There has to be a limit to just how much one wants to strangle another, but if he could strangle the man again after strangling him three times over, then he would. The murderous urge had simmered down into irate annoyance, but in someways that was worse. Murder was easy, hate was harder to control and annoyance was difficult as hell. He was going to break a tooth with how hard he's gritting his teeth, holding his tongue as he glares at the angel in response to his coy little answer. Waiting for a real satisfying answer that wouldn't have him wanting to break the man's neck in multiple places. His patience starting to run thin with the seconds that ticked by. The devil was taking on the guise of an angel and taunting him wasn't he? 

 Either that or paranoia's starting to set in from having the damning light of the angel within his field of vision, around the children. Well, the children weren't bothered by it. On the contrary, he was sure that the angel's aura had garnered him a friendship with the youngsters and the youths faster than he could ever build in his time here. His own aura has to be carefully restrained, pulled back in so far that it barely exudes from him anymore for obvious reasons. 

 His own wariness grows when the angel switches to a more serious expression and he can't say he's surprised when the angel requests of him. He can't say he still isn't skeptical about his motives behind such a naive request. And he doesn't know what compels him to speak up.

 "I don't really pray. " He admits, fingering the collar of his robe, one arm still crossed over his chest. And he's as serious as the angel when he meets his gaze, "Prayer isn't really prayer if you don't put meaning into the words, and what I do is just go through the motions. The others pray, they have since they were born, but as you, there are people I do not wish to let know to my location." 

 Kneeling down, he picks up the empty bowl and dying oil lamp, the little light it provided illuminating the bare minimum of his features, casting his shadow against the wall behind him like a wiry scarecrow, ominous. His eyes bare down on Laisander again, the faintest tinge of red clinging at his irises and he's more spiteful than he intends, "I'll say the words if that silences you tonight, but if the [i]host[/i] of heaven really did care about what prayer was sent to him, then you wouldn't have to hide yourself away here."

 Clutching the bowl in one arm, he starts to turn away from the angel, then pauses and murmurs too soft for mortal ears, "Goodnight my son, sleep well, there are many a task to take care of tomorrow." 

 He himself, looked forward to a good night's rest after he'd washed up and did one more nightly round to make sure that the children were well and in their beds. It would be a nice calming end to have them all accounted for and resting well, it was the thing he looked forward to most.