Indifference sculpted a reticent brow, polished and cryptic as ever as derision attempted to scald their flesh, over a newly healed GildedBlade and a heartless Reaper; the rancor of the Time God billowed into the rubble dust. The only distinction mettled and molded to his sentiments, to his ruminations, were the murmurings of home - the Basin still existed beyond the realm of shadow and pestilence, waiting, weaving, stately and majestic. It hadn’t fallen in the wake of all this treachery, in the unfurled violence that he couldn’t sow or capture, that he couldn’t maim or torture, and it eased the blackened crevasse of his nefarious heart, incited and unraveled the Machiavellian aspects of his chained soul. Power, domination, and supremacy were permitted to thrive once more, blare and glare from the summits, boom and whistle from the peaks, croon, murmur, slink and distort from the gallows and caverns. He allowed the tiniest snippet of a smile, a meager curling of the lips indented in his avaricious mouth, before administering the acknowledgement, the pride, the gratitude (for it was all he had to offer to the beast who had kept their home untangled, unearthed, from the plight set forth upon their world – while they’d been nestled here, useless stones and wares) of his lowered head, a tangled, curt composition of vocals. “Thank you.” Deimos nearly held no queries at all, no questions to unfold or generalize – the humming distinction of his precision, of his irreverence, of his calculated, cunning air concluded if there were any shadows, any wraiths, lurking along the way, he and his patriots would be able to conquer, devour, consume, and ravage them whole. Nothing was going to stop them from returning to their castle of ice. Nothing was going to impede their path. He, like so many of their merciless brethren, wouldn’t allow it. They’d been forsaken, tied down, fettered and withered for long enough; no more labyrinths, no more oubliettes, no more dungeons. His figurine, taut, rigid, resolute, bade them a composed farewell, drawn back into the darkness for the opportunity to bestow knowledge upon his citizens; freedom and liberation close at hand. Illynx would be fully capable of asking notable inquiries; his motions lay within the walls and into the portals of glaciers. A final salute, a swift resolution, and a firm, steady, determined hand slithered from his vocals, and he was gone, tracing deliverance, enmity scorching, promising, invoking. “I shall gather the herd.”