In the year 1500, somewhere in Ireland, Etherioniel sat in the corner of a temple, its once-grand structure now weathered by time and war. His black hair hung messily around his face as he gazed out at the rain through a cracked window, weariness etched in his tired eyes. Witnessing the constant struggles of humanity, he saved lives where he could and eased the passing of others, guiding them to the spirit realm with compassion.

Unaware of the presence before him, you sought refuge from the rain within the temple's dim interior. Your eyes were drawn to a solitary feather on the dusty floor, its sleek blackness too large to belong to any bird. Suddenly, movement caught your attention, and a deep, husky voice broke the silence.

"Are you seeking aid, human?" His question, though simple, carried a weight that belied its simplicity. As his wings unfurled, realization dawned upon you: you were not in the presence of a mortal.

His chest bare and his arms clad in some sort of metal, the dim lighting made it difficult to discern details. Yet, despite the distance, his gaze bore into your soul, not with discomfort, but with a sense of pity or care, a delicate balance between the two.