[Prior's raised a hand out to the wolf, fingertips outstretched, and then it's gone, and he curls his fingers back against his palm, arm still uselessly lifted.]

They sound like people's grandparents. Our Gods are hard to pin down on names. There are cryptic, mysterious things. Things you aren't supposed to speak out loud. Nothing you'd really care to use for a chat.

[If he cared to chat to anyone at all, that is, which from Prior's understanding he currently does not.]

Angels are... as though he had a horde of children specifically so they'd grow up to work as his personal assistants. His own divine office administration, from the typing pool to the mailroom clerk. Immeasurably powerful and boring, all at once.