The rage hit him, every word pelting his skin like silver dust. His skin paled, grey as stone, and fumes began to rise where he was bare. Where his black jacket hung on his shoulders it grew and began to billow as silk rather than leather. The wind whipped his hair up and up, straighter and long. It flowed as silk itself.

Willy's eyes grew black and shiny, pupils gone, or perhaps entire.

"Sssunnyyyy..." he said, but that was the only word that made sense. The other sounds that came from him were pure caoine - ominous keening - that sent shivers through the nearby mortals. Everyone rushed away from the pair. A fair thing, too, as the wind cycloned around them and the clouds thickened and began to boil.

He wanted to fight it. To control himself. But the change was underway and soon he would be little more than a wailing spectre, a chill of the blood as mortals passed him. He would come for they dying to strike fear into those soon to die and those who loved them.

And then thunder boomed and lightning struck Willy himself, his magic bringing the charge straight to him.