"That's [i]Lord[/i] Sephiroth to you, white-wing." Under the shadow of the demon's helm, his lips were morphed into a frown.
"But I have not known his Majesty to be a poor judge of character, so I'll ignore your slip, this time."

He turned and made his way to another station in the room, observing the monitor that was there.
"Bloody--! Who the blazes rigged this!?" He suddenly snapped, casting his gaze about the room.
One of the men jumped and quickly came to see what it was that the general had been looking at.

"If you can't bloody keep track of your duties, I'll bloody send you out the flaming airlock! Do you want this flaming ship to bloody explode?" He sighed, then returned to where he had left Azurael standing.

"Demons have no use for white-wings or their magic. If you want work, you need to prove to me that your wings are as black as the oil that our machines run on. Time to get your flaming white feathers dirty, woman!" He told her, gesturing to the control room they were in. "Let's see how you fare with black-wing magic. This flaming ship has a personality of her own, white-wing! You need to feel the rumble of her insatiable stomach, and feed her till she purrs. When she whines, give her attention. She's a sensitive lass, white-wing, and demands a lot of care."

He leaned against the wall and folded his arms. Clearly, he was tossing Azurael to the ocean to see if she could learn to swim.