"A week ago, she left a week before you arrived here. I don't know where she is now, please, I don't know any more!"
Asocrates begs over and over, his form hunched over the table, his chalice of wine spilling against the pristine white table cloth, seeping into its fabric like blood from a wound. Under the influence of Azrael's powers, the faery king is indisputably in bad shape: his wings quivering, his cheeks hollow with fear. Even his dark eyes seem to bulge in their sockets as the weakened faery clutches his head in anguish, Azrael's powers quickly coming all too much to bear.
