There are a handful of people who'd recognize him in this form--so it's one thing to hear cries about a dragon, and quite another to hear his own name shouted from below. Wrathion isn't certain who it might be--there is no showy golden glow that would make it obvious, but still, there are a few people who know his name at least, and he'd sworn should anyone need it, well.

He tucks in his wings and dives to the ground, more than a few paces off. Wrathion is no building destroyer akin to his father or the Sanctifier, but he's still large enough to be something of a tight squeeze on the streets. Not to mention he doesn't want to scrape any bitten, bruised, or singed parts against the buildings if he can at all help it.

"Claude!" he rumbles, nostrils flaring. "You're hurt--do you need help?" Not his most intelligent question, but he's been...busy, to judge from his own oozing scrapes. The question is whether he's actually sought out his own healing friend, or not. (No, he's been stubborn.)