(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

white. His wings were charred, the feathers destroyed, yet he still radiated
peace and love. He stood as if in meditation, taking no notice of our
presence, holding his arms out to either side. Chains held his forearms
tightly, attached to the dais on which he stood.
"I've been looking for you, deva."
He raised his head and rested his gaze upon me. His voice was pure and
melodic, "What is it you wish of me, mortal? Speak your mind and leave me
to my memories of paradise." Immediately his face tightened and changed
into a frown.
His gaze turned to Morte. "The stench of Baator lies thick about you, skull."
"You don't smell any better. When was the last time you bathed?"
"A deva... yet those chains do not seem to bind him so much as smother his
mind..." Grace breathed.
"The chains do not hold him. Belief chains him," Dak'kon murmured.
He looked back to me with a stern countenance, "You keep foul company,
mortal... but ask your questions of me, and leave me to my memories of
paradise."
"Who are you?"
"I am Trias the Condemned, Trias the Wounded, Elysium's lost child, a
general of the Hosts of the Upper Planes," a shadow passed over his face as
he became lost in his own thoughts. "Never again shall I see the Upper
Planes, I fear, the ordered beauty of Arcadia, the vistas of Elysium, the Seven
Mounts of Mount Celestia... all the ugliness contained in these Lower Planes
is effaced there, where it is truly possible to believe in redemption. Too
many look only to the Lower Planes for their inspiration and aid, I fear..."
"I have heard rumors of a plague that emerged when they opened this
prison. Are you at the heart of this?"
The soft rebuke rang clear in his voice, "It is their own doing. In forging these
chains for me to wear, they tempered the links with bitterness and betrayal.
Their short-sightedness has been their downfall; had they heeded my
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