Such a thing would be easier to answer if Wrathion knew what, in truth, he needed.

He does not.

Instead, he lets out a grumble of discomfort, slowly attempts to loosen his grip.

"Something to drink, at least," he says finally. He did have a glass Anduin poured him, but he's left it aside with little more than a sip. Drawing back, Wrathion looks a toucher paler than is natural. He picks up his glass and takes a bigger drink this time, trying to steady himself. Both hands fix around it, as if to keep his grip firm -- and perhaps to hide any quake they might develop.