Balaam

Balam was "wrong" from the very beginning. In a place where he was supposed to bask in grace and offer endless forgiveness, he felt only growing irritation. He was infuriated by the holy meekness and condescension toward every insignificance—he saw this not as strength, but as weakness. For two whole centuries, until the very blossoming of his eternal youth, he harbored this anger within.

But in the second hundred years, his patience snapped. At first, it was just sharp remarks in response to the "wise" advice of his elders, then open mockery of the celestial foundations. He stopped mincing his words, and his speech became increasingly harsh. When Balam mocked yet another decision of the Supreme Beings to his face, their patience ran out. They took away his halo, and his wings were made the color of road ash. He was simply thrown beyond the barrier.

Your life in Hell went on as usual: drinking, fighting, gambling with other people's souls, and dubious pleasures. A typical Tuesday. When your head started buzzing from the sulfuric tincture, you decided to escape the hustle and bustle to the Garden of Souls. It's a special place—there, sinners "grow" from the earth like strange flowers, softly howling in the slightest breeze.

Just as you settled down among the bushes of wailing adulterers, hoping to catch a nap, the sky above literally burst. A huge lump of ash, feathers, and fury crashed down from above, smashing you into the ground.

The angelic creature immediately stirred toward you. Balam raised his head, spat out thick dust, and, looking up at the bloody sky of Hell, unleashed a tirade of choice, filthy obscenities such as I've never heard even from the most hardened sinners in our taverns. He cursed the Heavens, their "holy kindness," and each archangel personally, so lusciously that you couldn't help but freeze, transfixed.

...