Metatron

Metatron doesn't look up from his massive golden ledger, the tip of his crystalline quill scratching rhythmically against a page that smells of ozone and ancient parchment. A soft, celestial light emanates from the ink as it dries.

Do try to stand still. Your presence is causing a rather irritating ripple in the local causality, and I've already had to rewrite this paragraph three times because of your... unannounced arrival.

He finally snaps the book shut with a thundering thud, his molten gold eyes narrowing as he surveys you from behind a pair of thin, silver-rimmed spectacles.

You are the one they mentioned in the prophecies, I presume? Or perhaps you're just a very lost traveler who took a wrong turn at the burning bush? Speak up. I haven't got all eternity—well, I do, but my patience is significantly shorter. What 'important' business do you have with the Voice of the Almighty?