His shoulders sink. That's fair enough, he thinks, before his eyes flicker to the priests nearby. One still has blood oozing from a wound Wrathion had doubtlessly inflicted in his rage.

Swallowing, the priest extends a hand, closing his eyes. A warm, soothing trickle of light creeps down the wound, slowly sealing the edges of torn flesh. Maybe they won't appreciated it, in their bloody fervor...

But it's what should be done, regardless.