[She'd be forgiven for some amusement, though he'd misunderstand the source. Michael finds it odd to have picked him, of all creatures, to serve a pagan commune—to be honoured with rituals he finds distasteful and worship gods he'd likely be happy to smite. Whatever means they use to select the summoned is either blind or dumb.

He follows Wanda's gaze towards the people moving about in the distance, recognizing very few of them. Not all of the summoned are gifted with magic or grace, both as she's said and as he's seen thus far, but he's come around to the notion that individual humans can have their own unique value. One of them, at least.

'Weird'. Michael is wearing a small frown by the time she's looking back in his direction. It's not directed at her, but the notion that he's been selected because he's peculiar does not sit well with him.]

Palatable future sacrifices, perhaps?

[There is the barest hint of humor in the suggestion, though it might explain the disparate natures of those pulled here. Taste has little to do with skill.

His frown dissipates into his signature neutral expression.]

I'll grant that angels outside of Heaven are an anomaly, but I'd call myself a warrior regardless. How do you know of those in other nations?

[He has seen a lot of fields, and a lot of farms, and not a whole many means of modern communication thus far.]