They do not quite understand the sentiment of the fucking Devil; Illyria simply knows the thing as the Morningstar, and it has not been seen in a mortal plane for many ages. It seems that in plunging the Los Angeles into Hell, the Senior Partners have dredged up the truly dark and terrible to raze this city.

Illyria is less perturbed about this development than their impromptu Qwa'ha Xahn.

I will eliminate the fucking Devil, they assure it confidently, adapting the awkward terminology for the benefit of mortal comprehension and for reasons they cannot presently enumerate. It cannot match my true form.

They are an armored colossus, slow but impenetrable, truly. None of the demonic ephemera have managed to crack through Illyria's great organic defenses and even fewer have come close to breaching their metaphysical ones. Yet this thing they detect is vast. If Illyria's shell can break and expose the true form, is the Morningstar also capable of such a feat? The thought stirs the latent remains of human emotion that still seem to be infuriatingly trapped in Illyria's ancient mind. It takes them a moment to define the sensation. It is nothing so despicable as fear. It is merely trepidation.