Time had passed, the ash cleared. The Great Messiah, which had been burning for what seemed eons, had no visual scars. It's flesh untainted by the searing flames. Iron had become more and more reclused and solitary in his nature, showing signs of remorse and regret. To Arsirian's wishes, he tried not to contact the Empyreans. Luwarin had become destitute, wondering the open lands with no object or desire in mind. The world, despite the ash's severance, now more grey than ever. On his travels, he donned a hooded cloak, white and gold. Trying to protect whatever reputation he had left, while still showing royalty. He cut his wings, leaving them barren and scarred. He was going to chop his tongue out, but decided against it. He traveled to a small town, west of Iron's Keep, to live out the rest of his life as a local figure. As he entered, they drew swords and bows due to his unnatural flesh. He explained in a clearly badly hidden voice that he was of no threat. Upon his entrance, he laid down against the cold, hard bed, dissimilar from that at Iron's Keep. As he lay near the opened window and candlelight, he began looking outside. To these people, he was just an outsider, looking to make a living. They knew nothing of what atrocities he had committed. He pondered while listening to the local bards downstairs playing a melody. Upon a piano driven song, as rain fell, he wept. His situation had finally set in. His only friend, gone, his lover, dead. He closed his eyes while listening to the rain, pulling his cloak ever tighter. For days, this was reality for Luwarin, that was until the staff asked him to pay up. After all, it was a very small town, barely able to afford supplies to maintain it's existence. Luwarin, now fully in realization of what he'd done, tried to convince the singular staff member to kill him. With all the faith in the world that this was the right choice, he handed her a blade. She declined, naturally, saying that even if he were the worst person on the planet, he still should live. The sentiment made him tear up, as he ripped the blade from her hand and plunged it into himself. She was shocked and called for a local medic. Due to the bizarre nature of his Empyrean flesh, they could not operate. Luwarin had successfully achieved what he thought was the right thing. He was buried at the local town sign, with a crude drawing of his cloaked self above the burial site. As Empyreans are differing beings from those of normal flesh, they pass in a separate manner. While buried under feet of dirt, the brain of a lifeless husk now thought to itself one last time: "How could you be so wrong..?". Following that day, the locals came every other day to pray in remembrance of the figure they only knew as "Bishop". Upon their prayers, a small, glowing mushroom was seen above the burial site. They collectively took this as a sign that their prayers worked, that he had moved to someplace better.