Bellicose shards pierced through the sanctum, and she shuddered in the violent upheaval, in the vehement surge; but something erupted and collided, rippled along the puncturing chords and fierce warrior cry (she recognized it, had been in Deimos’ stead for several seasons), twisting, distorting, like a feral, ferocious agony. So the Mender and kitsune chased after the particles, strung swift, gossamer strides, tied them in boughs of satin and deliverance, conjured singsong rhapsodies as they stared upon the Lord of the Basin, leaning against the sentinels. While his disastrous void harked perils and treachery, his stance, his hide, told an entirely different story. The demon’s victory (a coat of armor, a massive amount of bones, and she recalled tales of Confutatis and the fate of Arah and her daughters, repressed another shiver) hadn’t come without consequences, and as her sharp eyes took everything in, bowed beneath his piercing gaze, she noted the flayed shoulder (black, withering, utterly stagnant), the infected haunch (pernicious schemes by a haunting, gallow-ed mistress), and all the scrapes and toils in between. She murmured the briefest of sentiments, coiled them apart from her heart, because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to imbibe in the same battles he’d claimed and conquered. “Congratulations, my lord.” Carefully, slowly, softly, she pressed to a safe distance, registering another in the vicinity, a stag the nymph didn’t recognize, kindling one surefire smile, a kindred grin and foil of whimsy, “Hello! I’m Lena,” before returning back to her duties in a regal nod, in a capable, composed rhythm, features folding towards the Reaper and his festering frame. Imogen drummed beside her, nestled in the cordial bout of her still, stalwart limbs, and the maiden closed her eyes, whispered and conjured the spirit of her purpose. Fueled and instigated, she stole a summery edge of breath, tightened it within her chest, and released it through a melodious swirl of moments and stages. The junctures of time spun through her frame, quick and brisk, courting hours and minutes, seconds and snippets, gliding sweeping hands over the knotted wounds, the open lacerations, encompassing the winter sovereign. Gilded and reverential, they closed over the spacious flesh, the galvanized punctures, the disturbing, pestilent wiles, rendering broken skin and soiled pelt renewed, rejuvenated, enlightened, and anointed. Whether or not they were doomed to be slaughtered again was not up to her, and her curiosity held no yearning to deviate into that realm – so at the end, her gaze brushed against the unsung warbles of menace and mayhem, privy to all of its faults but saying naught of the dark incantations beast and monsters held. The naiad tilted her head a fraction, inclined a query to the behemoth of Siberia. "All is well?"