Azrael recounts his tale of woe

A close up of Azrael's bright turquoise eyes from behind his mask, brows furrowed, his pupils shrunk to even thinner slits. Azrael: "Do you?" Akiva waves a hand casually. AKIVA: "I know that you fucked something up and now people turn into shadow dogs if they stay here too long." Azrael looks away, eyes bitter. He remembers the bright red memory of what happened those centuries ago, when the sky was torn apart by a rift, sucking in every colorful soul in the mountainous area, as well as the scene of him laying on the ground in pain, hands covering his bloody face where Bahram had given him his scar. AZRAEL: "I thought I could fix something that was never broken. I thought the Elixir could cure the pain of death. My coven sought glory. My predecessor sympathized with me. But I had forgotten the fact that the last bearers of the Elixir knew. The Mortal plane is too weak to carry it. And when I brought it back, it disrupted the balance so greatly, it fractured the dimensional veil keeping the Astral and Mortal planes apart. The Astral's ability to hold human souls was corrupted. People died and became Hellhounds that day, and hundreds more after that. Because of me. Pacting with the previous Azrael gave us the power to close that rift, but we could not restore the balance completely. My job now, my DUTY, is to protect what is left of it." He stares at Akiva sharply, standing before the expanse of red stars representing every Hellhound trapped in the Astral, unable to move on and be reborn.