If the young ones are fast, the adults are unstoppable. An Adult Feathered Drake doesn't just fly — it commands the sky. You hear the wind shift, the trees hush, and then it’s there: a shadow streaking across the clouds, wings like banners of living flame, feathers gleaming with age and magic.

They're not just bigger — they're smarter, more deliberate. Every movement is calculated, every dive and glide an expression of total aerial dominance. Unlike chromatic or metallic dragons, they don’t breathe fire or ice. They are the storm. Winds gather in their wake. Feathers shimmer with static or frost, depending on their territory. I once saw one circle a war camp for hours, never touching ground, just watching. It didn’t need to land — its presence alone scattered the army by nightfall.

They’re still elusive, don’t get me wrong. You can’t just go looking for one and expect a warm welcome. Most live deep in mountain valleys, cloud-shrouded plateaus, or ancient, uncharted forests. But when they choose to reveal themselves — usually when something sacred is threatened — they arrive like a force of nature. One moment, quiet. The next, chaos with feathers.

And when they bond? It’s not like riding a horse. It’s more like holding hands with a hurricane and hoping you’re both headed in the same direction. They don’t obey — they agree. If you’ve earned their respect, they’ll fight for you. If not, best hope you’re beneath notice.

They are beautiful. Terrifying, yes. But breathtaking. You don’t fight an Adult Feathered Drake. You survive it — if it lets you.