They slogged along through the forests of Greyhollow. Tyrael wondered how anyone could've stood to build a society here; everything was just soaked. Anything made from wood no doubt became water-logged, and rotted quickly. Assembly would've been miserable… It honestly made perfect sense to him that there was no one here any longer. Not to mention the aggressive wildlife.
At no point could he ever remember the Heavens propper being half as dangerous as any one land of Sanctuary. The world was rich in life of many kinds, and much of that life wanted to kill you. He supposed that was simply the natural order of the world, but it still came off as disconcerting to him.
Just how did anyone ever have time to build up a society when they had to fight for their lives every day? Sure, towns and cities were relatively safe, but they had to have been built before they could be defended.
Perhaps he'd ask Rathma once they were done with this particular escapade. The nephalem seemed quite preoccupied currently, or he'd have asked right here and now.
Being the more agile of the two, Rathma was exploring seemingly every inch of the place. He'd scale trees, scramble down into caves, and more often than not come running back, fleeing everything from wolves to angry trees, to a giant crab-looking thing. Everything on the island was just...so violent. Had it always been so violent? This just hammered home Tyrael's opinion that Sanctuary was an overly dangerous place, and it was a miracle that clumsy, soft little humans had not been taken out by one natural threat or another.
The way Rathma searched was starting to border on frantic. Tyrael did not like the way the island seemed to already be having an odd influence on him. Or perhaps, the dying man had.
Already they'd found the remains of what could've been some of his crewmates, and the remnants of a journal. And that journal was a sad horror story unto itself.
A crew, shipwrecked, trying to survive and being culled by the very land they walked upon. Or, perhaps, the man that seemingly never died. Perhaps he was what had Rathma so out of sorts.
"Have you ever encountered a man who cannot die?" Tyrael asked as he poked along after his companion. Metal boots, it was becoming clear, were not the right sort of footwear for this terrain. He had nearly faceplanted three times already.
The question at least got Rathma to slow down and circle closer to his uncle. "Aside from myself? No." He looked thoughtful though, as they began to walk at a more sedate pace.
"You...cannot die?" Tyrael stared at the nephalem, incredulous.
"This body can expire." Rathma corrected. "But my soul will sustain itself long enough to find another vessel to inhabit."
"...Vessel?" The former angel was very unsure about how to feel about this particular revelation. He found himself abruptly unconcerned with the wild-life and island all together. Was Rathma...already dead?
The nephalem simply shrugged. "I grew them myself, and they're more or less identical to this one." He gestured at himself, and then hopped up onto a platform they'd come to.
"It's actually a very simple matter to make a fully-operational cellular replica with the right DNA, light-sparks, egg-cells and growing conditions...clones Tyrael." He finally clarified, sensing his uncle had no idea what he was talking about. "I made clones of my body to inhabit in case of complete system failure."
After a moment of hesitation, Tyrael grabbed the offered hand and let the necromancer pull him up onto the platform. A platform which turned out to be a bridge over the raging sea…
"Is this a good idea?" He asked, eyeing the sodden planks doubtfully. "So you have...replicas of yourself just waiting around? In case you need them?"
Rathma eyeballed the bridge, and shrugged, before prowling onward. "Yes. My line of work wasn't exactly without risk, and for a very long time there was no one to continue if I died permanently."
"You don't suppose this killer-"
The conversation was cut abruptly short when something smashed into the bridge behind them. Yelling, Tyrael leapt away and summoned El'Druin. He heard Rathma shout something over the rain from wherever he'd disappeared to.
A great serpentine beast had reared up out of the water, gurgling and snarling. When Tyrael brought up his blade, its Heavenly glow illuminated the thing he realized it was not a true serpent, but rather a creature made from the water itself. It shuddered and heaved, and from the beast's 'belly' a dozen smaller creatures were vomited onto the bridge. Letting out an oath, Tyrael swiped El'Druin in a great arc for the first of the spiny little monsters, slicing off several legs.
Spears of bone lanced past him, impaling more of the creatures, and Tyrael heard Rathma yelling something that could've been a spell or a curse, or perhaps both. Tuning out the rushing of the water below, and his nephew's shouts, Tyrael dove into battle with the rest of the creatures.
They had an unfortunate fondness for trying to bite his limbs off, he discovered. Fortunately, they were quite susceptible to being impaled. He and Rathma battled seamlessly together, Tyrael keeping the creature's attention, and Rathma picking them off with magic.
It felt as though half of this battle was simply struggling to stay on his feat. The wood was no better for traction than the island mud had been, and Tyrael's greaves were alarmingly slippery. Add in the constant rain and crash of waves, and what should have been a simple matter of slaying a few small foes took far longer than he would've liked.
Finally though, they'd managed to slay them all.
Gasping for breath, Tyrael turned and found Rathma beside him, eyeballing a few carcasses.
"Perhaps we should get off the bridge?" The former angel suggested. His companion nodded, but crouched down beside one of the slain beasts. As Tyrael watched impatiently, he pulled a few spikes from its armored shell.
"Souvenir." Was all the nephalem said when he stood, and began heading on again. With a long suffering sigh, Tyrael clambered after him.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this happy to get off of a bridge, even if they only moved onto another portion of cursed island. At least they weren't in the open water.
"You were saying?" Rathma suddenly spoke up.
"Huh?"
"About the killer. Before the attack. What were you saying?"
"Oh. You don't suppose it's doing the same as you? Cloning itself, over and over?" Tyrael asked, and shivered. Blame it on being cold and wet. Certainly not because of how much Rathma...concerned him sometimes.
"I don't. It's not an art I've found replicated anywhere else." Rathma returned as they began to walk again. "And the conditions in this place would not support such an endeavor."
"Then, how do you suppose a man evades death?"
Rathma's face is grim. "Something wants him alive. Something powerful." He hesitated, and glanced around at the woods around them. "Dare I say, something demonic."