Mahariel does not know what an Orthon is, but twenty minutes ago he didn't know what a Tiefling was, either. Probably an Ogre, or something similar? Who can say. A big, mean thing, regardless. But he listens amiably, reaching to stir up the fire and add more fuel as Zevlor speaks, the better to lay on something edible for the both of them, time willing. But he does snort a laugh, when Zevlor offers his opinion on the questionable mortality of Archdemons.

"See, that's the thing about Archdemons. If just any fool comes and puts a few feet of steel through their brains, the don't die. You have it exactly right, it's just off to the next place," This pointed out with the hand holding the stick, "But that's the point of we Wardens; rhey only die when one of us does it. There's a trick to it, obviously, and it usually does kill the Warden too, in the process... but hey, who's counting?"

Not many. Not even him, truth be told; Theron had not known if their little gambit would work, until it had. Wardens were meant to die heroically, after all, and he'd borrowed more than his fair share of time already.

"...Demons can reproduce. I really hate that news," He informs Zevlor, with cheerful candor, "But I suppose if the result is just people, that's different. Still.