His pattern of behavior didn’t wane, fade, or break – he watched, waited, as a great quantity of their empire floated into the midst, proffering him with a deferential nod, a token of respect, a word or two, and not much else. Their attention seemed mostly beholden to the gilded Rexanna, who wafted in with a much wider physique than originally noted, and the mint-laden Johnny, leading the minstrel march. The Lord stood, taking it all in, amidst the piles of rubble and ruin, akin to one left entirely out of the loop, merely observing, scrutinizing, studying the arrays of outcomes and disasters – some drama stirred, lurking underneath with prophetic, looming looks passed from one individual to another, until ultimately they all blended together and he couldn’t discern much of anything past: Who’s the father? and You’re simply glowing. He might have even tilted his head a fragment to absorb the rising spectacle: a nature of theatrics completely unknown and foreign to him. His children had all been granted by Huyana, had been pieces of death and rain, had been wonderful bestowals and gifts he never thought he deserved; a devil’s most precious treasures. There’d never been a question or query in his mind about where they’d come from or where they belonged – they were part of the thundering showers and the heart of demise, pieces and particles of virtue and immorality. It was only the sting of losing Huyana pricking and barbing and puncturing him now, curling in unholy thorns and nettles amidst his chest – he mustered a brief nod to all of them, and muttered a quiet “Congratulations,” across his breath towards the Thief, before staring off into the abyss, looking for rainclouds.
 
He would’ve grown into an even more aloof, reclusive, reticent beast had Johnny not told them of their mission, and then threw himself entirely into the work. Labor wasn’t violence, wasn’t vehemence, wasn’t coated in ash and soot and blood and barbarity, but it was a diversion from desolation. Instead of carving carcasses, he could annihilate rocks, and the thought almost loosened a chuckle from his throat. The Lord maneuvered past Frost Fyre and several others, choosing a spot slightly away from the quiet, curling, murmuring femmes and the seemingly distracted participants, not wishing to undermine the goals by draining lives. Perhaps, in a way, he sculpted another isolation entirely, tending to the task at hand instead of mooring himself in the hymns and hums of herd life, too stained, too tarnished, too unknown and savage, too wild and sinister, to partake in their admirations or praise. He coiled his muscles and pulsed with fervent, iniquitous movement, rummaging past fallen stones and silent scorn, pushing against displaced boulders, tending to the larger chunks of rock and crag, hoping and ensuring his constituents could administer the smaller pebbles without too much trouble or exhaustion. The demon was all strength and brawn and tenacity, tending to the newfound duty with the same unrelenting fury he always possessed, strung again by silence and unattainable finality.