From the nether-void, he approaches.
Ravenous, blood-sick creatures scatter at the echo of footfalls, the sound amplified into a raging torrent inside of their rotten little brains.
Through the wretched darkness, the palest light eeks out an existence, hiding from the anti-matter through which its birth was given. Off in the middle distance, a serrated blade of purple lightning cuts a jagged path from the heavens to the horizon.
“Arise, my Bolts, dead or otherwise!”
Existing just outside of the lines, Walt Whezl steps through doors of perception that sit just out of the reach of kings and cowards, heroes and scum.
Ronnie James Dio, eat your heart out.
Lightning flashes again. It lingers.
Two lumps of charred flesh smolder together in a pile in front of The Dementor. He considers this with a sneer, hands going to hips in a testy show of impatience. He’s moments from huffing and puffing and blowing your house in when one of the sizzled lumps sputters and coughs itself into something slightly more substantial.
So good of you to finally join us, Huginn.
My life for you?
Your life for him, slime! Muninn?
Huginn’s twin writhes and coils his way into tangibility beside his brother.
My life for… Him?
By the divine rites of the infernal void, I bind you!
I baptize you in the blood of the abyssal Lord that both of you unfortunate souls are henceforth compelled to protect with your miserable lives until such a time presents itself that requires their forfeiture.
In return, you two sniveling vermin may bask in the inter-dimensional light of the void itself, Lord Colossus! Do you accept these terms, free of compulsion and sound of whatever’s left of your wretched minds?
Huginn jerks awkwardly, prostrating himself in front of the dark herald of Colossus. He dry-heaves an answer into the muck and mud below.
My life for HIM!
Munin follows suit, only slightly less spasmatic in presentation than his brother.
My life… ALWAYS for HIM!
Walt’s sneer sharpens into an infernally satisfied smirk.
Then arise, my phoenixes of the void! My bolts of the damned! Arise and blind them with your chthonian light! Indoctrinate those foul masses with His will!
They rise, the light of the void shining through where their eyes had only just been globs of electrified goo leaking down blackened cheeks. Each man was attired similarly enough to Lord Colossus, give or take a complete lack of height, girth, mass, and sheer presence that permeates through his earthly form. Their Casey Jones hockey masks, now smudged blacker than the unexplored depths of the cosmos and elongated into something resembling a plague doctor’s beak.
The proper descriptor isn’t exactly grotesque, but it’s close.
The Bolts slither into their natural places at Walt’s side. Their eyes remain trained on the ground below, subservience oozing from their pores like sweat from the depths of a dwarven forge. Whezl’s focus changes, sharpening in a way that stands starkly in contrast to the facade that he wears in his Master’s presence.
The gears turn methodically, defiant in their cursed consistency.
Gomez. Carlo. I’m not entirely sure that “Amazing” is the adjective that best suits either of you. Considering your consistent inability to get your proverbial “act” together, I’d say Mediocre is likely the best that either of you could ever hope for.
Walt’s sneer returns, it smacks of disgust.
Are you two really brothers?
Are you even related?
To what end does your litany of obfuscation lead? This is why you find yourselves treading in the cipher of your own insignificance! Not because you’re not clever enough, as you both clearly are. Maybe one more so than the other, but that’s not important. Let’s rebrand you two into the Mediocre Magic Friends! I think that’s best if we’re going to lean into the kind of je ne sais quoi that you find yourselves mired and reveling in.
Walt pulses, exerting his particular kind of terror over The Bolts.
So bring your magic.
Test your mettle against a proper void-slinger!
Fall to the mat in front of me and profess your loyalty to my Colossal Lord! Beg for the opportunity to make yourselves useful in the coming end times!
Become that which suits you. Seek solace in your natural state.