The aformentioned mother would wail. The loss of her daughter a final nail to the tomb that would be her own mind. Clutching the corpse with one hand as her knees sought the ground. Sobs wracking that weakened form of hers. "Oh sweet child," She'd choke, words barely escaping as more than a croak. The drake that had once coiled about her shoulders, now seeking to rest atop the charred carcass. Only hours before had she said words to the youth, such falling upon deaf ears. No longer a mother was she, now that her final child had fallen. A horrid fate to live past ones own lineage.
A child found, not made.