[Suzerain of Sheol]

Seemingly content to ignore Feenai now that she's done as he wished, Kasdeja glides down the length of the APC, pausing to glance down at Shealtiel.

"Get up." He demands. "You're coming, too."

Cracking open one eye and raising his head fractionally, the old necromancer croaks out a reply. "Or what?"

"That hoary heart of yours is such a frail thing, Shealtiel. So precarious. It would take oh-so-little to..." He reaches out with his mind, psychic fingers caressing the edge of an Atrium, sending a chill through Shealtiel, who shudders uncontrollably at the touch.

"You think... I hold any... reservation toward... dying?" He struggles to breathe, his vision swimming, tears trickling down his creased cheeks. "Death is... no great moving on. Not for me. Abaddon will never... let me rest. Do you... do you know him... the angel... of death? A more noble... creature than... than your father...." He can no longer speak, for the tightness in his chest. There is a pounding in his head, savage, pulsing.

Sensing that he has pushed the pathetic old man to the brink, Kasdeja relents, releasing his grip all at once. Though, he does feel a certain inclination to test Shealtiel's pretentious claims. Perhaps another time.

"You're still coming with me," he says, resuming his walk out of the APC.

Reluctantly, still shivering, Shealtiel climbs from his seat and makes to follow, if only to reign in the idiocy of his companions as the Nephilim invariably decides to test the limits of their patience once again.

Reaching the others, Kasdeja strides into their mist as though he owns the very ground they stand on. With contemptuous disdain, he walks past Michael and comes to a halt before Dara, looking down at her impassively for a long moment. When he finally speaks, he sounds almost solemn, like a young boy struggling to imitate an adult.

"He is not within you, is he? Not like me, no, no. You don't have the NAME imprinted in your soul. You weren't created to be a failure. I wonder... I wonder who you are."