Eyraphel lifted his arm to inspect the fresh dent in his armor. It wasn't badly damaged, thankfully, but still it taunted him. He never would have taken that hit if he had his old bastard sword. He drew his longsword from the dead ogre's chest as it lay bleeding on the ground.
It just doesn't have the same range or weight, he thought.
He bent to one knee and rested his forehead on the sword's hilt.
"General of Vengeance, Angel of the Crimson Wing, I declare this foul beast slain in your name. The innocent of Brighthaven will sleep soundly that we have ridden the town of this skulking predator. I pray that you hear me now, as I beseech thee, Ragathiel, to guide my hand in my endeavor to further your mission while I am prevented from marching on the demons of the Worldwound. May your eyes be ever upon us and your wings shield us."
As he stood, he could feel the nagging in the back of his mind. He won't answer you. Mendev burns while you waste time here, and you've even given up his holy weapon. He stared at the longsword in his hand before sheathing it. It wasn't his fault the weaponsmiths have failed to produce a weapon with the right size and weight. For those trained to use it, the bastard sword was a marvel of balance and power, but the smiths keep claiming "the longsword is faster" or "you want a greatsword for powerful strikes." Few understood the bond Ragathiel's followers have with his faith's weapon, but then few are capable of wielding it as he does.
Perhaps the will of the goddess of fate bars the power of demigods from reaching this place.
Eyraphel paused, staring out from the edge of Brighthaven's cliffs. It was an interesting thought, but it felt almost blasphemous. Could he turn to a god who can reach their follows here? How could he, a paladin and devout soldier in the General of Vengeance's army desert his patron?
You have allies. You'd be a fool to do nothing while you seek guidance from an angel who may never answer you.
It was true. Even the Hand of the Inheritor, Iomedae's herald, had originally served Ragathiel, and though Eyraphel found himself without orders, he was far from useless. He drew the longsword once again and lifted it to the sun. The light gleamed off the sword, the trusted weapon of Iomedae's faithful, dimming only for the spots of fresh ogre blood.
I will offer my sword to the Inheritor. She will guide me back to Ragathiel.
He turned back toward Brighthaven and began the hike back. He wondered how the other Empyreans would treat his new resolution. He had recounted so many of Ragathiel's tales to them that he'd heard rumors of the men calling him the angel's son. Perhaps it was unfounded, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't like that rumor, and with the other talk of "hobgoblins" and bandits about, the Empyreans needed a battle herald of their own.
I may be cut off from you now, General, but one day the son will return to his father's side.