The Sentinel watched— and stared— and waited. And finally, the Unclean's presence was gone. He felt like he should have been surprised, yet nothing came; an infinite abyss yearned back at him— IT— as he grasped at whatever nonexistent reaction he could find. No. No reactions. Only responses. It was in the coolant that comprised his veins, the metal that made his body and bones, and the Fire of Sol that made his being; a doctrine older than time and yet never instilled until this accursed realm. And as he stared at the body of the broken Anchor that once connected this haphazard mess of an excuse for "reality" with the Ignus' lack thereof, the response clicked, and it was acted upon as he stared at the one who wielded Fire in his hands and Time in his grasp. And it was spoken. [b][i]"Welcome, O Anchor Borne Upon Corpses." "Let Us Make More."[/i][/b]