Glaring still at him, even as he rises, the dragon, Pheurazath snorts at the question, "You have only yourself to blame for those, I had everything well in hand, until that fool of a bard ruined my negotiations. And then even as I improvised to make up for his impatience, YOU come charging in like a raving lunatic, right into the cave-in that I dropped on those damned spider-kissers' heads, thinking I could still get their captive out of their cleanly. So, I certainly hope you're grateful that I went back to drag you out of that disaster! As it is, unless you can make up for all the healing I've spent on you, my wings will be useless for weeks, perhaps even months?"
She spreads them open as much as she can bear to, visibly pained by the act, burned, torn, and tattered. Quite a horrible state that will cripple some of her mobility for awhile, "I've never suffered so much damage to them, and you best beg Bahamut they heal properly."
Scolding done, she can't stay angry at him forever, besides, there is some walking to do, to get back to the city, "The boy they'd captured, should be alright, as should the rest of your companions. Now, do you require any more healing before we begin getting you back to your Lith My'athar? Or could we try to mend my wings before leaving?"
Primary (Pheurazath AKA Kalkyril Ilindl)
Secondary (Virgil Stahne -- A repentant Warlock)
Other Secondary (Skrach -- A rogue, a rat, touched by the best)