In the morning sun, the Golf of Westmarch didn't look quite as unnerving as it had several nights ago. Tyrael found it to be rather beautiful even. It was a light steel-blue, with bright arcs of aquamarine where the waves crested. It reminded him very much of the Pools of Wisdom - although, breath-taking as those had been, thinking of them still made something in him shudder.
He didn't think he'd ever understand how Malthael could stand to stare into that Chalice for so long. Its wondrous effects had been so...consuming. Sometimes, Tyrael wondered if that had been what drove him to madness, and not the mortal souls. Or perhaps, a combination of the two.
There was little time to dwell on thoughts of Wisdom and Chalices though. This morning, he and Rathm would be flying out to Greyhollow island.
The Horadrim would not be accompanying them, per a loud argument during which Rathma had insisted that whatever they were facing was too dangerous. It was not often that the former aspect of Justice itself lost an argument. Perhaps his nephew had more angel in him than he'd thought, or perhaps he simply had a point. Lorath had not been pleased, but he and his fellows had seen the logic of the argument. If they all went, and it was too much...if they all went, and they all died, no one would be there to carry on their work, and get someone who could take care of the island. They had to stay behind.
Tyrael had suited up in his angelic armor once more, its weight familiar and comforting. He was perhaps more excited for this venture then he should have been, for it had been a long while since he'd had a chance to really use his blad. Down time was nonexistent in the Heavens. Angels were constantly fighting, constantly preparing for war, Tyrael included. Readying himself to face this new threat was something he (perhaps foolishly) welcomed.
After checking over his armor one last time, the former angel glanced back at his nephew. Rathma bore armor of his own.
Segmented plates elegantly mimicked a ribcage, forming his breastplate. The design allowed for unrestricted movement, but still kept him protected. The pattern was mimicked in the bracers, and the leg-plates. Looking his nephew over, Tyrael found he was satisfied that the nephalem was well-protected. He did find it odd that his hands and hooves went unclad, but he supposed those were the parts of his body Rathma was most likely to shift, if needed. Completing the look was his cloak, waving lazily in the breeze, and the dim-red horns that framed his head.
Standing beside Syr'Val's boney snout, he looked every bit the commander of the risen dead he really was. Tyrael had seen the ornate armors those of his order typically bore, but Rathma's were something on a completely different level. Looking closely at the ivory-and-bone, Tyrael suspected it had been crafted by an original nephalem smith, and later outfitted to suit its wearer's needs.
Waves splashed noisily, and the lich-dragon let out a low "Wyyrrrfff." Noise. Rathma mumbled something to it, and rubbed at its mandible. After a moment, he looked back over his shoulder to Tyrael.
"Shall we depart?"
His armor was secured, and there was a magical crackle about him. He could feel El'Druin's comforting presence, ready to be summoned if needed. Tyrael nodded.
A corner of Rathma's mouth quirked up, and he turned without a word to grab hold of a spike jutting from Syr'Val's neck. The lich did the rest, swinging its master up onto it's back. Tyrael watched, vaguely impressed, and somewhat unsure of how he was supposed to repeat such an act.
No need it turned out. As he approached, one of the beast's claws delicately plucked him up front the ground. Tyrael let out a shout as he was hoisted up, up onto the space between its wings.
Waiting for him was Rathma, who watched without expression. Tyrael knew him well enough to know the nephalem was laughing internally. Deciding to be very mature about the whole thing, Tyrael stuck his tongue out.
"Make yourself comfortable- and I advise that you hold onto something." The nephalem cheerfully offered, before turning to face the water's edge. Syr'Val let out a rumbling growl beneath them, and Tyrael found a particularly large pair of spikes to grip. He marvelled at the way Rathma stood upright, but he supposed the nephalem was for more dexterous than he - and probably used to perching atop his beasts.
Rathma hissed something in a serpentine tongue that was different from any language Tyrael had heard him use before. There was no time for comment or even thought as the undead dragon let out a below, wings spreading wide. It heaved itself skyward with a single flap of spectral wings, soaring up, up above the Gulf of Westmarch far quicker than Tyrael had thought possible.
All worries about the island, about the Horadrim, about anything at all fled him.
Tyrael may have had the body of a human, but he would always have the soul of an angel. And there were few places an angel would rather be than soaring up through the sky. Closing his eyes, he felt a weight upon his shoulders dissipate. He hadn't realized how much he...missed this. Flying. Being utterly free.
True, Syr'Val's wings were not his own, and he had little control over where they were headed, but the wind was in his face and whistling in his ears. Gravity had been forced to remove its iron claws from him. They could've been flying into the maws of Hell itself for all he cared right now.
The sky was home. For the briefest of moments, Tyrael was home.
When he finally opened his eyes, Tyrael had no idea how much time had passed. Rathma was looking back at him curiously, and he looked away, embarrassed. He hadn't meant to get so lost in sensation...
The sea heaved beneath them, a reminder of their true goal here. Above, a storm brewed, hissing and stirring with power.
Tyrael stowed himself; they had a job to do. The sky would be here for him when they were done.
Made some arts for this chapter :D
post / 629333661935861760 / piece-for-chapter-36-of-solid-state-rathma-may
(just make sure ya erase the spaces to use the link)