When the netherdrake returns, he hides again. It passes by his hiding place a dozen times, growling under its breath and he moves not an inch, not even breathing. Trained by the Dragonmaw, it was a formidable fighter, well able to use its teeth and claws to maximum potential ... there would be no contest if he faced it alone. It wasn't cowardice, he's certain of it. This is practicality, and not throwing himself stupidly in the path of what can kill him. So he stays put and listens and watches, doing nothing as it snarls at the narrow mouth of his chosen place, briefly scrabbling at unyielding stone in effort to get at him. Its breath is fetid, far worse than the stagnant pools that dotted the caverns, and the smell makes him gag.

After a while he manages something like sleep, waking twice to still find the glow of the netherdrake waiting for him. The third time he wakes it's to the battle-screams of the raptors that nested on the pathway below, and the luminescence of blue hide is missing. Now it seems safe enough to uncoil from his hiding place and peek out warily, the creep just as cautiously on bare toes to the edge of the ledge and look around, feet silent against hard-packed stone. Below is the netherdrake, torn and bloodied, with several adult raptors cripped or dead, one remaining hissing like a steam vent and crouched over the remnants of what had once been a nest of eggs. The smell of Rage-Pain-Fear is tangible even in night elf shape, and it's almost enough to return him to hiding. This wasn't his fight, what did he care --

--except these raptors, these 'heartless lizards' he's known since he can remember, generations upon generations in the past, and somehow abandoning them resonates wrong. He'd abandoned the Fang and tried to blend in with normal societies, and the Fang were slaughtered, their bones left to rot in the darkness. The Dragonmaw had welcomed him and they too he abandoned to unknown fates - but these..

Raptors are not unintelligent. They have a very rudimentary culture, almost no concept of right and wrong, but know enough to appreciate housing and shelter, and enough to make their own ornamentation, which they wore tied in beads and shiny stones and colorful feathers. Given time they would likely grow into a fully sapient race. They were in a way part of the Serpent's pantheon, scaled and fanged and dangerous if roused. But these raptors have no hope of surviving against such a foe.

He doesn't think about the spell cast, it's automatic: the netherdrake's head jerks up and around, its roar of fury dwindling to a groggy moan before it slumps to the ground, asleep, and he scrambles down the rough stone to apply what healing magic he knew to the still-living, ravaged raptors. They react in pain, in fear, and he does his best to soothe them, taking time to see to it the dragon remains asleep while he tends to their injuries and settles agitated nerves. He can do nothing for crushed eggs, but this pack would survive, scarred certainly ... but they'd live. The long, skinny form of a water snake slides from one patch of green to another, only half noticed; it was unharmed, and wasn't going to cause harm so wasn't his problem. This close, the smell of the netherdrake was unpleasant and almost overpowering, dirt and sludge and worse ground into its scales here and there. He wrinkles his nose but ignores it in favor of tending to those who reward his effort with delicate nips and quiet chirps, testing wounds to be sure they're healed before shooing the disoriented animals away; the dead he'd see to in time. For now, there is a sleeping dragon, and he chooses to draw a dagger and consider where best to strike to kill in one swift blow.

"She attacked out of hunger."

He jumps with a yelp of alarm, nearly tripping over the maimed body of a mottled pinkish raptor, spinning around to hold the small blade defensively; if an attack came, he'd counterattack and they wouldn't get away unbloodied ---

Naralex sighs. He blinks, once, but chooses to not relax.

"Look at her. It's been weeks since she's eaten. You can count her bones. Why did you deny her a meal? The other packs would have taken over this nest eventually."

He doesn't know how to answer. How can he explain that they needed help, couldn't hope to survive unless he did something? Sure, all he'd done was put her to sleep for a while, but it was enough to aid the living. "There's a whole Barrens out there, plenty of things to hunt without going after these--"

The white-haired druid folds powerful arms over his chest. "She doesn't know how to hunt, does she?"

That stops him again, blank confusion rising. This draws another sigh, and Naralex speaks agian, in the slow, careful tones one saves for the particularly stupid or very young. "Look at the wounds she left. These aren't practiced killing strikes. She doesn't know how to hunt. Or, it seems, care for her own cleaning. Who did her hunting and cleaning away from here, Ayrionthar? Her family?"

He thinks. He returned with relative frequency to Netherwing Ledge.. the lower-ranked orcs always took Ashclaw away to be cleaned and fed, he never bothered with it. The thought was strangely shaming. "The ... orcs did. They took care of everything, my only job was to ride, and keep control, and follow the orders I was given."

Understanding crosses Naralex's face. "I see. So you took all the benefits without taking any of the responsibilities, dumping a living being into the care of others because you couldn't be bothered to take responsibility for anything but yourself..."

"It wasn't like that! That's just how they do things! They raised the hatchlings and cared for them, the riders just--"

"Used them?" Naralex helpfully supplies, and his mouth snaps shut before he can continue his inturrupted line of thought, acutely aware that his teacher wasn't wrong. It wasn't right, was it, to leave that kind of thing to someone else? He didn't have any particular malice towards the netherdrakes, and she did look underfed. What if Naralex was right, and she hadn't eaten since last he went to the Netherwing Ledge? The older druid offers a stiff-bristled scrub brush normally used for scraping floors. "I'll keep her asleep for now, and dress her kills. She needs rest as much as food, hopefully she'll know what to do with a carcass. You can start making up for your neglect by cleaning her up."

Reluctantly, he takes the brush.