His helmet has come askew, and it topples off when he lifts his head, but he's far too occupied with what's happening to right it immediately.
An elf in important-looking mage robes stands toward the back of the room, arms raised: a miasma begins to from around him, comprised of glowing magic and some sort of fluid.

The now bare-headed specter gasps in sickened horror as he clutches at his side, viscous translucent liquid squeezing through his fingers in an unnatural pull towards the mage. It's happening to everyone in the room, dead or alive, all wounded: blood is leaving them, and forming something massive and terrible.