[Whether this was some Council plot or not, Death didn't know but frankly wouldn't have been surprised: the Charred Council was cunning in its machinations, in its manipulations, and it made sure to keep things moving as it determined necessary if the existence of Panoptos and its ilk were anything to go by. If the existence of the Horsemen was anything to go by.
But it was the number which stilled Death, made him step back after the words settled.]
A hundred years?
[The words left him in a low rasp. Had he been lost in the workings of the Well for so long? War had only recently... It'd been far less than a century when he'd left. Time could be changed, rewound, invaded, so it was possible time spent in the Well was slowed... Or had the Well taken him along with the souls of his slain brethren, only for something to draw him back? The Charred Council and its leash on his soul, maybe.
That Azrael shortly lost the will to look Death in the mask said plenty: guilt. His mouth worked behind the bone-white, a scowl sliding from one side to the other, and questions began to multiply, giving no reply to the thanks; he'd done what was necessary to accomplish his goal.
At least what the angel said first was reassuring: War was free, hale, whole, unbroken. If War thought to free Azrael, that answered one scattered batch of questions. At the same time, it led to more: why had it taken so long for that freedom? Uriel and her remnants had been on Earth, fending off Hell's army to the best of their weakened ability. It was as the Nephilim began to fold his arms that his name was brought into this.]
Abaddon.
[Vovin. Dragon. Destroyer. He'd once known Abaddon to be honourable, if mulish and proud; had known the Charred Council sent War to the White City to deal with Abaddon's brilliant sacrament bomb, more a sign of zealotry and short thinking, maybe age and desperation. No more, though. How long exactly had Azrael known? From the time of his imprisonment?
(Nathaniel had been torn in the admission, but Death had been told of Abaddon's new name after travelling between worlds and gathering answers. But perhaps that was the difference of one hundred years: Azrael had time enough for the knowledge to set.)
Still, it set Death's teeth on edge, tension in his shoulders, and a snarl under his breath. After all: why would Azrael think he'd be called before the Council? He'd had to have known before.
Probably the only thing keeping Death from calling Harvester and bringing it to Azrael's neck to press for information was knowing he'd get his answers, and maybe their current surrounds. This was not a place to draw attention, if only because Death knew little of the limitations he had room to dance within, and Death was not keen to deal with interruptions he didn't have to. So instead he reached out with every intention to gather a fistful of fine fabrics and yank. Whether or not he caught the angel didn't matter: there was much left for Azrael to explain.]
:blobsweat: sorry about the length—
But it was the number which stilled Death, made him step back after the words settled.]
A hundred years?
[The words left him in a low rasp. Had he been lost in the workings of the Well for so long? War had only recently... It'd been far less than a century when he'd left. Time could be changed, rewound, invaded, so it was possible time spent in the Well was slowed... Or had the Well taken him along with the souls of his slain brethren, only for something to draw him back? The Charred Council and its leash on his soul, maybe.
That Azrael shortly lost the will to look Death in the mask said plenty: guilt. His mouth worked behind the bone-white, a scowl sliding from one side to the other, and questions began to multiply, giving no reply to the thanks; he'd done what was necessary to accomplish his goal.
At least what the angel said first was reassuring: War was free, hale, whole, unbroken. If War thought to free Azrael, that answered one scattered batch of questions. At the same time, it led to more: why had it taken so long for that freedom? Uriel and her remnants had been on Earth, fending off Hell's army to the best of their weakened ability. It was as the Nephilim began to fold his arms that his name was brought into this.]
Abaddon.
[Vovin. Dragon. Destroyer. He'd once known Abaddon to be honourable, if mulish and proud; had known the Charred Council sent War to the White City to deal with Abaddon's brilliant sacrament bomb, more a sign of zealotry and short thinking, maybe age and desperation. No more, though. How long exactly had Azrael known? From the time of his imprisonment?
(Nathaniel had been torn in the admission, but Death had been told of Abaddon's new name after travelling between worlds and gathering answers. But perhaps that was the difference of one hundred years: Azrael had time enough for the knowledge to set.)
Still, it set Death's teeth on edge, tension in his shoulders, and a snarl under his breath. After all: why would Azrael think he'd be called before the Council? He'd had to have known before.
Probably the only thing keeping Death from calling Harvester and bringing it to Azrael's neck to press for information was knowing he'd get his answers, and maybe their current surrounds. This was not a place to draw attention, if only because Death knew little of the limitations he had room to dance within, and Death was not keen to deal with interruptions he didn't have to. So instead he reached out with every intention to gather a fistful of fine fabrics and yank. Whether or not he caught the angel didn't matter: there was much left for Azrael to explain.]
Keep talking.