"You are less solid."
It took a force of will Rathma hadn't been certain he'd possessed to contain a mighty groan of frustration. He took a moment to compose himself, before turning to face the speaker.
Now, he was not fond of speaking to Tyrael on most days. Any days, really. He'd gotten the sense that the angel - man - man-angel (oh, his status made something in Rathma's gut clench ) wanted something from him. Knowledge? Probably. A connection? Apparently.
He still found Tyrael's presence unnerving at best, and horrifying at worst. Sure, centuries had gone by as he'd slept, and apparently the Archangel of Justice had been on a personal mission to aid humanity to the best of his ability. But the last time Rathma had encountered him, the angel had been trying to destroy him and all he'd cared about. It had been a miracle that Tyrael changed his mind at the last moment, and Rathma was not a firm believer in miracles.
Whether or not he still feared the angel was debatable. A very long portion of his life had been spent dreading the possibility of his presence. Inarius had feared him, Trag'Oul had feared him, and Rathma had followed suit.
There had been no reason to ever believe that Tyrael wouldn't incinerate him on sight.
Rathma had thought he'd done a good job of discouraging Tyrael's attempts at connecting . They were not family, they would never be family, and outside of business, Rathma wanted nothing to do with the angel-man. He'd shut down previous attempts flatly. Tyrael had seemed to get the message.
Except apparently he hadn't, and here he was coming up to Rathma with statements like... that . What was that even supposed to mean?
"Excuse you?" Rathma twisted his head around - all the way around - to stare down at Tyrael behind him. His tail thumped against the cobbled flooring and the cloak floofed itself up to appear bigger.
Tyrael blinked. Eye-balled his neck. Gestured at him vaguely.
"That's exactly what I mean." He said, waving a hand. "You are- flexible . Fluid. Not solid."
"Nooooo? " Rathma drew out the syllable. What in the seven hells was the angel on about? "Mortals are a delicate blend of fluids and solids. And I, in my entirety, am not a fluid."
Tyrael looked frustrated. Glanced around, seemed to be thinking. Rathma waited, impatiently, and wondered why he was bothering. He didn't like conversations with most, and liked conversations with Tyrael the least. Perhaps the questions were simply...interesting. Curious. Strange.
"Not that- not the state of matter." He began again. "Your form- your body- it's not stuck in one place." Rathma did his very best to convey how much he had no idea what Tyrael was talking about with a glare. Tyrael apparently got the message, and went back to the drawing board.
After a moment during which Rathma seriously considered just walking away, Tyrael looked up again.
"Angels can change form at will. During my time on Sanctuary, and as a mortal, I discovered that- well, mortals cannot. They're stuck." Tyrael patted his arms and legs. "They only get one set, and they cannot change this. Except...you can." He gestured at Rathma again.
Rathma blinked once. Twice. Shuffled his hooves till he was fully facing the angel.
"...Most Nephalem can. Could." He offered. Tyrael looked surprised and delighted by this information. Rathma did not cringe, but his mouth was pursed in a thin line. Before he could ask another question, Rathma had spun around to stalk away once more.
"Why can humans not?" Tyrael called at the retreating figure's back.
"Worldstone!" came the irritable reply. Rubbing his chin, Tyrael wondered if that meant that, now that the stone was gone, humans would be less solid once more.