Making their way through the woods towards the shadowy, ominous place wasn't difficult, with the Woodstrider doing what she said on the tin. Offswitch followed her like a hopeful puppy, Garbleday held his Watch-issue cheap shortsword ready, and Trashscarf slouched along in the rear, dealing with a kobold whisky hangover that seemed to mainly be confined to his sinuses.

The Ravenmaster and his birds had been left behind at the old Counting Tower. It was clear, at least to Trashscarf, that they belonged back in the city of Bridgetower, where they fit nicely into a traditional historic role. But that would have to wait. Apparently this wizard lady named Sohvail had something against them, and while Trashscarf had had dealings with wizards in the past, something about this Sohvail person had him rather more worried than normal.

There was still no further sign of the Catterpillow, at least.

The Woodstrider made a clicking sound with her tongue and cheek, and then quickly switched back to the general sort of speech that they'd been using. "Something moving up ahead," she muttered, and there was a general sort of readiness ramp-up on the part of Offswitch and Garbleday, while Trashscarf said, grumpily, "About bloody time," stomping on past them and heading for it.

There was indeed something-- the woods around them were dark and brooding and quiet, and the crunch and snap of rotting twigs was easy to hear. Whatever it was, it wasn't trying to be sneaky. They slid down a short steep hill that they hadn't been expecting would be so slippery, and saw what it was.

A strange, articulated something, moving with a sort of insectile jerkiness, was lumbering through the trees. It had rusted plates that covered its body, and glowing red eyes that flicked back and forth as it scanned its surroundings. Yellow bones and rotting wood formed a glistening framework. Its limbs ended in sharp, deadly-looking claws, and as it turned its attention towards the group of adventurers, they could see that it was easily twice their height.

You could sort of understand the ravens' confusion, though. It was sort of bipedal, if you discounted the creaking, stiff tail that jutted down like an ovipositor and propped it up along the way. Its head was sort of pumpkin-like, except that it was in fact a smooth metal sphere, with intricate engravings etched all over its surface. And it was sort of covered in rags, although, flayed animal hides dripping with rot and maggots were rather a bit worse, all things considered.

Garbleday gulped audibly, but Offswitch's expression took on a predatory gleam, like a badger out in some Western film that's just happened across a cowboy hero buried up to his neck in the sand. "It's just a construct," he said firmly. "We can take it down if we work together."

Trashscarf rolled his eyes. "Yeah, 'just' a construct with six-inch claws. Plus, magic."

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"Well duh, magic," Woodstrider retorted. "It's an animated object thingy."

"It's undead!" Trashscarf said, forgetting to be quiet. "Look at the bones!" He couldn't explain how he could feel the evil coming off the thing, how it chilled something deep in his soul and set twinges of unaccustomed fear through his veins.

"Whatever, it's not alive," growled Offswitch, "And that means it's fair game." He was really hoping to show off some badassery, with the Woodstrider here as an audience.

The thing's spherical head rotated, and a blast of sparking, purple energy shot forth and detonated in the middle of their argument.

The force of the blast sent the group flying in different directions. Trashscarf landed on his stomach, tasting dirt and blood in his mouth. He pushed himself up, groaning as he saw Offswitch's limp body sprawled a few feet from him. Garbleday was on his feet, sword flashing as he charged the construct head-on. The Woodstrider was nowhere to be seen.

Trashscarf was not a combative sort. In fact, he didn't even carry a weapon, unless a crochet hook counted. Generally he relied on luck and charm to see him through, but neither seemed applicable here, although probably luck was the only reason they hadn't all been blown to squishy smithereens. Probably the thing hadn't known which of them to target, and had sort of hedged its bets.

Garbleday was brave, Trashscarf had to give him that. The gangling young Watchman charged at the creaking monstrosity, with a rather uninspiring battle-cry of "And on one! Two! Three! Charge-and-strike!"

The cheap shortsword clanged off a pot lid that served the thing as a sort of kneecap. Then Garbleday tripped on a root and fell down, which was good because the swipe of the thing's claws went over his head instead of taking it clean off.

Trashscarf stumbled towards Offswitch and fell beside him, grabbing at his shoulder-- there was a pulse, at least, but while Trashscarf had some healing ability, he was still drained from his desert flight. Besides, his healing skills were rather more civilized and homely, as befitted his calling. Given a chance to futz about with poultices and bandages and some nourishing soup and so forth, he could work wonders. But sudden miraculous washes of divine power were not on the menu for this encounter. He tried his other great strength, persuasion.

"You should really get up," he pleaded with the unconscious assassin. "It's so very much your thing, and you're missing it! And Garbleday is--" He paused, wincing, as Garbleday went past overhead, screaming, and landed with a crash in a blackberry bush. "Garbleday's not going to be much good, I'm afraid," he continued, dropping his voice to a whisper near Offswitch's bleeding ear. "Don't tell him I said so, though. Poor lad, he's doing his best I'm sur---"

A clawed hand grabbed his leg and yanked, and he went backwards at speed through the rotting loam, leaving a trail of threads and ephemera.

The horrific unnatural creation lifted him up by one leg like a hairy frog; Trashscarf had a feeling he was being brought up for inspection, but he couldn't see a thing because his layers of scarf had fallen over his face. And right in front of his nose, from a string of scarf, was dangling a tiny, delicate silver locket that he'd picked up months ago and misplaced, and thought he'd lost, but no, there it was, after all this time.

It was of absolutely no use to him in this current situation, as he could feel a thrumming run through the gripping claws on his leg and sense the buildup of crackling power and knew he was about to have his entire self obliterated in a lethal blast, but it was nice to know it was there, all the same.