Immaru lets the bony plating of his shell shift, settling into Savathûn's grasp with only the barest of thrills sparking his vulnerable core. He's her ticket to immortality. Insurance. No reason to worry for his life, theoretically. But a Ghost can't help but feel a little fear now and then, especially when he's seen so many other Ghosts pop-pop-pop into oblivion by vengeful fists or fascinated claws. But it's nice to be welcomed home. Savathûn raises him to her death-mask face, cradles him against her cheek like a treasured pet. "There you are," she croons. "Well done, Immaru." Immaru puts up with it for a whole five seconds before he squirms free, armor shifting back into position, and circles her crowned head. "Are we done playacting?" he wants to know. "Or do we have a whole song and dance to do, about how you always knew I could do it?" "But I did," Savathûn says. "Tell me. How did you do it?" "You're tellin' me you don't already know?" Laughable. Immaru doesn't laugh. Her wings curve, a broad arc around him. "Of course I do," she says. "You're here, so there are only so many ways it could have gone. But don't you want to tell it to me?" And yeah, all right, Immaru could do to recount the story of fooling a bunch of chumps.