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Astaroth understood the ire she was plagued by, perhaps far too well, his wings willingly plucked from his back, a fall that he took gracefully. Ulthar wished for them to be submissive minions who bowed at those lesser than them, and though Roth understood, he could not join Leviathan on their plight. Much like he could not join forces with Uriel and Michael, pervade this same damning cycle as their kind continued to be destroyed in the process. No longer was she a fallen seraphim, branded a greater demon and corrupted by the Inferno, Leviathan was almost unrecognizable, save for the meddling spark in their eyes. Lucifer sparked the war, Ulthar’s most beautiful angel, and Leviathan was quick to come up second, a great warrior condemned to be twisted apart in the depths of the Inferno. He’d not join her, but oh could he understand their rage. Roth smirked, a subtle quirk of their lips before nodding in amusement, “I shall do just that.” Roth stopped for a moment, softly, “I hope you come to get everything you’ve wanted; that sliver. I hope it’s worth it.” Soon after, he was gone.