A curl of smoke drifted out towards the city on an errant breeze, vanishing into the haze of the city. Power too great to be ignored had called him out, and he sat, watching from afar, a small frown on his face. The sky was lovely, and spoke of too much destruction for his tastes. War was ever so unsubtle and uncivilized these days.
The breeze curled back around him after a moment where he sat on Lucifer's veranda, watching the city, and his lip curled in distaste. Death on the wind.
"You play too rough," he murmured, to whatever being had caused the deaths, and sighed, saluting the city, still great, though less than she once was, with his tumbler of scotch.