Rachel

She was attacked by marauders as a young dragon, and her throat was slit deeply. She was dying when they cast her into the wyrmwound like garbage. The sacred liquid of the wyrmwound entered her throat wound, giving her the capsule gene and breathing new life into her. Her baldwin genes represent her dedication to the Plague Flight, from whence she originated. The endless evolution that characterizes the dragons of the wyrmwound, and likewise affects her. Her Capsule contains liquid from the wyrmwound. She has many mates, and has offspring with them all, but they have only one. Each one of them is a devout believer and deeply under her spell (figuratively, she needs no magic to get males under her thrall, her cult of personality is quite enough.) They are all infatuated with her utterly, with no mate but her. The matriarch of the clan, caring but firm, a devout believer in the philosophy that for a tree to thrive, one must prune the dying branches... despite her cool and calculating demeanor, Rachel is deeply proud of her offspring her blood children, who have made something of themselves. Obsessed with her legacy, she tries to manage the lives of her children to make them live the lives she wants them to. The First Curator, and domineering wife of Raphael. She is the leader of the cult and in the eyes of her followers, an almost deific figure. She claims to be (and may actually be) a manifestation of the Plaguebringer's magic. Her resurrection led to her acquiring new, mysterious powers. She exerts an intoxicating pull on the dragons around her, easing their defenses down and allowing her to ingratiate herself to the leaders of other clans, and to newcomers to her own.

the resurrection "No! Please, no! Plaguebringer, help me!" Cried the young skydancer as she was dragged toward the Wyrmwound, "I beg you, mercy, have mercy" The ridgeback holding her by the shoulders only snarled in response, nodding to his comrade who dragged the bone-blade across her throat. The skydancer's feather-hackles fell as she slumped in his grasp, crimson blood pouring from the wound. Unceremoniously, the two marauders pushed her body into the Wyrmwound, where it sank slowly below the surface. Rachel's body floated just below the surface of the lukewarm liquid. Likewise, her consciousness floated along beneath it. awaken The voice spoke with a solemn, feminine tenor. It echoed through Rachel's mind, lilting through her empty ears and igniting her dead synapses. my daughter, rise from your depths of peace She didn't want to. The warm blackness that ensconced her mind was so soft, so comforting. For the first time in her life, all her muscles relaxed, all her body released the pain, the stress, the tension. She could just float, float in the putrid, steaming pool of the wyrmwound. The voice came again, more insistent this time: rise, rise and become my vassal. She couldn't ignore that. Years of religious training kicked in, pushing through the veil of half-life she clung to, and she unfurled her wings as wyrmwound-waste flowed in through the gash in her throat. Life invigorated her body. She rose to the surface. And she flew. She flew higher, more powerfully than she had ever flown before, on wings whose freshly flowing blood sang at the grace of the wind. Her throat wound knitted closed, leaving an ugly scar, but she ignored to prickling and surged into a dive, elated. She flew.