[Suzerain of Sheol]

Returning groggily to consciousness, Shealtiel stirs himself from his stupor, coming to a sitting position on the edge of his crate. The bone-weariness has turned to pain now, and breathing is a labor. He'll need time to recover from this; no more reserves to call on. Any more magick will kill him, at the moment.

He watches Michael assist the red-haired psychic out off the manhole with exhausted indifference, somehow unsurprised. She seems rather worse for wear, but there's nothing he can do for her at the moment; he can barely keep himself conscious.