Diethylamide

A brilliant student well-familiar with the currents and intricacies of the winds, Diethylamide pursued a lofty career studying the breezes and working to ease flight for his fellow dragons. He developed makeshift wings of discarded kite pieces for lamed dragons, helping them to return to the skies, and managed to carefully tame a wild Cloud Chaser into a loyal companion. He was known for cheering up the sad and inspiring hope in the hopeless; truly a noble and kind-hearted dragon, the embodiment of the energetic rush of the winds of his homeland. Some claimed that he was blessed by the Windsinger himself; how else would he boast such a familiar coloration of soft, airy greens that pleased the eye?

His travels and study of the healing effects of a good, clean breeze took him to the Wyrmwound...and it was there that it all ended for him.
An unknown perpetrator approached him from behind as he peered with wonder into the infectious muck, and a heavy-handed shove sent him tumbling in. It was a long few moments before the bubbles began to surface; first a few, then many, the pool positively boiling before claws reached out and grasped the side. With a disoriented heave, the scholar freed himself from the sickening mix and slid down the side, ending up in a heap at the foot of the Wyrmwound.

The brilliant scholar, the aspiring student...was gone. His sharp mind had been irreversibly addled by the ill effects. His pleasing colors had changed drastically, his soft green coat now a sickly silver with bright royal wings. New markings had also stained themselves into his hide, painful shades of neon that were startlingly bright enough to burn the eye if looked at too closely.

Cackling madly, Diethylamide wandered off into the Scarred Wasteland. The old wyrm was gone, destroyed in the acid of the Wyrmwound. Where he had been was now a madman. The only thing that remained of his old life was his Windbound Plumage, a reward for his kind deeds that had seen the magic of the Windsinger himself, miraculously preserved by the same wind energies that he had once fervently pursued.

This dragon delights in scribbling, fingerpainting, cackling in the night, and other madman activities. He was taken in by the Blood Forge clan as an act of pity; Parhelion could not bring himself to send an obviously broken dragon to his death in the lava pools of the Ashfall Waste. Since his arrival, Diethylamide has kept mostly to his part of the lair, though he does emerge at night to eat and gaze vacantly up at the stars.
He recently crafted himself a mask that neatly covers his face, with colors matching the gifted plumage. Is he attempting to put a face to his madness, or is he motivated by shame to hide away...?