Shealtiel stares openly at the angelic creature, his weary mind struggling to recall decades-old angel lore from his Rabbinical studies before the apocalypse. Of course, back then, he hadn't
really believed in such things, not like this. They had been metaphors, emanations, images... this thing, who called itself
Asasiah, was not like that at all.
Angel... and human... and yet, unflawed. Not appalling. Not a sister of Kasdeja. And the vehement hatred that the mere word had awoken in her... no, not a Nephilim, this one. Something else entire.
There was no time to consider the
other he had glimpsed from his once glance into her soul, that black blot staining the fiery perfection of her spirit. Whatever mystery lay twisted within her, it would need to wait. This situation was out of control. It reminded him of the early days of the Eschaton.
Turning to
Mehetabel, trying to order his thoughts and focus on the matter at hand,
Shealtiel asks her, "What is this Power you speak of? And where? If it is awoken, then so too is the Nephilim."
And we all saw what the Nephilim was capable of...
The aged woman regards him with a mix of pity and fear.
"I do not know to tell you. None have entered the shrine and returned alive. Something dwells there, an ancient terror, unmatched in the psykosis."
Shealtiel considers her words for a long moment, beginning to get a troubling sense of what might lay ahead. He quests out with his senses, tentatively... and there it is. He can feel it even at this distance, and above all else, he can feel the weight of
age upon its soul. An antediluvian malevolence.
After a moment, he speaks, a single word, a question, almost dreading the answer. "Where?"
Mehetabel meets his gaze, though whether she thinks him bold for the endeavor or utterly mad is impossible to discern. Her voice sounds disconsolate, lost.
"A few miles down the coast... the ruins of the Basilica of Alyki..."
She takes a moment and turns her regard to Asasiah. "You're coming then?" she asks as though she fears the answer. "Do you... do you know what awaits? Are you strong enough to stop it?"
Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.