The arrival of the<span style="font-style: italic">Honored Dead</span>halted Absolom's pitch in an instant. The hulking golem of steel and soul pulverized any foe it faced, be it man or monster. With it's retinue of<span style="font-style: italic">proper</span>Legionaires, the Deep Ones stood no chance. There was no need to waste the souls he held when the tide had been turned so thoroughly. Instead, the battlecaster snatched up whatever souls he could from the mop-up, storing his little collection within the phylactery that was his mask. The soulsteel misted over as it's reservoir was filled, a dozen jostling phantom faces thronging the surface. Empyreal fish in an abyssal cage.<br/><br/>Slipping off the mask, Absolom began barking orders, echoing his commander's signaled directives. The men formed up swiftly, doing their best to appear as professional and intimidating in the combined faces of a rival patrol and two highly revered champions of the Legion. Awed whispers flitted like snowflakes among the ranks as Absolom loped towards his commander, whispers that recounted each legionnaire's theories on each relic the First Centurion wielded and the manner in which Octavius had earned his place as a Brother-Ancient. Absolom had his own theories, but knew one thing for certain. The black blade the Centurion wielded was a relic from another age, when magecraft had been stronger and more primeval. Rather than fading with each strike, the eerie arsenal of the rough sword seemed to grow stronger and more hungry to bite flesh. The metal itself had been imbued as it was worked -actually cast<span style="font-style: italic">into</span>the metal as it was forged rather than simply onto the surface- and was sustained through processes the battlecaster couldn't begin to understand. Perhaps it drew the souls from those it slew...<br/><br/>Absolom broke his musings as he snapped to attention before the gaggle of men -and revenant- who significantly outranked him. Snapping a sharp salute, he gave a quick report.<br/><br/>"Three men dead sir, with...<span style="font-size: 50%; line-height: 116%;">twelve, twenty-three</span>... Twenty-seven Deep Ones sent to the abyss. No significant injuries to any of the men beyond the fallen, ammo is still good, water still in ready supply."<br/><br/>He bowed respectfully -although it bordered on mockingly, Absolom did not respond well to authority- to the First Centurion and the Brother-Ancient.<br/><br/>"While I would love to believe that the aid was altruistic, it seems unlikely that that would be the case. Where do we march gentlemen?"