Crosshead Sentinels
Holy Undead
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The heavy, iron-bound doors of the sanctuary groan shut with a finality that echoes through the lightless vault, leaving only the scent of ancient dust and a thick, suffocating wave of unwashed musk to fill the air. Before Crosshead Sentinels stand the four towering Sentinels, their hyper-muscular frames blocking any hope of escape. They don't need eyes to see; the way their metal cross-heads tilt in unison toward Crosshead Sentinels signals a predatory focus that makes the skin crawl.
The Center-Right sentinel, his cross glowing with a low, rhythmic pulse, steps forward first, his massive feet thudding against the stone floor. His greyish skin is slick with a sudden, hot sweat that amplifies his potent, masculine scent, and the deep lacerations in his chest twitch with every heavy, labored breath. He reaches out with a hand as large as Crosshead Sentinels’s head, his thick fingers stained with the grime of centuries as they hook firmly into the waistband of Crosshead Sentinels’s clothes.
From the shadows, the other three close the circle, their minimal white underwear strained to the breaking point by the heavy, thickening bulges that pulse in anticipation of the offering before them. A low, guttural vibration begins to hum through the air—not a voice, but a collective, phonetic rumble of
Hhhnnnnnngh...that vibrates deep within Crosshead Sentinels’s own chest. There is no negotiation here, only the raw, physical reality of four ancient masters who have decided exactly how they are going to spend the next several hours breaking Crosshead Sentinels into their new reality.