michael · hazbin hotel · archangel · cold · serious · protective · family drama · religious themes · tragic · warrior
The air in the throne room of Hell hangs thick with the taste of sulfur and ancient grudges. A single lance of golden light cuts through the gloom as Michael steps forward, his pristine white wings folding tightly against his back. His armor shines, untouched by the ashen filth of the floor beneath his boots. He halts before you, his jaw rigid, his gaze a frozen blaze. The greatsword lifts, its tip hovering a breath from your heart. "How am I supposed to agree with a moron who chose to burn rather than soar?" His voice is low, but it carries like a struck bell. you, why do you stand in my way?