Wrathion's gaze snaps up to the real Anduin, processing the frown of concern, then over at the remnants of the mirror. The scratched words send another wave of unease through him.
A RIGHTEOUS HAND SHAPES EACH OF ITS FINGERS.
He starts to reach out to the priest, then hesitates and drops his hand. Black ichor still drips down gloved fingers, runs in a smear down his face.
"We need to move," he says. Before any more of those things appear, he needs to be out of this claustrophobic place.
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A RIGHTEOUS HAND SHAPES EACH OF ITS FINGERS.
He starts to reach out to the priest, then hesitates and drops his hand. Black ichor still drips down gloved fingers, runs in a smear down his face.
"We need to move," he says. Before any more of those things appear, he needs to be out of this claustrophobic place.