"Good then. SAME UNTO THEE, BROTHER," He says. He gives the pickaxe in his hand a small twirl in his fingers. He grins, for real this time. "Come back afterways. AIN'T NEAR ENOUGH MOTHERFUCKERS WHAT HE GETS ENJOYING A DISCOURSE UP WITH." Calling back to their last conversation, and his last regard. He gives the smallest nodding bow. "May the Holy Messiahs clear your motherfucking paths." And then he starts with a wave into the fog.