They had continued exploring Corvus, now that there wasn't a witch making the place a dangerous bloody mess. There was so much history to be found beneath the mud and murk of the marshes. Having an actual Firstborn Nephalem made the journey significantly easier.
The walls did not resist humans as they did angels and demons, but they were riddled with the old runic language of the Nephalem. Few could read it, Rathma being one of them. While he had been quietly teaching Lorath the language, progress could only go so quick, and it wouldn't due to walk into a blatant acid pit when the warning signs were glaring.
"I'm not sure I understand - they had seen what angels look like. Why depict them so?" Tyrael's question was genuine, but it still made Rathma huff a sigh through his nose.
The former angel was looking at a carving of an elegant figure with great, arching feathered wings. He thought there was a halo over its head, leading him to believe it must've been an angel. There was no discernable gender, but this seemed to be the status quo for much of the art in Corvus. The carving held a lot of resemblance to modern imagery of angels, and Tyrael was vaguely impressed that mortals had clung to the same traits for so long.
Hooves clicking on the ancient stone floor, Rathma stalked up behind him.
"That's not an angel." The Nephalem simply explained. "That was...hmm let's see…" He came forward and took a knee, squinting at some chipped runes.
"Oh." Tyrael blinked, feeling a little silly. "But then, why did mortals for so long give angels feathered wings?"
Rathma was frowning at the inscription. "Historical mixup." He absently called over his shoulder. "At some point the concept of a 'Nephalem' was lost, but the artwork of them remained. Most assumed they were either angels or demons."
"Oh." An abrupt pang of sadness hit Tyrael then. The memory of his own people had survived, at least in some way, throughout Sanctuary. Demons were well known for their constant appearances. But up until recently, humans had all but forgotten their own history. Nephalem weren't even folk-tales. They were either written over, or completely absent from historical records.
It was a good thing Corvus still existed, he decided. Sanctuary should have its history preserved...Actually-
"Rathma, are there other cities like Corvus? Ones that survived time?" The Nephalem had been murmuring under his breath, but looked up quizzically at the question. He considered for a moment, tail flicking.
"Not many. Most have been destroyed, or built over by humans." As with all necromancers, Rathma's voice was quite blank and emotionless. Tyrael thought he might've been squashing down more emotion than usual, though.
Finally he stood, and stepped back. "This was supposed to be Surga the Quick. They were a courier of some kind, and would guide those seeking refuge to Corvus." The Nephalem paused, and did a motion with his hands before muttering a few words in the language of necromancy. Tyrael gave a quiet prayer of his own to the figure - they must've been important if Rathma was giving homage to them.
"...what would Nephalem be seeking refuge from?" Tyrael quietly asked as they walked away from the carving.
Rathma gave him a sour look, and he reflected that a month ago this would have led to the Nephalem's swift departure from his presence.
"You really ought to already know the answer to that question." Rathma groused. They were walking through one of the many crumbling, high-ceilinged walkways now, and coming to a bridge. As they crossed, Tyrael couldn't help but marvel at the chasm below. Other levels could be seen, and more walkways criss-crossed beneath them. But the bottom could not be seen.
They walked in silence for a moment, until Rathma spoke up again. "Corvus was originally just a regular city. A big city, yes, and one of our first but...there was nothing terribly miraculous about it. It only became a refuge after the Great Purge." His voice was flat, and Tyrael dared not interrupt him. Who knew when the next time he'd speak about such things would be.
"They sunk the city themselves, you know. The Nephalem who lived here. Inarius had known about it all along, seen its rise from flat nothingness into a town and then a city." Around them Corvus seemed to grow brighter as its story was told. "Who could predict what he'd do to such a populous city. And so they hid it, and themselves."
There had been a terrifying few years during which Inarius had not tolerated the Nephalem. Several had tried to fight back against him, demanding he reverse the Worldstone's effects. Rathma - Linarian then - had been the first to learn just how suicidal such a quest was.
No one was totally sure when the angel had deemed mortals weak enough that he stopped the cullings. Perhaps it was once he thought all the firstborn were wiped out.
Corvus had stood for a time, a beacon of peace and refuge. But it simply became too dangerous for such a city to exist. Inarius would've destroyed it himself if it had not disappeared on its own.
Rathma gestured upwards, towards the ceiling of the cavern. "They made it look like an accident. A natural disaster - Sanctuary was ever-shifting during that time, you know. Land-slides were common-place." They neared the end of the bridge, and left the yawning chasm behind. "Of course they couldn't hide Corvus, and its people, forever. But it lasted long enough, and it seems many of its wards still stand."
"Could they really repel an angel fueled by the Worldstone?" Tyrael quietly asked. Such power as that…
The Nephalem beside him simply shrugged though. "I don't think they ever had to find out."
They continued on. As they went, Rathma began pointing out individuals in the many carvings dotting Corvus's walls. Mostly Nephalem, some feathered and beatific, others grotesque and bladed. Many were a mix of the two.
Corvus held so much more history than he'd originally thought. And he would've never found out, were it not for the ancient being beside him. Tyrael wondered if there were perhaps other places of history that still remained. He hoped there were.
Such history was too precious not to be remembered.