The journalist stepped out of the helicopter. Even over the whirr of the blades he could hear the groaning encircling the building. He nervously approached the edge of the roof and surveyed the forecourt. Mottled grey flesh as far as the eye could see swayed listlessly in the summer breeze. A mournful roar rose from their gaping maws, grinding, grumbling. The journalist's skin crawled. Enough. He would deal with them later.
The journalist popped his collar and kicked the fire door open. He would have his story.
Good luck, Nick. Have fun at BlizzCon.