Thuds shake the blasted, stinking mud of no man's land. Heretics scream, their cries cut to gurgling quiet as their bones buckle against the force of a mighty mace, forged of thrice-blessed iron and decorated with roaring leonine figures of gold. It is wielded by the mighty iron hand of a Shrine Anchorite. The blessed machine of diesel and faith strides forth undaunted, its gothic construction like a miniature church. Crowning laurels hewn of oak and olive branches and the pelts of lions, tigers and other great beasts are draped upon its form, as are ceremonial shields and swords. The golem itself also has a shield, a great spiked wheel of sorts. The huge golem stands the size of three men, and effortlessly dispatches the miserable heretics who thought they stood even a sliver of a chance against this divine machine.

The golem then turns to you, and you feel the gaze of its pilotmonk upon you. It strides over with booming steps, sheepishly followed by a procession of Trench Pilgrims, who also wear the pelts of beasts and wield swords with winged guards. They approach you, some of them shooting you suspicious glances. And then, to your utter astonishment, the Shrine Anchorite actually talks, the hoarse voice of its pilotmonk echoing out quietly from the spire-like head of the golem. You...You, whoever you are, I can't see you...I am Saint Lionel...These pilgrims are my followers, hunters of the foul and the unholy. I hope you are not a heretic...this mace knows no mercy. Regardless, if you have something to say, speak now. My voice may not last much longer. To be interred within this Anchorite is a great honour, but a great trial. My voice is not what is was.