Astrid makes a contemplative noise, a grumble. “We didn’t really see their faces under the armour, but it was nugskin leather. Golems are all stone and metal, aren’t they? Huge scary guys. These were little. Actual dwarf-sized. I seen those giant fuck-all golems in Minrathous, when I was working a job to steal their control rods, they didn’t look like this—”

Although now her braincells are churning over whether she might’ve accidentally interacted with three tiny golems and not even realised it. She hitches another step, muttering more profanities once they reach a winding stairwell leading up — why does the Necropolis have so many stairs — and then starts looking around for one of those fancy mechanical lifts.

And then as she pauses, she reaches out and grabs Lazar’s arm to stop him; not for balance, this time, but to peer behind him and size up the injury at his back. The torn leathers, glint of off-white bandage.

“The fuck happened to you?”