Pandemonium was grayer than any of them anticipated. Dustier. Rathma likened it to an abandoned tomb, and no one was surprised when he made that comparison.
The ground was unstable and ashen, but that had not stopped them from tearing out across it. It had almost taken a few of them careening to their deaths into the yellowy swirl of energy below. Quick thinking and their newly manifesting wings had taken care of that.
It was jarring, going from the overwhelming brightness of the Heavens to this drab place. At least there was life in Heaven. Here there seemed to only be decay.
Everyone was in a sour mood by now, and the clock was ticking.
There had been a small minute where they all thought Rathma was going to get into a no-holds-barred, all out fight to the death with Imperius. If they were not in such a rush, it most certainly would have happened. Imperius wanted to. Rathma wanted to. Everyone else was at the least curious to see who would win, and at most egging their ancient companion on.
Perhaps later, when Malthael wasn't looming over their heads. There'd be plenty of time to put each other in their places afterwards.
The things they found in Pandemonium disgusted just about everyone. Demons and angels alike imprisoned for eternity. Angels abandoned on the fields, no longer aware of their surroundings. The corpses simply left to petrify. (Did no one in Heaven grieve? Even if they did there would be no closure. )
It felt like an eternity wandering the dusty plains. Reluctantly, they'd split up. Two runes, two groups. Each returned with horror-stories of the nightmare-fuel they'd encountered. At least finding each other had been a simple matter - footprints were easily visible, and did not fade no matter how much time had passed.
They stuck together, instinctively closing ranks likes a herd of elk facing a pack of wolves.
Ramming the door down while perched on top of the Ram itself was not ideal, but not many of them could sustain flight at that juncture. They'd had little choice but to battle to protect it, to get into the bloody fortress. Several of them had nearly been flung from it's steely hull, and no one wanted to count the number of miracles that kept everyone aboard.
Rathma had badly wanted to ask Tyrael what the point of losing one's wings was, but was too preoccupied with keeping the angel from plummeting to his death. Humanity had come with a loss of agility, and he was clearly still not used to his mortal limbs. Rathma compensated accordingly.
No one mentioned the save, or the way the ancient Nephalem stuck near to an angel he supposedly hated. This was good, because he wouldn't have known what to say or do about it. Probably push the damned angel off the nearest tall-walkway (this was a lie. After all the effort he'd put into keeping the bastard alive, Rathma wasn't about to let him stumble into mortal peril all over again.)
Something about their trials in Pandemonium had apparently softened the old Nephalem to his uncle's presence.
They all stormed through Pandemonium, cutting down the twisted things that had once been angels. Its halls were frigid and lifeless. Dense fog hung wherever they looked, and masked the monstrous angels coming to try and tear them apart. They stuck close, and lashed out at anything that came at them.
The necromancers at least seemed somewhat more comfortable. Having them along became a boon when the spirits of their order, and all those lost readily presented themselves to the still-living mortals.
While the Neo-Nephalem gained their powers, Tyrael watched curiously as Rathma spoke quietly with a spirit that seemed... familiar. A short man, thin yet athletic in build, plain of face, and adorned in shadowy garbs that looked very much like what Rathma himself wore. The two briefly touched hands, and the spirit was gone, disappearing into the swirling mass of humanity before them.
Turning around, Rathma and Tyrael's eyes met. The Nephalem did not speak, and his face was blanker than ever. Around his head, the crown of horns gleamed brightly as they sometimes did.
Tyrael thought it might have meant the Nephalem was upset. Perhaps he'd ask about it later.
The group forged ahead. They'd become an indomitable force, their shared experiences and humanity bonding them together tightly. And among them, Rathma and Tyrael had seemingly balanced one-another out. No one mentioned how seamlessly they were able to do battle together. Spell-caster and swordsman, Death and Justice. Around them, a horde of some of the most powerful beings in creation at that time.
Malthael must have known they were there. Either he felt he was so strong that he need not face them himself...or, like Inarius had been so many years before, he was afraid of the mortals coming for him.