Wrathion has lit upon one of the buildings, taking an all-too-brief respite in his aerial sweep of the city, keeping eye on his allies. And yet there's the one aloft, too. He knew Estinien was a warrior. He'd thought that the dragoon would be--well. Not safe, but competent, capable of taking care of himself.

Clearly, Wrathion had been wrong. He knows that's not Estinien's fault, but...

Rage surges in his chest--impotent rage, because he's well aware between the blackened spears piercing the Sanctifier's dissipating body and the voidlike orb that only too swiftly bears Estinien's limp form away, there is absolutely nothing to be done. Not now. There are others that need succor, and there needs to be...

Wrathion doesn't know. All he can do is bellow his anger over Achamoth, and leave rents in the building as he takes to the air once again.