The Woodfox comes to aid
And now you direct that illusion at my wife? Disgusting," Soren spits, at last withdrawing his hand to stand between us. Magic continues to coil around us in a stream of bloody shards, a whirlwind of red rising up around us like a symbol of death. Soren is livid, there is no two ways about it, but by the looks of things, Azrael has no intention of receding his power any time soon.
"I did what I had to do," Azrael shrugs simply, his voice dripping with a glaring nonchalance. "I needed blood for an illusion, and I didn't want to die. As if you would do any differently."
Gritting his teeth, Soren clenches and unclenches his fingers into a ball, the effort to remain calm straining in the bulge of muscles in his jaw, his arms, turning him rigid with tension. If it weren't for the knife at my throat, I would have attempted to soothe him. But now such an action looks like a one way trip to death.