Tyrael didn't quite balk at the word 'accident', but it was obvious it troubled him – his lips drawn together in a thin line and brow furrowed. The dead rising in Tristram once again might have been an unforeseen consequence of his decision to leave behind the High Heavens, but, unforeseen or no, that did not absolve him of responsibility for it. Regardless, he was far from convinced that the reanimation of the local wildlife and the displacement of the corpses that remained inert (for now) had come about merely for the sake of it.
There had to be some purpose to it. Something or someone was causing the dead to rise and to behave thus.
Tyrael's eyes lingered upon a bird perched atop one of the strange metal constructs – its body in a grotesque state of decay, feathers and flesh melted away in places to reveal delicate bones held together with muscle and sinew. The bird, a sparrow of some sort he thought, seemed entirely unfazed by its appearance as it peened a wing devoid of most its feathers. Intermittently, it emitted a thunderous roar that couldn't possibly have been natural.
There were, of course, spirits that occasionally lingered on after death, humans whose souls refused to acknowledge their death and clung to some sort of semi-existence, but even that wasn't quite comparable to this.
"I have never seen anything like it."
He didn't specify whether that was in regard to the behavior of the undead creatures, the seemingly haphazard placement of the corpses outside of their crypts, or the peculiar metal contraptions that littered the graveyard.
His eyes fell from bird to rest upon the construct it sat upon. It seemed almost like a wagon or cart – the parallel wheels, plush seats within, and glass windows of a few of them suggested some manner of transport - albeit the ones he'd seen in the past had been crafted from wood not metal as these were. Additionally, that these carts of sorts were filled with the rotting bodies that Tyrael believed to have been taken from the various opened tombs and coffins in the graveyard was most peculiar. Was this how the deceased were transported in this place?
It seemed unlikely.
"No. The bodies are out here," he agreed. With a suppressed gag, the angel moved closer to the traincar, rising up upon the balls of his feet to peer inside the windows. Corpses occupied every chair within it, all of them in various stages of decomposition – some fresh, some ancient and withered. "But there is something strange about them. I looked inside one of them. It was larger than it should have been and the ground surrounding it was vibrating."
He hadn't investigated beyond that – the odd portal (or so he assumed) tied to the crypts hadn't been his concern. Not yet, at least. Malthael, on the other hand, was. Tyrael didn't trust the angel to not pick back up where he'd left off in Westmarch.
no subject
Tyrael didn't quite balk at the word 'accident', but it was obvious it troubled him – his lips drawn together in a thin line and brow furrowed. The dead rising in Tristram once again might have been an unforeseen consequence of his decision to leave behind the High Heavens, but, unforeseen or no, that did not absolve him of responsibility for it. Regardless, he was far from convinced that the reanimation of the local wildlife and the displacement of the corpses that remained inert (for now) had come about merely for the sake of it.
There had to be some purpose to it. Something or someone was causing the dead to rise and to behave thus.
Tyrael's eyes lingered upon a bird perched atop one of the strange metal constructs – its body in a grotesque state of decay, feathers and flesh melted away in places to reveal delicate bones held together with muscle and sinew. The bird, a sparrow of some sort he thought, seemed entirely unfazed by its appearance as it peened a wing devoid of most its feathers. Intermittently, it emitted a thunderous roar that couldn't possibly have been natural.
There were, of course, spirits that occasionally lingered on after death, humans whose souls refused to acknowledge their death and clung to some sort of semi-existence, but even that wasn't quite comparable to this.
"I have never seen anything like it."
He didn't specify whether that was in regard to the behavior of the undead creatures, the seemingly haphazard placement of the corpses outside of their crypts, or the peculiar metal contraptions that littered the graveyard.
His eyes fell from bird to rest upon the construct it sat upon. It seemed almost like a wagon or cart – the parallel wheels, plush seats within, and glass windows of a few of them suggested some manner of transport - albeit the ones he'd seen in the past had been crafted from wood not metal as these were. Additionally, that these carts of sorts were filled with the rotting bodies that Tyrael believed to have been taken from the various opened tombs and coffins in the graveyard was most peculiar. Was this how the deceased were transported in this place?
It seemed unlikely.
"No. The bodies are out here," he agreed. With a suppressed gag, the angel moved closer to the traincar, rising up upon the balls of his feet to peer inside the windows. Corpses occupied every chair within it, all of them in various stages of decomposition – some fresh, some ancient and withered. "But there is something strange about them. I looked inside one of them. It was larger than it should have been and the ground surrounding it was vibrating."
He hadn't investigated beyond that – the odd portal (or so he assumed) tied to the crypts hadn't been his concern. Not yet, at least. Malthael, on the other hand, was. Tyrael didn't trust the angel to not pick back up where he'd left off in Westmarch.