While every now and then Murmur would make a point to complain about this or that about the Nest he still stuck around, the complaints were almost a game at this point. A flitting presence here and gone again, yet somehow he always seemed to be around when he was needed. He wasn't perhaps friends with all of the demons, but he minded his manners and had at least made some headway with the one who made and stocked the tea that he liked.

Tonight, however, something had kept him away when the fight first broke out.

Bar fights weren't uncommon, so much so that by now the angel had grown accustomed to ignoring the cacophony whenever it sprung up. The demons would deal with it handily and things would go back to their usual murmur of noise. At first he'd thought it was just that, right up until the scent of brimstone and charred feathers caught his nostrils.

A blast of frigid air cutting through the heady gloom announced his presence before he appeared, eyes black as they took in the carnage. He moved too calmly, too certain through the chaos to be picked out easily until it was too late for one of the attacking angels who only had enough time to let out a gutteral scream before hitting the floor sans heart. Another, responding to his brother's call found himself slammed across the room first by a massive wing used in lieu of a fist, then pinned under an unforgiving spike of ice. Murmur would always argue he was no warrior, and yet in a moment like this he was as cold and certain as an executioner's axe.

"What is the meaning of this?" He boomed, a voice resonant like thunder, that shook the very foundations of the building. If nothing else he hoped to spook the others away from their onslaught. Make it easier to chase down the responsible party.