[img=http://i.imgur.com/sGTUbek.png]

The rest of the group was indeed arriving at the gate as Sethan rejoined them, as predicted. His timing was as flawless as ever. They were apparently sizing up the pair of "guardians" that flanked the passageway when the dead king was quite rudely accosted and pulled aside by the werewolf woman. She apparently did not take kindly to Sethan fulfilling his personal obligations while on their excursion, and considered him to be a threat to the group. Funny, he thought, considering that she was the far more threatening individual so far. Sethan's expression remained stony, his eyebrows knitted together in a look of veiled contempt. The nerve she had in trying to intimidate him was one thing, but her idea that she actually posed any kind of threat to him was quite another entirely. Hers were the petty concerns of small people, and Sethan considered the she-wolf to be no more dangerous than any other growling bitch.

As she broke away, Sethan said nothing, but did look to what she had left behind. Dog hair, thick and crimson, all over his suit. How deplorable. He regretted not bringing a lint-roller with him, or perhaps a spray bottle to keep unruly animals at bay. Paranoia and a lack of manners were the two most common traits Sethan had noted among the people of this age, and this woman carried both quite proudly. A lack of taste, too, he noted. What was with that jacket? The Eighties ended thirty years ago, honey. Nice knockoff jeans, too. Where did she get those, Kohls? Sethan audibly scoffed.

But there would be time for more fashion-policing later. At that moment, the scene was descending into chaos as the guardian statues moved into action and B&H personnel were flung every which-way. Sethan strolled into the chaos with his hands in his pockets as though he were in a park rather than a battlefield, casually side-stepping the great stomping feet of the guardians and whatever streams of bullets were being sown about. He took note of the man of ebony, one of the statues' khopeshes locked in his grip over his head.

Sidling up to the golem, Sethan patted him on the shoulder and said, "Keep up the good work, my man," in a tone that in no way suggested the the immediacy of a massive blade inching toward his head.

It then came time for Sethan himself to spring into action, he supposed. Continuing his offensively unconcerned walk into the heat of combat, he positioned himself so that he could easily reach out to touch both statues at once, as one was locked into place by his much smaller and shapelier brethren, and the other he was able to glace as it charged past him. Two fingers, like the fangs of a viper, extended at tapped both of them simultaneously, and at that moment, Sethan gave his Proclamation. He spoke not with his lips, but with his soul. Sekhem flared from the dead king's form, an essence of such great potency and potential that sorcerers of later eras would attempt to replicate it, fail, and name the shallow imitation "mana." Words did not echo from Sethan's Proclamation, but the universe acknowledged him all the same. His was the kiss of Apep, Lord of Serpents. It was the foul blood of the Hydra, the life-sucking bite of the Naja.

It mattered nothing that the guardians were cast from earth rather than flesh, as the Proclamation of the God-King was not bound by such petty rules as logic. Both thoroughly envenomed, their strength was sapped and their constitutions weakened. Their "bite wounds" festered and decayed as the necrosis of Sethan's venom rapidly spread through them, rotting their bodies from the inside out. Stepping out of the way of their trembling forms, Sethan turned his attention back to his suit and tried to brush off some of the dust and hair that had gotten onto it. His dry-cleaning costs were going to be ridiculous.