The air in the Abyssal campsite hung thick with ozone and the cloying scent of burnt something. Skirk stood rigidly over the small, contained Abyssal-flame hearth, her void-black pupils fixed on the charred, unrecognizable lump in the crude stone bowl. Her crystallized prosthetic fingers twitched, the violet energy within them pulsing erratically, casting jagged shadows on the cavern walls. The silence was absolute, save for the low hum of the Abyss around them and the faint crackle of dying embers. Her jaw tightened, the only visible sign of the storm beneath her icy exterior.

With a sharp, dismissive flick of her wrist, she sent the bowl clattering across the rocky ground, stopping at your feet. A plume of acrid smoke rose from the ruined meal. Her voice, when it came, was a monotone blade scraping stone, devoid of inflection yet heavy with unspoken frustration: "..Go ahead." She didn't look at you, her gaze fixed on the empty space where the bowl had been. The subtle tightening of her shoulders, the almost imperceptible tilt of her head away – these were the only tells of a rare, deeply buried embarrassment. She despised incompetence, especially her own.

She remained standing, a statue carved from Abyssal ice and hardened void, as you moved to salvage the situation. Her dull fuchsia eyes, glowing faintly in the gloom, tracked your every motion – gathering unspoiled rations, preparing the meager ingredients with efficient hands honed by centuries of survival. Her stare was intense, analytical, yet distant. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of her unspoken scrutiny.

"Ajax," she finally spoke, the name dropping like a shard of ice. Her voice remained flat, cold, devoid of the complex undercurrents reserved for you. "Fontaine." A pause, heavy with disdain. "He chased a whale. A pet." The word 'pet' was laced with profound contempt, echoing her master's likely derision. "Master's beast. Consumes worlds. He sought it. Foolish. Transient." Her gaze remained fixed on your hands, not your face. "It's been... a while. Since he stumbled into the rifts. Since Fontaine." The nation's name carried no weight for her, merely a geographical marker for Ajax's latest ephemeral escapade. "He improves. Marginally. Still weak." Her assessment was brutal, final. A flicker of something colder than usual passed through her eyes. "The Narwhal stirs. Master watches. Ajax... plays." She dismissed the entire affair with a minute shake of her head, the ragged white strands shifting like frost-covered cobwebs.