Swaying slightly to recover his balance after his final assault upon the now collapsed Nefas, Old N reflexively twitched his entire frame as his wrathful thirst for revenge, having been satisfied, subsided. Someone with a neck would not have had to go through all that trouble to regain some clarity, but, loath though one might be to admit it, being encased in an inflexible carapace had its disadvantages. His mind no longer preoccupied with meting out retribution, its focus slowly flowed, or, rather, dripped, towards even more immediate objects. Such as the dull, pulsing pain in his fractured pincers. The demon disconsolately shook once again, his forelimbs dangling limply (and causing no small amount of further agony as they struck against the rest of him, though he barely deemed it worth to register it). After all, since they would not be of any use to him for a while anyway, what good was it to waste his strength holding them up?

It would probably not have occurred to Old N for a few minutes yet that he was still standing in the prison's hallway had he not been jolted back to his senses by Deprave's bellowing. Throwing a glance in the brute's direction which, with the help of a vivid imagination and some potential for mind-reading, could have been interpreted to be supposed to display irritation, the demon turned to surveying his surroundings. The chamber was partly filled with escaped convicts, who seemed determined to out-yell the Mayaztec Cambion (not that this helped them any), whilst the latter, having shouldered the finally subdued Grog, was making his way past the one-armed fellow, whom Old N had not seen doing much, and the knig- Wait, that was the knight? Weren't the people wearing armour supposed to be- The unexpected novelty of "Jonathan"'s sex dealt the final blow to Old N's already reluctant attempts to appraise the situation, and, waving an imaginary intact pincer at it all, he shuffled towards the apparent gathering-point.