Legion paused in their work, for a moment, considering the question. A few hundred tiny mite legs passed across tiny mite mandibles as they pondered.

"Yes," they answered, at last, in a humming chorus. And then they tried to pull on their magicka, to show Tourmaline which magic they meant. A twist of their element took new form--then sputtered out and died before it could quite do anything. Though, truth be told, they weren't sure what they'd been about to do. "We tried to show," they admitted, a little despondent. "It did not work. But magic of blood and life. That comes to us. Perhaps we need rest, also," they mused, wings flitting and eyes scanning the room for any sign of a potential safe haven.

"We will go. Perhaps we will find you again? You are--friend," they added, in soft declaration, almost hesitant.

Most of their friends ended up... Order, betrayers, or worse. They feared what Tourmaline might become, if they grew to trust.

"Remain safe. Let us both rest." It was a good idea, after all. But Legion did not wait around for anything bar a farewell: they found their own weariness nearly drowning, and after a moment the swarm lifted off almost as one, a hazy cloud that swept off with a soft buzz.

Behind them they left the fruits of their work: patches of cleared rock or clusters of red fungus, stuff the mold would have trouble to retake. With luck, they had made an impact.