Zular sprawled across the lichen-stained crypt, an occasional piteous moan escaping his demoniac body.
“What’s the point?” He wailed.
“What are you prattling on about, Zu?” Cassiel stretched out her luminous wings, sunlight reflecting into Zular eyes causing him to squint against the exquisite radiance.
“I hate campaign season.” He rolled off the concrete vault, landing with a thud at the base of Cassiel’s pedestal. “The Angel-Devil shoulder debates are so predictable. There’s no challenge winning by default. Everyone picks ‘evil’.”
“Stop whining,” Cassiel said, massaging her migraine racked forehead. “You don’t have to absolved the repentant mess afterwards.”