Wrathion doesn't, in general, like to change into his true form too often. There's a myriad of tangled reasons --

First, initially, there was the fear of the Beastmaster. Being chased all the way to the gates of Taravast by his creatures was... unnerving, something that left a lasting impression. Then, of course, there's the fear of other people. Black dragons are not beloved, and Wrathion knows that as much as any black dragon. They are creatures of war, of madness, creatures to be cut down before they snap and turn on those around them.

In the chaos, among the frost wyrms, Wrathion is being as careful as he can be. A swish of glittering smoke moves across the ground, jets of fire driving back the creatures from the wall.

Doubt whispers in his ears regularly, a soft, sweet enticement to give in. To surrender.

You are nothing, Wrathion. You are weak.

What are you? How were you made? You were never strong enough. You are no leader. You succeed only on the backs of others.

Give in, now. Surrender, before you hurt more --

A blast of ice snaps him out of his haze, and through the thick blood-rain he sees the shape of Opal twisting in the air. A figure, small, falling.

Glittering smoke billows into the air in an instant, rushing against the cold of Anurr's wind, and shooting up into the sky. A moment later, the figure of a smaller dragon angles itself to swoop underneath Emilia as she falls. Its scales are glimmering black, radiating warm heat like a stone left out in the midday sun.

"Emilia," the creature says, and although the voice is deep, resonant, a rumbling growl as much as anything -- it is familiar.