She was dying.
Even as Shendelzare pulled herself out of the river bank, she knew this to be true. She was safe for the moment, carried away by the swift rapids of the river, but she knew that she could not survive much longer. Her injuries were too many and too deep; she would not survive the hour, much less the day. As she lay on the grass panting, she knew a sense of utter despair.
She had lost her wings.
It was the most utter and complete humiliation a Skywrath could ever face. No Skywrath had ever lost his wings without becoming an object of public ridicule; to lose one's wings was to lose one's pride. Condemned to be part of the lesser folk, a wingless Skywrath often ended their own life shortly after. And Shendelzare was now one of them.
She contemplated suicide. She knew she had not long to live, but she also knew that she did not want to live whatever life she had left as a wingless abomination. She raised her hand, still tightly gripping her chakram. She smiled grimly at that; at least, she had held on to her pride as a warrior, and had never let go of her weapon.
With that thought, she abruptly knew that she did not want to die - at least, not before she had had this injustice cleansed. There was much Delozara and Dragonus had to answer for. She looked up into the sky; in the distance, she could vaguely make out the shadow of the Ghastly Eyrie. Where she had once called home, she would never fly the halls again; without wings, it was impossible to reach the keep. Impossible to reach Dragonus, impossible to reach Delozara.
Impossible to reach revenge.