Azrael stands in the doorframe, his white hair swept up into an uncouth mess, his eyes red and bloodied from the sheer effort of maintaining his ritual for hours on end. There are cuts on his wrists and tears in the fine silken embroidery of his trousers that somewhat dishevel his appearance, but somehow only add to the air of foreboding he carries with his being. His face is gaunt, paled by physical exhaustion and the clear loss of blood from his wrists that trickle out in a thin stream. I suppose that would explain why the air has such an irony tang to it.
"No need to hesitate now," he repeats once more with a false gooeyness to his voice, a sickly sweet hum that sends goose bumps pricking my skin. Part of me considers slapping him. Then another, more sane part of my mind quickly refutes that idea. I am supposed to be down here to exchange Soren's soul for mine, not start any open ended fights- at least not yet.
