Over time, Atreus had learned to overcome the instinct of his emotions. Oftentimes they simply were void all together, muted, or in some cases, traded off for others. Instinct wanted him to send a harsh, glowering look to Indra at her sudden statement, but instead the Master slowly raised his head from his task and looked lazily to her, quirking a brow as he offered a tinge of a smile.

“A presumptuous statement, my dear,” he quips, thick accent curling his every word in a borderline threatening manner. “And a foolish one at that. Burdock nor Echinacea resemble Foxglove in any way – and they most certainly aren’t used in the creation of poisons.” He scoffed, a soft noise, and flicked his eyes back down to the bubbling pot to begin carefully collecting the mixed and now liquefied herbs.

Moments later Turhan was rising, speaking a few parting words before making off into the darkness with impressive speed that was unlike the old man. “Farewell, friend,” was the only thing he offered to him in parting, and once he had secured all of his items, assuring the contents of his creation was tucked away in a glass vial and placed delicately in the basket, Atreus stamped out the fire with ease. It was then he turned to Indra in the pitch dark of night, gazing at her with eyes that were somehow even more hellishly dark.

“… Perhaps it would be wise of you to attend a few classes in the hospital. I would hate for you to sound like a complete bafoon all of the time.” At his side, the basket raised from the ground and hung there as the fingers of his mind grasped it. Then, he turned, and began to depart, a wicked smile stretching the length of his face once his back was turned to her.

“Until we meet again, my dear, lest that tongue be the death of you.”

“Speaking.”