duke of Ivanovich recognized the black mist; it was the same sort that had been used by the silvery figure to knock out the workers in the Red House. This mist, clearly different from the one used by the Church of Truth, must be some form of hallucinogenic magic.
So that was it... the Duke of Ivanovich thought. If he could knock out all the monks of the Church of Truth, he would indeed be able to assemble his troops unimpeded and leave the battlefield under the silvery figure's cover.
