Name: Zazriel.
Nickname: Zaz.
Age: Ancient.
Occupation: Oculari (Formerly), Freelance Detective (Currently).

Rank: 1
Combat Power: 2
Wisdom: 3
Luck: 5

Skills
Tongues: Zazriel has an in-depth knowledge of all languages spoken on Pratta due to his work as an Oculari.

Inactive Style: Disappearing.

Appearance: A beautiful yet alien creature even in exile, Zazriel stands tall over the meeker humans of Pratta, albeit in a manner more modest than most. For he lost his ego long ago, much like his wings and unearthly radiance. Feathered things were they, being adorned with every color of rainbow, shining with the strength of the sun even as they obscured it. For large were the wings of Zaz, and exceedingly vain, each the length of a man though they were but twain in number, as befitting a member of the lowly Ishim. Beings who, while counted least amongst the host of Vretiel, are no less glorious in the eyes of man than the mightiest of their kin.

Personality: Once a proud being who looked down on humanity from the heavens above, Zazriel quickly learned to humble himself after arriving on the surface of Pratta-or Mihr as his people called it-whereupon he found his powers greatly diminished. Mainly due to the atmosphere of the planet, which blocked out most of the magical radiation angels bodies had evolved to derive their vast power from, but also because of the loss of his wings. The only means he had of returning to that lightless void between the stars and regaining his lost might, paltry as it was. Throw in some close calls with the native beasts that called Mihr home, and you have the perfect recipe for an attitude adjustment. One Zazriel underwent with surprising speed, though this is to be expected given the trying times in which he found himself. So, rather than looking down on those around him or complaining about his lot in life, the former Oculari took whatever life threw at him in stride, determined not to let himself be overcome by despair or self-loathing. For such things would do more harm than good.

This is not to say he is or was always cheerful however, for such a thing would be impossible, only that he tries to see the glass of life as half full as he possibly can. A futile endeavor to some, perhaps, but one that has managed to keep him alive and-more importantly-sane all these years.

Biography: Like most of his race, Zazriel was born on the alien plains of Vretial, also known as Neboto, Pratta's primary moon. A place with an atmosphere thin enough to allow for greater absorption of magical energy and thus the development of extraordinary abilities and odd physiological mutations. Mutations such as the growth of wings of varying length and number that could be used to cross the vast emptiness of space, inhuman levels of strength, speed, and resilience, as well as biological immortality and the ability to change his shape at will, just to name a few. Brought up amongst the seemingly utopian yet highly stratified society his elders had created, Zazriel found himself assigned the rank of Ishim, the lowest rank held by those within the angelic hierarchy. This did not bother him, however, as many Ishim were destined to become Oculari, beings tasked with scouting out the world of Mihr and keeping track of various goings on so that those of higher rank might never find themselves lacking when it came to current events. It was a position of unprecedented freedom, and one Zazriel would not dream of turning down.

He had always wanted to see Pratta after all. Even if it was naught more than a primitive mud pit.

And so, after being assigned the role, Zazriel went about his task of scouting out the world below with arrogant fervor. Using illusions to disguise himself as a human he walked amongst their kind for years, gathering all manner of news on their activities, in addition to the state of the world as a whole. Once that was done he would return to Vretiel and give report of all the things he had seen and heard, only to do it all over again the next day for centuries. That was until he experienced his peoples injustice first hand. For one word. For one minor display of contrarianism towards a higher ranking Elim he was branded a dissident and sentenced to exile on the world below. And there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing save for bearing his punishment with quiet reserve. A challenging task to be sure, especially when they started in on his wings. It took all of his willpower not to scream as tendon after tendon was torn from its skeletal mooring, the ragged holes on his back dripping cobalt colored blood, but somehow he stayed strong.

Resolute.

Unyielding.

Not that it mattered much. Those holding him were merely doing as they were told like the mindless drones they were. They couldn't have cared less if he had been spitting in their faces and cursing their names, or lying in a fetal position and balling his eyes out, that much was certain. And if it wasn't, then their transportation of his limp form across the dark of space and toward the shimmering form of Pratta certainly was. He wasn't exactly sure what happened next, as the loss of blood had rendered him unconscious, but when he awoke he was lying in a field out in the middle of nowhere. The bleeding had stopped, thankfully, but that did little to console him. He was still alone, after all, and bereft of the power he once enjoyed. But this realization did not stop him for long. For soon he had made up his mind to find the nearest city which, from what he could recall during his trips here, was about ten miles away. A long journey to make, especially on foot, but one he would need to embark on if he wished to live.

And so he set off, doing his best not to fall prey to the beasts that roamed the wilds, eventually arriving at the city, a little worse for wear, but alive nonetheless and with a much humbler attitude to boot. Slipping through the gates in human form, he took up residence there, changing his appearance as the years went by to mimic the same short lifespan humans possessed. For though he was no longer incapable of being claimed by old age like the rest of his kind, the little celestial might he did possess kept him remarkably fresh. Noticeably so. After several centuries of deception, however, Zazriel was finally able to drop his ruse of dying only to be replaced by some new face who wished to buy the house in which he lived. Upon moving to Astrum however, which was now the worlds largest cultural melting pot, he found himself able to maintain a singular residence, profession, and-most importantly-identity. That being his own, albeit with a human appearance, as his true form was still a little too unusual, even for the city's forward thinking residents.