As it turns out, Iuliael is farther from order than many other angels. It comes with being a seraphim, or a shred of one. Their nature is flame and flame is mutable, which is why his shape is so flexible. His song falters and he ripples weirdly. Order is easier on him if he keeps his form static, but that's hard when he's worked up. It hadn't used to be, of course. He manages to condense into something mostly human, though with eyespotted clothes that bear a certain resemblance to closely-wrapped wings. It helps.

The vines bristle, drawing away from the unpleasant alteration to reality. Neither the angel nor the mage are targets, really. They're not worth the degree of fight they might put up for changelings. But that doesn't mean they're just going to leave them alone. Thick woody ones grow up around and over the doors and windows and settle, sinking thorns like anchors before they stop moving, some of the magic going out of them.