So literal was the world of men these days. As magic had bled from the notions and notice of the masses, so too had all the grace and poetry of the world. It was still said that words had power, but it was a pale echo of what that sentiment had once meant; and that knowledge, disregarded into secrecy over the generations since, had become the exploited tool of those who blundered upon it. They wielded with brute force what had once been handled with finesse. Men were dumb, impressionable, foolish; this one as much as any.

"Think not of how I might appear,
Such simple thoughts are seldom right;
What demons are, you see, is fear,
And that is what will always fights."

As Etrigan spoke, crackles of infernal incantation dancing through the rough and viscous lava flow of his words, he unleashed a slow and rattling breath, that tumbled from his lips like ash and smoke, clawing at the rooftop like a persistent shadowy fog. A minor conjuration, a mere puff of brimstone and dark magic; but into it, Etrigan whispered the screams of the damned, faint echoes of pain and suffering to chill the bones and curdle the blood. This emerald knight spoke of Hell as if it were some mere turn of phrase; were it up to him, Etrigan would have taken the time to remidy and reeducate him of that misunderstanding, but his other self, his vessel, clawed at the back of his consciousness, urging him towards the purpose for which he had been unleashed.

Etrigan's eyes narrowed, shrinking into smouldering hellfire coals.

"Perhaps it is you who now should mosey,
Back to somewhere quaint and cosy,
For it is unwise for you to stand,
Between this demon, and his task at hand."