[ These questions evoke a feeling within him. Something angry, that rubs itself against his despairing like a purring cat; it whispers wordlessly, with the voice of a wicked mouth. Destruction, Sekhmet utters. No falsehoods from her lips, only manipulation. She speaks in half-truths and inevitabilities, she presses gods on their weaknesses and allows them to fail and fall apart. This man, winged and brilliant as he is, speaks with her voice.

Urging him towards failures, towards the willing destruction of things. He may be an evil god, one that has become disorderly and shameful, but he is -- free. A free-willed god, uncontrollable and full of sound and fury.

His hand darts forward, palm shoved across Archangel's mouth, fingers clutching at the line of the creature's jaw. Squeezing, he notes how diminished his strength is. There's nothing to him right now, but the feeble grip of a strong mortal. Even his demigod might has fled him, or perhaps it is slumbering still, the way he had. All the same, he digs his nails into flesh, seeking to feel the bones below. ]

-- you mouthy bastard.

[ If he looks through Archangel, towards the memory of Sekhmet, who is to know? ]

Do you want me to tell you I've given in, is that it? That my despair is greater than my devotion to my promise? Did Osiris send you, too? Open your mouth again to bait me, and I'll rip your pretty tongue out with my teeth.