Imagine, the excavator.
One that's had enough of your s***, in his anger. Tossing one about. Then pushing it towards the limits of what is physically acceptable.
One toss, one turn, then a rumble. It's oddly satisfying. The four plates behind the bench press is felt.
With the musky smell of a construction locker room with hints of a fumes factory smell. The fresh oil smell you'd get from a refinery that's safe to be close to, according to the golemancer. If it has the safeness for him, or so he says.
Then, With that body thrown out of a window, it's only a matter of time till he reaches for the ultimate.
His ultimate excavating move.
Pomf
Smash