The cavernous stables of the Clemadead were less of a shelter and more of a cathedral to ancient, draconic violence. The air was a thick, choking soup of sulfur, scorched earth, and the smell of the beast's saliva. Robert stood at the entrance, his legs feeling like jelly, a massive iron bucket of freezing mountain water in one hand and a coarse, bristled brush in the other.
Before him loomed the nightmare. As Robert took his first tentative step into the enclosure, the beast let out a low, guttural vibration that rattled the very marrow in Robert's bones.
"Good... good beast," Robert whimpered, his voice cracking. "I'm just here to... to clean you. For the Sovereign."
The Clemadead didn't care for the Sovereign's name. It saw a small, shivering primate encroaching on its territory. With a speed that defied its massive size, the beast swung its tail—a heavy, spiked club of pure muscle.
