It was only a moment's distraction, a tiny pause in the dance, but it was enough--those eyes hold him trapped, helpless, that face sears itself into his memory, that touch...

The spiral twists, the paths shooting off into terrible oblivion, then tightens around him, pulling his mind apart with the force of its own shearing, ripping contortions. And then it vanishes, torn from under him, sending him spinning wildly into a white infinitude, frozen beyond endurance, icing over his skin and his hair, his nose, his lips, his eyes. His mind. His sanity cracks and breaks into fractals. All of reality is cold, empty, dead, vast, unknowable, ice and darkness and pain/cold/death/pain/cold/cold/cold--

The wind howls in his mind, a million voices screaming for his blood.

The others will see, then, that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong. Azwel screams in agony, hands scrabbling at his own head. He convulses. Drops to the frozen ground.

And yet, in an instant, he's back up again, magickal energy pouring off of him. But it's not the same. It's unbalanced. It's somehow wrong. When the weaponry manifests the sounds are fractured. The ringing judders, then twists into a horrible, discordant scream. Even the colours are different, white and sickly boiling purple. He screams hoarsely, cutting through yet more of the enemy, but they now find openings. They can retaliate.

But he doesn't stop. He doesn't even hesitate. His sightless eyes see only pain and terror and all he can do is strike at it, fight it with every last shred of his rapidly deteriorating consciousness. He whirls.

Ends up pointed toward the convoy.