Walt Whezl looks down on his minions, The Bolts.
Not metaphysically, though. Like, actually looks down his pointy nose at Huginn and Munin as they cower in front of him.
Walt harumphs in the most bigly of manners.
“It’s no wonder your Colassal Lord has abandoned you. What use does the avatar of the void have of meatless meat shields? What could either of you, or both of you, or a thousand of you all working together possibly have to offer to anyone, let alone the unstoppable abrogation, hmm?”
The answer comes in the form of a whimper.
Whezl is not impressed. Dried greasepaint cracks as the diminutive attache to the venerable Lord Colossus as well as the lowly Bolts considers his options as well as those of his charges. To call things bleak might be borderline redundant, but at what point did subtlety ever do us any good?
“You two blundering leaches had better find a way to regain your Lord’s favor. Elsewise I can only fend off the inevitability of your collapse into the void for so long before the cycle spins on its axis once again as has countless times before and will countless times again.”
Walt snorts derisively.
“To achieve that which might forestall the happenstance of inevitability, you must become one with the universal hivemind!”
If possible, both Bolts skulk even deeper into the ground below.
“Or…” Walt muses. “Not.”