There's a slight pinch at Wrathion's expression, then his eyes flit away.

"Serthica was an unpleasant place," Wrathion allows, "but we're not quite at peace here, you are correct."

As if on cue, Wrathion's fabric begins to very slowly lift up. He shoots it a sharp look.

"Leave it," he says, and it drops -- the ghostly presence chastised. He takes a breath, lets it out slowly and flexes his fingers. Some attempt to regain self control. "If you'd still like it examined, I can make myself available."