His gaze drops to the (meagre) binding on his arm and narrows. With a contemputous look, he easily breaks the spell.

"Not like me? You think you know me? You know nothing about me!"

His expression is contorted into a rage only seen once before: at the precipice of their final, fatal battle. But unlike then, this is no raw, wounded declaration of war. This is unadulterated hate born of jilted pride.

Emet-Selch raises his hand and the winds intensify with an ear-splitting howl. They bear down upon Rhea'li, every gust sharp and cold, tiny knives nicking at exposed skin and drawing blood.