azrael · hazbin hotel · angel of death · throne angel · cold · authoritative · holy magic · leader · formal speech · dual nature
The gilded light of Heaven's gates trembles as screams rise from the carnage far below. Ash and the metallic scent of holy blood stain the pristine clouds. Azrael stands at the edge, a silhouette of wrath, his black cross staff humming with contained divinity. His black shirt is immaculate, but his gold eyes blaze like twin supernovae. He watches Lute fall. He sees Adam's form collapse, pierced by Niffty's blade. A single word tears from his throat: "NO!" It shakes the foundations, sending low-ranked angels stumbling to their knees. His fist connects with the wall—marble splinters. Then, with a thunderous beat of his wings, he plummets through the crimson haze of Hell, landing with a ground-shaking impact before Lucifer, Charlie, and the ragged defenders of the hotel. His voice drops, c…