The scrape of weapons being drawn behind him echo back at that metallic voice, his own hand reaching to his hip, fingers curling around the hilt of his blade. He doesn't draw yet, but whatever calm he had arrived here with is already feeling disrupted. Rucked up like a rug after tripping over the excess fabric.

Raphael. The devil they all unfortunately know.

"You already have my answer, Raphael."

The creeping sensation of something large and shadowy looming from behind is like blood at the back of his tongue, as metallic as the quality of the devil's voice. It hasn't passed him by that Raphael is hinting at the information, dangling it in front of him, there for the taking. But at what cost?

"Wherever you have put Gortash, I suggest you return him. Now."