Azrael walks across the path and wonders what has happened over the years to the soldiers he had once greeted. The encounters used to be one of his favorites among the living cursed. The way that their fears spread across their faces as he whispered the last dying words of a favorite relative. Or the sweat dripped down their brow when he didn't quiver in fear.
He missed the challenge of knowing that he had the delightful skills of knowing their minds while not immortal. While some proved challenging to approach, they made him feel alive like nothing else. Nothing is as delicious as the fight at the blade's edge, especially with the knife carved off the delicate bone of one of the great Saints.
