But Grigori has planned for this. As the maniac is about to land the final deathstroke, Grigori rolls to the side, and in one fluid, elegant movement, he brings his weapon around in a beutiful arc of silver.
The madman’s head flies gracefully off of his shoulders, and the lifeless torso slumps forward, watering the garden with red.
You stand, shakily, and attempt to ask him WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON.
He ignores you and kneels, as if in prayer, his spade held like a Templar’s sword.
“Let your body feed the garden, my brother,” he intones. “As in death, also in life.”
He stands abruptly, handing you your steel garden rake. You must have dropped it in the chase.
“Take your weapon. We must move. The scent of blood will only draw them to us,” he says, checking the throwing knives hanging from his belt. They look suspiciously like trowels.
“Who are you?” you ask.
“I am Grigori,” he says, with the weight of a sacred warrior sworn to defend the world from unimaginable evil. “And I am a Gardener.”