Rage always simmers in Wrathion's chest, coiled, controlled but ready to overboil through his veins at any moment. The incense pulls at him, slows him, but here and now it isn't enough to stop him. Not when the hallucinogenic are doing their work too. He hears whispers, laughter.

His adrenaline is up, and Wrathion is angry.

Several of the priests descend on him, and Wrathion throws one clear across the temple. It is the Chained God's will, they insist. He is overcome by the chaos.

"Release him," he's growling. "You will let me in to see your Chained God, or you will release him."

He could rip them apart. He should rip them apart, in fact, for this insolence. For laughing at him. Wrathion's hands twist and elongate, sharpen to claws as he takes a swing at the priests.