A neatly rolled and tied scroll of parchment happens to land in Malthael's message box. There are several scratched out sentences on it, as if the sender had trouble deciding what to ask. In very familiar handwriting, beneath all that mess, lies the innocuous question: "How best to keep my workspace clear of-" The word 'fools' is crossed out, substituted for: "mortals attempting to 'help'? Tyrael is decidedly less than helpful on this matter."
It was a good day, Malthael decided. Not a remarkable one, surely, but an acceptable one in both the quiet it presented and the steaming basket of baking that had been left for him on the table beside the hearth.
Please try and relax today! Hopefully these will help. ~ F
She knew him far too well. And while Malthael believed he was capable of relaxing without something to distract him and keep him in the house, he also acknowledged that such a belief was a touch misplaced.
Working on anything already in the home, though -- that was fair game, as the mortals often said. He shrugged, took a bite from a scone, and went to fetch the stack of letters that had built up in his study.
Oh, Tyrael would have words with him if he realized how much Malthael had let slide. His brother was always far too on top of things for the sheer sake of order. It wasn't as if most of the mail was urgent, and he was sure anyone who knew him well would understand the delay.
One letter caught his eye, though. He hesitated, the scone halfway to his mouth, before settling in more comfortably in his arm chair to read through the most curious message.
How best to keep my workspace clear of fools mortals attempting to 'help'? Tyrael is decidedly less than helpful on this matter.
He raised a brow. The handwriting was familiar. Tone, much the same. Well. This had not happened in quite some time.
“Someone had best not be messing about with the rifts again,” he murmured, before relenting and going off to fetch his quill and ink. His knee was not an ideal writing surface, but he was reluctant to give up the warm chair and accessible basket of treats.
To the task, then. Some facts, he knew. This counterpart of his was alive. Familiar with mortals. On speaking terms with Tyrael. The status of Westmarch and that entire ordeal was up for debate. Was he immortal? Mortal?
He was irritated, surely. A most relatable predicament.
And here he was, about to give him a subpar reply.
The first step in returning peace to your workspace, he wrote, tapping the quill against his lips before continuing, is in understanding you will never quell the mortal urge to help. This urge is as fundamental to humanity as the urge to destroy is to the demons of Hell.
Oh, how he knew that so intimately at this point. He could feel it burning within him even now: a part of his immortal self that had only been honed in his current form.
Thus, your action must be two-fold. First, you must redirect the mortal meddling elsewhere. You may have witnessed this done with their own children. Find them a task. Whether it aids you or merely keeps them busy is your choice.
His other self was likely going to loathe this part.
Have you tried ignoring them? They will not go away. You, however, would be best served by learning to function as though they are non-existent. The sooner you do so, the happier less tetchy you will be.
