Henry observed the situation from atop the Southern battlement. Their siege engine destroyed, the Alliance broke disorganised before the walls, certain of their exposed state. Noticing a battle-mage hurling explosive spheres of conflagration at one of the point-cannons guarding the walls, Hank levitated down to the field proper.
A wizard’s mind is expansive, impressive, orderly and their greatest asset: the perfect target. Unnoticed through the smoke of exploding shell and the general chaos of battle, Brother Pattan channelled his perverted energies into a draining magical effect to be placed upon the fire-slinger. Subtly, images of pain and suffering are projected into the magi’s mind and a rot takes shape upon his form to slowly devour his flesh. Too concentrated on the task at hand to notice the subtle assault the mage continues his damaging attacks upon the weapon till a sudden sharp pain, like a burning hot needle through his brain, does the mage become aware that he is under magical assault.
Henry, aware he has been exposed, waves a hand casually and whispers to the wizard’s mind “Ssssiiiiilence.” and the mage’s attempt at returning fire are immediately cut off, the complex chants of arcane weaving and thought processes drowned out by the psychic command. The earlier images of pain and suffering are now a cacophony of mental screams and screeches, the disease has entered the blood stream and the wizard feels his very life force being sucked away, feeding the floating shadowy corpse across the battlefield.
Hank presses his attacks with a far more direct, savage psychic onslaught - stripping the very thoughts from his opponent, the mage’s identity and memories before finishing the job with his most brutal psychic command. Pointing his finger at the stumbling and befuddled wizard, the Priest of Sylvanas forces the image of his own death upon the mage…
~~An Amani troll armed with a savage, stone-tipped spear rushes towards you across open fields of green. Your right arm is pinned to a stone wall behind you by another spear. The pain is extraordinary. Your eyes lock with the troll’s, your other arm is stretched out in a pathetic attempt to ward off the brutal attacker. His aim is true. The sharpened stone tears through your robes and into your heart. You struggle to even gasp as your life-force leaves you.~~
And the mage falls, clutching at his chest, dead before his head even reaches the ground. A face contorted in pain yet not a drop of his blood has marred the snow around him.
Pattan nods once to himself but suddenly registers that his form is under attack, a sword sticking out through his chest for a brief moment before being removed then appearing again. Feeling the energies that sustain him weakening he let’s forth a mental projection to all of those around him. The image is one he has forced on others many a time before, the thought of seeing your loved ones rise up as the undead. Rise up against others you love and cut them down too, only for them to rise a moment later and continue the infinite process before descending upon you. The battlefield assassin screams in panic, running away from what he sees as his own family slowly lumbering towards him.
Pattan retreats into himself, becoming one with the shadows which sustain him as this now gaseous form floats towards the transit beacon. Solidifying in his true form he stamps down upon the circular platform and is instantly teleported behind the safety of the walls. “Hmm, that was close.” He murmurs to himself before setting off to man the rampart once more, hoping to find the assassin that ruined his perfect robes.