It is probably a good thing for the gyroshei in question that Conan succeeds in frightening it off when he does, for Antarcticite has managed to get a hand around the hilt of their sword. Thankfully, there is no need for them to unsheathe it and make a bloody mess in the sand, which is not something they would have particularly enjoyed doing, anyway. They have never been forced to kill another living thing before; death is final for animals in a way it just isn't for gems.

They quickly look to the clever junior who managed to spook the bird into flying off and, gathering their composure, straighten and square their shoulders. "Thank you," they tell Conan with a rather formal nod. "I appreciate your help."