No one had seen Malcharion move - a surprising fact to consider, given that you don't just miss nearly ten feet of spike-ridden black armor just plod across a lightly-crowded kitchen. But it seemed that this was the case, indeed, as the hunched golem seemed to loom into existence in front of Tobias, blocking his path to his room. Looming, it seemed, came quite naturally to Malcharion, as was glowering and towering over. Despite his well-meaning attempts to minimize such unconscious habits.
[OVERLOOKED. FIRST. TIME.] The golem's ponderous, grinding voice was the same as they had always heard it; like a long-extinct beast's guttural roaring, twisted into near demonic growls, a waspish buzzing edge to every word as they are spoken from behind his elephantine helm. But if one were to listen a bit closer, they would hear the faint note of irritation coloring Malcharion's words - which was, of course, completely preposterous. Everyone knows golems are incapable of emotion, after all.
[WILL. NOT. OVERLOOK. SECOND.] It's at this point that Malcharion, betraying the apparent clumsiness of having such a thickly-armored, ponderously-proportioned form - smoothly reaches out to grab the young man by his arm. The oversized metal fist ending in brutal claws easily spanning Tobias' wrist and then some, closing around the shaman's limb in an iron-fast grip. In the same movement does the golem start to walk forward, back to the kitchen, where the three females stood watching this display - the automaton clearly unconcerned that he'd begun to drag the youth behind him, like a child would its ragged doll.
It's with a growl of servo joints and what sounds like a displeased grunt - if a grunt sounded anything at all like some gigantic leviathan with a bad case of indigestion - that Malcharion presses Tobias' hand on top of the kitchen's counter, right on the chopping block that Lucia had used to dice the meat. [NO. THIRD. TIME. CHOOSE. SHAMAN. HEALING. OR. AMPUTATION.]
Both eyeslits of Malcharion's helm blazed a bright crimson.