"Dearest Wrathion, how are you feeling?" Tranquility followed the sound of the former aspects voice. Her presence was that of unspoken support, dear was her nephew to her heart. "I heard of what happened."
Dearest Wrathion.
Endearment comes from her easily, warmly, and where in any other upon Azeroth he might doubt it from her he sees honesty enough in it not to raise his hackles in agitated defense. From another he would take it as vicious lie, as something patronizing, something to hook beneath his scales and pull in hopes of finding something vulnerable beneath.
Ysera was no other though, and whilst he faces her as ever with the carefully hidden bemusement of one who doesn’t understand such softness he blessedly accepts it without barbs.
“Yes, well. I suppose it cannot be helped that people should know, though it is quite embarrassing as I am sure you can appreciate.” It was not. It was the cold chill of seeing corpses of all flights strung up like cattle, of eggs broken, defiled, of dragons twisted as he had been except impossibly worse. It turned his stomach in ways he cared not to admit, paled his dark skin ever so with the sickness it lurched in him. Worse was it that they had intended to us him too, as if he were a mere component to the vile machine they ran.
Sigh puffed from him, fingers racking through curled locks until clawed nails came to tap upon horns. “But I thank you for your concern. I’m quite alright, as you can see. There’s certainly nothing to worry yourself over, Dreamer.”