The walk back was uneventful, thankfully. It wouldn't be obvious to a casual observer, but there was a hint of fatigue in the blonde woman's steady step, and a sort of bob to her chin that indicated tired shoulders. For the most part her eyes remained forward on the path ahead, unfocused on the backs of the hunters or on the air above them, but every once in a while her empty stare would flicker to nicked rocks or slashed trees; familiar things, marked by men who would never pass this way again.<br/><br/>Dziecko squirmed free of his coat-prison at some point along the way, his coin-sized cloven hooves making little indentations in the snow as he trotted alongside Liliana. Occasionally he would wander to snuff something off the side of the path, a bit of plant or hidden treasure, and a few times he even traveled quite close to the giant man with the turtle-shell luggage. His little chuffs mingled with the casual chatter of the hunters, adding to the quiet medley of background noises. Liliana decided she found the whole thing little different than how it could have been, given different circumstances; she traveled toward the rear of the group, unconsciously providing enough space for a tortoise to walk alongside.<br/><br/>Moscow's familiar horizon met her gaze hours later. The rusted metallic structures and high-reaching ruins must have looked very different once, but now all the ruins of the old world seemed the same; decrepit and empty, forgotten and desolate. Bialystok had been much the same as Moscow in appearance and basically identical in principle. However, this gutted carcass of a metropolis she knew to be thick with life beneath the shade of the ground.<br/><br/>Liliana patiently followed the lead hunter, closing some of the ghost-tortoise distance between herself and the rest. As he slung his gun over his shoulder she reached into her pockets, fingers closing around the handles of her knives loosely. She followed suit as the group of men passed into the long-abandoned train station, the familiar splash of paint evoking another wave of promptly-ignored fatigue in her shoulders and legs. The Polish woman scooped up the Razorback piglet at her feet and fit him snugly back into his coat-compartment, slipping down onto the tracks with the ease of long practice and landing with a little tap of her shoes. The first settlements of the Moscow Underbelly were not far from the entrance, and had been the primary source of civilization for the harvesters in particular. There were people there who would know her face, know the men she had up until very recently walked alongside. She knew she should let people know, including the occasional family members, but the thought had no emotional connotation for her.<br/><br/>Her empty eyes remained half-focused, steps quiet and steady behind the hunters.