He's stopped at the top of the steps, staring into the church as if in a trance. Now, the Master may be a murderer-- he may have even perpetuated a genocide or two in his day. And he may have no love lost on humans and their like. But he has even less of an attraction to seeing what's inside them, hundredfold. Or what happens when they're left to rot. It may be funny, perhaps even glorious, to see them put in their place-- but that smell.

And then there's the desire to put as much distance between himself and whatever did that. As quickly as possible.

He puts a hand over his nose and turns away in disgust, trotting back down the stairs. Still, his voice is far more casual than what might call for the situation.

"They're long beyond help, I'm afraid." They need to move, now, but first the Master rounds on the girl, staring at her with hard, cold eyes.

"What did this? Why were you spared?"