He watched on for nearly another hour before he found his opening. Finally, one of the undead soldiers struck a fatal wound to the chest of Azra. He crumpled to the ground as two other human comrades came to his aide. Daesalliss could feel the life draining from him and his steed that suffered a similar wound.
He wasted no time. The field of vision elaborated on the nearest rift by the fallen elf warrior. Daesalliss pushed his hand forward, attempting for the first time to touch the field of vision. It rippled at his touch, and he noticed the fine green mist surround the body. Quickly he recoiled, pulling back the touch. The green mist started to spoil and scatter across the windy battlefield, human soldiers grimacing as it passed their faces.
Again he dared to put his fingers through it, and yet again the green mist began to boil off the body like putrid steam. Daesalliss could simply stare on in part curiosity, but mostly morbid disgust at what he was creating. He could feel the sorrow and rage, the fury and threnodies of melancholy pour out of him, screaming onto the battlefield, creating the physical manifestation of blight. The nether urged him to go forward, finally acknowledging his presence. He could feel his strand increase in velocity, his soul nearly lost in the undertow of the wretched whirlwind.
He put his forearm through, and moved it slightly, feeling a tugging come from the other side, whatever was over there he knew not. As his arm twitched in the purgatory, he viewed through the field of vision, noticing that indeed Azra's hand twitched in time with his own. The undead ghouls inhabiting the battlefield looked up towards the sky, when the few human soldiers remaining, looking for the invisible force that they could feel penetrating the physical plane, did not distract them.