"The blood of countless mortals went into sealing Lilith away. The blood of countless more would have been required to release her. Could we, for a simple moment, and let us indulge greed for an additional moment to assume a moment might be, perhaps, the remaining length of my mortal lifespan, leave sleeping demons lie?"

Malthael takes a moment to catch his breath and re-acquire a semblance of composure. His flicks a stray hair from his eyes, straightens his tunic, and makes a noise something between a growl and harumph.

"No, I will not comment on Inarius. Some thoughts are best left alone for my own sad, lingering sanity."

It was a good day, Malthael decided. Not a remarkable one, surely, but an acceptable one in both the quiet it presented and the steaming basket of baking that had been left for him on the table beside the hearth.

Please try and relax today! Hopefully these will help. ~ F

She knew him far too well. And while Malthael believed he was capable of relaxing without something to distract him and keep him in the house, he also acknowledged that such a belief was a touch misplaced.

Working on anything already in the home, though -- that was fair game, as the mortals often said. He shrugged, took a bite from a scone, and went to fetch the stack of letters that had built up in his study.

Oh, Tyrael would have words with him if he realized how much Malthael had let slide. His brother was always far too on top of things for the sheer sake of order. It wasn't as if most of the mail was urgent, and he was sure anyone who knew him well would understand the delay.

One letter caught his eye, though. He hesitated, the scone halfway to his mouth, before settling in more comfortably in his arm chair to read through the most curious message.

How best to keep my workspace clear of fools mortals attempting to 'help'? Tyrael is decidedly less than helpful on this matter.

He raised a brow. The handwriting was familiar. Tone, much the same. Well. This had not happened in quite some time.

“Someone had best not be messing about with the rifts again,” he murmured, before relenting and going off to fetch his quill and ink. His knee was not an ideal writing surface, but he was reluctant to give up the warm chair and accessible basket of treats.

To the task, then. Some facts, he knew. This counterpart of his was alive. Familiar with mortals. On speaking terms with Tyrael. The status of Westmarch and that entire ordeal was up for debate. Was he immortal? Mortal?

He was irritated, surely. A most relatable predicament.

And here he was, about to give him a subpar reply.

The first step in returning peace to your workspace, he wrote, tapping the quill against his lips before continuing, is in understanding you will never quell the mortal urge to help. This urge is as fundamental to humanity as the urge to destroy is to the demons of Hell.

Oh, how he knew that so intimately at this point. He could feel it burning within him even now: a part of his immortal self that had only been honed in his current form.

Thus, your action must be two-fold. First, you must redirect the mortal meddling elsewhere. You may have witnessed this done with their own children. Find them a task. Whether it aids you or merely keeps them busy is your choice.

Second--

His other self was likely going to loathe this part.

Oh, but Malthael was very human, unfortunately; he was reminded of this constantly in just how damn tired he was dealing with the confounding stupidity of other beings.

The so-called Mothman could have been a new type of demon. But, more likely...

"Are you certain you haven't imbued in too many liquid spirits? Or perhaps mistaken the distant glow of a campfire for something more ominous?"

Was he curious? Always, at least a tad. But it also seemed the sort of thing mortals often called a 'wild-goose chase', and he could think of a handful of other individuals far more suited for such a task than he was. Knowing his luck, he would take the time to don his armor only to find something benign stalking about the woods.

"Was your mother an iceberg, by chance?"

"Haven't you?" he asks in return, raising a brow before returning to his book. Without looking, he fetches another pastry from a basket and takes a bite. "I thought so. I have far more important things to do than scrutinize each slice of baking ahead of time. And it is not as if it happens often."

A quiet voice in his mind that sounds an awful lot like Farah comments that, given his explanation, it could hardly be 'accidental'. He scoffs and hesitates only a moment before taking another bite.

Sadly (to us?) no, because he’s familiar with poisoning and knows all sorts of things kill mortals. If anything, he was overtly cautious with eating anything that didn’t come from a kitchen until he learned his way around nature.

Now in a pinch he can scrounge for lunch almost anywhere. He knows what berries are safe, what animals cook up best if you can catch them, which fish are easiest to fillet, and a handful of mushrooms that are okay to eat without giving you a wicked trip. Mostly, he doesn’t have time to go digging/foraging about for things. He’d rather pack trail food (nuts, preserved meats, hard cheese, etc.) and snack while he’s walking.

In terms of human prepared food, he went hog wild once he got over the initial “oh god what is this body why is it here why am I here” reaction. He did not have context about what is considered tasty, what is regional, and what is edible but should not be eaten. Anything he could sample, he did. (That priest running the church he holed up at in Salvos has seen things. Mostly Mal gagging on awful food.)

Outside of the baking, he’s not actually a fan of the Westmarch region cuisine. Much like Lyndon says in Diablo 3, he considers it pretty bland and mushy. He vastly prefers things with a bit of spice and flavour, and he’s a huge fan of lean meats or skewer food. Tyrael should really know by now that if they let him loose in any sort of bazaar, he will “get lost” in the food stalls for a good hour with no consideration to time.