"I have been called an angel," he says, shrugging one shoulder (one wing). "Mostly by those who I have helped. Though there have been a few other instances. But religion is...complicated."

There is still a haze that clouds his memories, but he can hear some of the voices in his head, echoing. Angel of mercy, angel of death, not an angel but a demon, maybe just a beast? He doubts there is artwork as fine as this to show his form.

(But somewhere out there, in some space and time, there is a child's scrawled drawing in colored pencil, a man with wings.)

"I take it amethyst is purple," he says, questioning. "I know of obsidian."