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The winds at the edge of the dragon Isles carried the scent of storm and salt, the darkening sky from the setting sun and the distant sound of thunder cackling across the sea like a dark memory that refused to fade. It was there that the dracthyr woman rested, her wings spread as wide as they could, the purple hues of membranes catching the breeze just enough to tug on her back muscles.

Yet, she could not feel a thing.

Even if she wished to deny its existence, to not look behind her, her wings was singed with that of primal lightning, etched directly onto her like tattooed markings, singed the very nerves, too deep. It did not cripple her, only silenced. The healers had done all they could, but even with the time recuperating, she couldn't fly the same as before.

Of course, she could still move her wings if she concentrated, her muscles slightly responding, though the embers of lightning still made her flinch ever so often. But there was no feedback, no weight, no warmth.

Below her, dark waves struck the cliffs hard enough to throw white foam up like it was breathing. Exhaling, she counted each clash, watching, understanding, trying to find the rhythm.

Her chest rose and dropped, her breathing still and calm.

Then another cackle of thunder. She twitched again, her thigh flexing for a moment, her wings almost collapsing back to the safety of her body. Almost.

Then, she returned to normal, her eyes solemnly looking towards the distant horizon, towards the naturally occurring lightning storm.

It had been like this since the raid.

Raszageth had been imprisoned, not killed.

Her claws furled. She should have been awake when the incarnate fell; she should have been the one to slay the beast. Not... imprison it.

She could already hear it laughing under the chains of her 'imprisonment', the three other incarnates had escaped, Raszageth still won in the end. At the very least, slaying that monster would have closed one loose end...

Sacrifice.
What the hell.

Chrith's blind, Raszageth still breaths, and Neltharion... Neltharion.

She exhaled slowly.

Her breath drifting out more as a shudder than a sigh, barely perceptible if not for the way her wings flicked, her fingers tightening, her tail curling around her frame protectively. The sky's dimming orange glazed over her scales, catching the faint shimmer of the lightning scars etched into her wings. They gleamed mockingly. Like proof. Failure.

She did not fold them in.

She left them to hang open. Suspended as her wings continued to catch the evening winds flushing inwards from the sea, like a tattered banner refusing to fall.

The cliffs were cold against her thighs where she sat, legs bent inwards, talons resting loosely, posture drawn but composed. A soldier's posture, calm, composed, calculating. A kneeling angel's posture, elegant, ethereal, beyond. The Dracythr encompasses both. Devil, angel, soldier, herald.

The waves crashed again. White spray. Dark stone. The kind of rhythm that did not ask for anything besides simply existing.

[i]I should have stopped it. [/i]

A low growl echoed beneath her curled arms, flowing out of her tattered lips.

It wasn't anger that seeped out.

But the duty she should have. She was made to.

Neltharion had carved purpose into their bones. Fight. Obey. Triumph.

Now what? What was she in the absence of command? A soldier without a general; an angel without a god.

Another cackle of thunder. It was laughing at her.

Her wings trembled. She remembered the pain from that very raid.

Lightning. The roars of the beast. Chrith clashing. Chrith's scream. The feeling of running. The feeling of rage. The feeling of lightning. The feeling of the ground. Silence.

The sound of thunder cackled yet again.
The sound of Raszageth's voice cackled yet again.

[i]You are not free.[/i]

She swallowed. Her tongue heavy.

Chrith's blind, Raszageth still breathes; the storm still waits, Netharion... Neltharion's shadow still clings like smoke beneath every thought.

She drew one knee in closer, her arm curling even further around it, hiding her snout under, her heated breath expelled underneath her, the warmth clashing against the coolness of the night. It was not in protection, but containment, holding herself steady against a wind no one else could feel. Her eyes fixed on the horizon, unfocused, not seeing the sky or sea. But memory. The weight of an impossible expectation that she once saw as truth.

She was a Dracythr. She was made to be unbreakable. Yet here she was. Scarred, wounded, grounded. And betrayed.

Something tightened in her jaw, quiet, sharp, almost feral.

No.

She lowered her head. Just slightly. Not in submission, just lowred. Hiding the flickering flames behind her slitted eyes, it's low radiance of purple, dracythr magic.

No.

She would not cry. Who decided that? She refused to.

Not for Raszageth's victory. Not for Neltharion's betrayal. Not for the wings she could no longer feel. Not even the vainful sacrifice of her's.

The wind caught the edges of her wing again. It lifted, weightless, hollow. She did not react, well, not consciously, but her claws dug deep into the weathered stone.

This time, she could feel it, the wind blowing past her wings.... Though only in memory.

Nok exhaled slowly. Slow, measured. In control this time.

[i]I am still here.[/i]

It was not a declaration of strength or survival. But it was a fact. Universal unbroken fact. Simple. Unadorned. Undeniable.

Nobody answered. The sea did not object. The sky did not complain. But the storm on the horizon flickered, once, twice, like an eye that blinked.

Then it cackled. Another cackle, another echo of thunder.

This time, however, she did not move; she did not look away.

Not anymore.

Nok challenged it.

[center]~~~[/center]

Another participation for r/Furry server's game, this time featuring Nokdracythr's character. The funny thing was that Upyr, the previous person I drew for, sniped Nok's character the last time. So drawing Nok right now is a full circle since I've used Upyr's drawing as one of the references as well.

Anyways, the pose itself is referenced from the 1847 'Fallen Angel' by Alexandre Cabanel.

Also Warcraft lore goes crazy. If the background is not accurate to the actual Dragon Isles, I don't play WoW, and I did not know she was based off the Dracythr until I finished painting the background.