A wave of light rolls through the sky like the dawn of a second sun, colliding with each of the makeshift automatons fluttering clumsily through the night, washing through them and leaving almost nothing in its path. What remains is smoke and steam, crowning flecks of ash that gently float down to the ground in a grey rain. Dim pinpoints of light remain here and there even after the spell ends, remnants of the magic that passed through seconds before, adding another layer of stars to the smoke-filled sky.
The moment the threat from above is removed, Silas himself is treated as helpless, a complete non-issue; to be shown the door and removed immediately. As far as this might be from the truth, for all that he could still do, fortunately, he chooses to meet these expectations. Sheer shock, for a few moments, gives him no alternative. In contrast with his earlier, far more vocal self, now he does not speak at all, too stunned for words.
It takes another set of eyes, after all, to notice madness.
Malcharion's order is followed without so much as a nod, the defeated shaman turning to slowly march away towards the breach. The few surviving golems, already beginning to disintegrate little by little, follow suit after a few moments. Their departure from the city, however, is quickly interrupted by footsteps from another direction entirely, a little way behind Vivian, the rapid tapping of shoes on cobblestone.
"Excuse me, demigod coming through." The muttering speaker soon comes into view, a slightly short skeleton dressed in a dusty, dark grey suit, running across the street with one bony hand held up. The footsteps are, though perfectly timed, entirely artificial: The skeleton, while visible, has no tangible form, only a visible one. One might expect Madrich's voice to sound like the tolling of funeral bells, or the slow grind of a tombstone being dragged across rock. A death rattle, or the slow whistle of a wheezing breath passing through bone. Some sort of rumbling echo, perhaps. A monstrous, fearsome voice to match a spirit that no one in their right mind would ever wish to meet.
Instead, his voice is perfectly human. Only those with a particularly good ear - or, like Vivian, more familiarity with him than most are allowed - would notice the slightly strained note in it; humanity is a mask that does not come to him naturally, but is only kept up with great difficulty. Silas pales slightly at his approach; being prepared for the end is one thing, while coming face to face with death is quite another.
"Not here on business," he says upon coming to a stop, waving one hand dismissively. "I'm going to try to give you what you came here for, just not what you demanded." Placing a contemplative finger on his chin, the spirit lets out a slight puff of air between his teeth - the mouth never moved once, for all his talking. "Integration," he muses after a moment, "that's what it'll be. Or maybe a truce, an alliance against a common enemy... what did you call them, again? Turtles? Can't call it surrender, that's the point; pick the right word and everyone will tell themselves they won. There's a decent chance that, like you said, a few shamans won't be enough to sway a whole city."
The skeleton stops to brush a little dust off one shoulder, more to let his words sink in than for any other reason. The dust was, after all, as artificial as every other part of his appearance. "But the whole city relies on you, and soon, your apprentice. You just need to remind them that none of them can afford to argue with you. Hold your own city hostage for once. As for here, there's only the three of us, and no one's going to spend much time listening to an outsider," Madrich motions briefly towards Malcharion at this "like tin boy over here. No offense." He looks over his shoulder towards Vivian, neck twisting a little more than it should, before he remembers to at least keep up appearances, turning a little more to face her properly.
"And that's where I come in. What do you reckon, Vivian? Think they might listen to me, at least?" With a slight nod in answer to his own question - the spirit, at least, finds the answer as clear as day - he looks to Silas again. "That's the plan for now; if you get a messenger, you'll know it worked. Now, they're not too keen on keeping you locked up here, for some reason, so I suggest you get out before they change their minds, unless they want to take some time for some proper peace talks first. Just one more thing from me. Favour on the house."
Madrich leans forward slightly, staring into the shaman's eyes for almost half a minute, before taking a step back and shaking his head. "Four days, seven hours and twenty-two minutes," he finally announces, and this is, at long last, enough to at least elicit a nod from Silas, though he still does not speak.
"Just try not to waste the rest of it."
