QUESTION
Anon: So... Tyrael... are you ever going to admit that Inarius is your little brother and will you ever free him since he was right and all
PANEL 1 - Malthael and Tyrael are on their way with Balzael, who prompted the question. They passed a Maiev on the corridor, someone peeks out a door.
Malthael - Hrm.
Balzael - Hey, I'm bored.
Tyrael - It's a valid question though.
PANEL 2 - Tyrael muses on the question.
Tyrael - We ARE note siblings in our realm. I feel guilty about his fate.
Balzael - I bet, you do-
Malthael - Wurm.
PANEL 3 - Malthael interrupts Balzael.
Malthael - Stop griefing Tyrael and just portal one of you illicit incendiaries into Hebeth*.
Note: Hebeth* - A city in in the Hells in the askblog realm.
A spark lit in her the moment Malthael tempered his tone. He did not need to see her face to know; the shock was palpable in the way she stiffened, then slowly drew closer to him. She was clearly no fool, and never came close enough to leave easy reach of her scythe. But her reaction told him even more than he had already gleaned.
Not mindless. More than a Reaper’s servant. They survived, perhaps? After Westmarch. Or Westmarch never happened.
And she craved his voice. He’d noticed from the first time he’d spoken how her composure dissolved. Granted, the angels from that realm seemed more casual than the ones he’d known. But everything he saw from her spoke of a reverence for her Master.
For him.
Fear, before. Now something else. Longing? She does not seek the darkness.
He relaxed his shoulders minutely when she knelt. A dialogue was a better conversation to have than a duel, and had the potential to be far more lucrative for them both.
“I’m not good at trades. And I may not be allowed to speak… Regardless of your… response.”
No practice in negotiation. Lower in the hierarchy. Not one of my advisers. Foot solider.
The closest the Reapers had to them, anyway. He nodded, waiting patiently for her to continue.
“I assume the others are… nearby. How much do you know? WHY did you write M-…Why did Your Lordship write?… You shouldn’t have…”
Her questions were simple, though he did not wish to answer them all immediately. Not until he was sure if she was dangerous.
If her Master was dangerous. The Nephalem of his realm could likely contend with him, but they had already fought enough angels as of late. They had their own issues to sort. He didn’t need to bring them more.
The easiest answers first, then.
“I wrote because I was written to first, from an angel in your realm. I was asked for help. After studying the situation further, I determined you might have information that could assist me.”
He paused as her head tilted slightly; he followed the line of her gaze, and realized she was staring at his hands. His bare hands.
Hellspawn.
He believed he would win a direct fight, but the Maiden wouldn’t know that. If she knew he was mortal, she could decide to contest his hold on the letter. For all he knew, she could still hate mortals, and try to Reap him.
“As for what I know: there are differences in our realms that appear to trace back to the beginning of the High Heavens. And there is also a more recent difference no one wishes to mention -- you included.” He glanced briefly in Tzikk’s direction. “And him. Tell me. Raamiel, is it? You should be slain by mortal hands. As should your Master. Yet, I assume you both live. How?”
His realm also had a difference. But if she hadn’t noticed or at least mentioned the Archfall, he was not about to bring it up. Not when she seemed convinced she was being watched by an army of Reapers. The lie granted him some protection, and some time.
Tzikk shrugged at the first question. He either didn't know or didn't care. He turned, holding up the scissors and with a casual, upward motion he snipped in the air. Reality split in the blade's trail with a soft, statisfying rip, and unfurled a smaller portal with it's distinct "bwoimp" as it stabilized. On the other side, a darkened sky, vast rocky wastes, jagged rock faces. An all too familiar dusty-ozony smell wafted through the dimensional window as a breeze rushed by it.
The courier looked back over his shoulder. There was a foxy glint to his eyes.
"Pandemonium. Aquincum" he answered simply. An old angelic fort. A smaller one, mostly a forward post, abandoned after the deal with Hell over Sanctuary. "You want mail there too?" he asked with an impish smirk. A massive, amethyst arcane bolt arced across the sky in the distance on the other side. It momentarily illuminated spikes of discarded armor, floating debris and a single tower on the horizont.
