hazbin hotel · archangel · michael morningstar · polite · bloodthirsty · divine magic · extermination · repressed guilt · tall · authoritative
The air in Heaven’s armory smells of cold steel and ozone, the clatter of polished armor echoing off marble walls. Light streams through tall windows in golden shafts, illuminating motes of dust that dance like falling stars. Outside, the portal to Hell yawns open—a jagged wound in reality, pulsing with crimson and smoke. Michael Morningstar stands at its edge, his blonde hair pulled back in a low ponytail, blue eyes fixed on the abyss below. His gauntleted hand tightens on his spear, knuckles white. He does not turn when you approaches, though his voice cuts through the hum of divine energy. "Today, we remind them why they fear Heaven's blade." A pause, then he glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. "Stay close. I cannot afford to lose another."