Butterfly

She's a walking irony.
Who would think that a dragon lucky enough (or unlucky enough- depends on who you talk to) to return from the dead would continue to bring life?
As the clan’s healer, she is responsible for patching up even the smallest injuries and warding off sickness. Also ironic, since she’s from the Plague flight. She even wears the tatters given to those who have made the pilgrimage across the Abiding Boneyard and lived to tell the tale.
She’s a cool-tempered, easy-going dragoness- calm enough to deal with a dragon driven mad by pain and gentle enough to patch up hatchlings. She speaks softly and uses soothing words. She’s a calming influence, so it’s no surprise that she’s in charge of the clan’s mental health as well.
Since she has this influence, in times of trouble some of the clan members will come to her for advice or just to get something off their chests. She listens but rarely responds. She can be cold or uncaring at times because she dislikes getting worked up over someone else’s matters. She’s also a bit too passive for the tastes of some of her clanmates.
She was raised in the Plague flight, taught “survival of the fittest” and told to “embrace the contagion.” However, she took an interest in the healing arts- even Plague dragons need someone to patch up their wounds and keep the worst illnesses away.
Learning medicine in the heart of the Wasteland was difficult, since few healers taught amongst the sickness and most of the plant life wasn’t even a plant at all. She knew a few basic tasks when she left to find a tutor, but healers had to know how to do more than just apply a bandage. She traveled to the very edges of the Wandering Contagion, near the border with the Water flight- not too far from home, but far enough away for medicinal plants to grow.
There, she met a Coatl willing to teach her. He was a respected healer, even if he lacked a bit in bedside manner. She studied under him for five years to learn as much as she could.

They lived in the Southern Icefields- a territory famously lacking in healers and medicines. They offered her both a salary and a clan to live in. She couldn’t refuse their offer. She accompanied them home and settled in quickly, despite the harsh cold.
Her life was quiet and uneventful. Sure, it was cold and hard to procure supplies, but she didn’t mind. Her new clan accepted her quickly.
It was quiet, of course, until the avalanche came for her.
The mountain swallowed her under a pile of snow. She couldn’t outrun it.
She suffocated beneath the weight- a routine trip gone horribly, horribly wrong. Her clan found her a day later and brought her home to receive a proper burial.
-
She knew she was dead.
The first thing that tipped her off was the sense of separation. She looked down and saw the whiteness far below- the avalanche.
What now? she thought. Is this what’s next- forever?
She came to a landing on the snow below. She noticed that she left no footprints. The snow beneath her wasn’t even disturbed.
That’s freaky.
She broke into a run. Perhaps if she went to the Fortress of Ends, she’d find out if there was something after this. The Icewarden had to know. After all, he was one of the Eleven themselves. Didn’t they judge the dead after they moved on?
The world around her turned into a blur as she ran. Spirits could travel faster than the living. It didn’t take her long to reach the Fortress, even though it was all the way across the Icefield.
Just before she was about to try to get in, a voice sounded in her head- a strong, harsh, intimidating one. She quailed in fear.
YOU’RE NOT DONE YET.
Another blackout.
-
She woke under the earth.
She took a breath in. As a spirit, she hadn’t been aware of breathing. Now, as the air grated over her lungs, she was painfully conscious of it.
Wrappings covered her entire body- perhaps to protect it from the cold. She peeled back the cloth surrounding her body- a red flag emblazoned with the runes of Ice and Plague Flights. Probably a burial shroud.
Next, she clawed the wrappings off her face, freeing her eyes. The air was beginning to become stale.
Funny, some of the clothing she’d been wearing when she died was buried with her. She would have to retrieve it when she got out of here.
She kicked with her back claws, raking the belly of the earth that trapped her here. Some of the stuff crumbled onto her body. Pain flared in her muscles from the effort.
She took a deep breath in and tried again. And again, until bright light streamed into the hole.
She poked her head up, eyes struggling to adjust to the harsh glare of the ice and the cold making every breath painful.
She gathered her belongings from her own grave and tested out her legs. Once she was sturdy enough to walk, she wrapped herself up in the layers and began her trek back to the lair. It couldn’t be too far.
-
Her clan was long gone, however, fearing that they too may suffer the same fate. Maybe her old clan would be acceptant of her now, for she had gone through the unthinkable, even for a plague dragon. They took her back, half unbelieving of her strange tale.
-
She is still a clan healer, but her body struggles to readapt to reanimation. Some of her movements are stiff since some of her muscles lost their function.
She’s not fully alive, however. She no longer needs to eat, sleep, or do any of the things that a living dragon would need to do to survive. It’s believed that she can’t die of natural causes anymore, since her body is no more than a reanimated corpse.
She’s still trying to get the hang of living, but that’s hard when she walks between two worlds. Her body still gives out on her, sending her into periods of unconsciousness. Living again is much harder than it seems.