{{wst>pinkgothic|The first thing apparent to Demarath's psyche is breathing. It's not him - despite the abuse he's been through, his windpipe is entirely undamaged, only the underside of his jaw throbbing dully with the memory of precision pain, and his breath is soundless and subconscious. Instead, as it becomes apparent that he's tied into a pitifully neat package by the resin, wings folded around his body, granting him the appearance of a sleeping bat, complete with the upside down sway, he's also aware of the rest of his family in a neat row beside him, like an array of particularly large copper fruit.

Three dragons are in his line of sight - insomuch as he can be said to have one. A pale dark crimson female, large and built for strength as is customary for the Avishraan species, is having the creature he'd been intercepted by earlier nurse her muzzle; a third one, almost ashen blue of scale, is curled up tightly, presumably in some form of sleep, large parts of his body impossible to discern.

The dimly luminescent mushroom forest around them is unrecognisable - it's unclear where they were in relation to their home, in relation to Taryr's hut, or in relation to the Spore Stone.}}

{{wst>reh|A soft moan escapes Demarath's throat as he groggily swims his way back to consciousness. For a brief instant, there's a spark of hope that maybe it was all just a bad dream - but no, his wings are firmly stuck folded around his body, and proprioception tells him he's hanging nose-down from... something; probably one of the mushrooms in the area.

His family's here, and they're alive. Not uninjured, but alive. He's not sure who that irregular breathing belongs to, but it's not his own. Eyes open and move, searching the ground for some idea of what the situation is. There's the Hzataalar Kaea who caught him, and another, female, who he's tending to the wounds of, and a third lying curled up on the ground, asleep, by the looks of it.

Terror starts creeping into the young Srian's demeanor. Everyone's here, and moreso, they're all here //alive//. Why would the Hzataalara do that? What are they going to do to them, now that they're all here hanging in a row like fruits ready to be plucked from a tree?}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|The rest of his family don't seem to be quite as lucky with their degree of lucidity. They must have had it worse than he did, though the two feedback spikes he'd gotten into his psyche prior to his own blackout certainly suggested something dire. The ache under his muzzle serves as a distracting addition to the haze in his skull, buffetting him in faded sensory perception.

Teal eyes creep across the landscape from their current point of attention, the damaged female dragon, and lock onto Demarath's form, light smile soaking the vile dragon's expression and air, both. There's a whisper, prompting the crimson dragoness to snap her gaze around almost as if stung, her own amber eyes narrowing in silent contempt; then the silver-blue creature approaches, peeling his focus from her in the process.

For a long, unsettling moment, nothing happens but that his gaze creeps up along Demarath's form and back down as if inspecting a particularly large but detailed good. Then the tension dissipates, and a perhaps surprisingly pleasant voice inquires: "What's your name?"}}

{{wst>reh|It's spotted him. It knows he's awake. And now it's coming closer and oh Avikael he's going to die. He's going to die at the hands of this Hzataalar Kaea and-

...and then it very pleasantly asks for his name. Wide-eyed terror shifts quickly to silent confusion. In another context, perhaps, the other dragon's tone would make sense. As if it weren't a Hzataalar Kaea addressing a Davir Sria. Why would it ever care about his name? "D-Demarath," he stutters fearfully, a moment later wondering if that was unwise. Maybe it's not going to kill them, but then why would they have attacked his family? Then again, it seems to be in the mood for conversation, so maybe he can find out by asking directly. "W-What do you want from us?"}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|One forepaw of the Hzataalar reaches up neither in lethargy nor haste to snake digits around one of Demarath's antennae, resulting in a gentle but firm grip, forming an assurance that that sinuous neck would not launch gnashing teeth at him any time soon, and little else. "A story," the two-coloured dragon informs Demarath, the statement at first registering as an absurdity, before he clarifies: "Tell me about yourself, Demaratha tel'Tanitha," as exaggeratedly polite as his degree of knowledge permits. A single syllable of a breathy chuckle escapes him an instant later, muzzle inclining gently. "I suggest you don't mistake the question for a hollow platitude," he advises, tone wholly devoid of any patronising air - at least for the moment.}}

{{wst>reh|Demarath instinctively flattens his antennae against the back of his head as the blue-and-silver dragon wraps its fingers around one, and twists his head slightly to the side, eyes straining to get a glimpse of the rest of his family. How did this dragon know his father's name? He could tell Tanith was unconscious; had he gone through this same process, and was now going to interrogate him? If that's the case, how much did his father tell this... monster? Is that what he is? He's not acting like what he'd expect from a Hzataalar Kaea, from all the stories he's heard, from all his nightmares.

Demarath shuts his eyes, trying to process the conflicting signals. He wants him to talk about himself. What does that even mean? What is he looking for? Why is he doing this at all? And what's the point of cooperating if he's just going to kill them? He inhales deeply, trying to calm himself. Then, in a rare moment of bravery, he asks, "Why should I tell you, when I know you're going to kill me anyway?" He can't quite keep his voice from wavering in terror, but there's still an undeniable tone of defiance there.}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|The grip on his antennae tightens, pinching at soft-scaled skin and crushing the fleshy interior - not enough to truly damage the young dragon, but enough to ache in silent warning. Then the previous status quo returns, letting the dull throb fade back out of that delicate, fleshen prong. "I don't believe we have the rare pleasure of being telepathically connected by deity decree," the Hzataalar points out. There's the patronising. It's light, barely qualifying as a faux pas even in more cordial circumstances, but unmistakably there - a gloating at his helpless and confused state. The tone that follows is soft and almost encouragingly friendly, but with a firm, resolute undercurrent, like a teacher: "I'll give you this warning once and not a single further time: If you want to assume your future fate, I will cherry-pick the worst of those assumptions and make them your reality, regardless what I was planning to do before. Understood?"}}

{{wst>reh|Demarath winces, tensing his jaw and uttering a soft whimper at the brief increase in pressure. There's a brief glare of anger at the patronizing comment - but a few moments later, that all drains out of him. The Hzataalar's words send a chill down Demarath's spine, and that fiery spark of bravery dies out.

For a few moments, there's no response besides the obvious signs of fear. He turns the situation over in his mind, trying to think it through logically. If the Hzataalar wants to kill him or cause him pain - which, he notes, is very likely given his a priori knowledge, even if evidence is slowly building up to the contrary - then it makes no difference whether he cooperates or not. He'd be giving away information, certainly, but it's hard to see how that could make the situation any worse than it already is. They're already entirely at these creatures' mercy.

On the other hand, in the off chance he's managed to meet the one Hzataalar who isn't looking to relentlessly slaughter his kind (or perhaps the one pair or trio of Hzataalara), and there's even the //slightest// chance they can get out of this alive if he cooperates, then he's only hurting himself and his family if he doesn't. Dangerous as it seems, his only hope of survival is to trust, or at least hope, that the stranger who's trapped his family doesn't want to kill them. Where the only assurance he has of that is the fact that they're all still alive, and vague, unspecific hints about the immediate future.

Demarath exhales, then swallows hard and lightly nods his head several times. Several breaths later, he's tilted his head back, staring at the ground and trying to hide the pained expression on his muzzle. "What do you wish to know about me?" he asks quietly, tone subdued.}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|"That which you wish to share," the Hzataalar instructs patiently. "We have time. I impose no restrictions on your narrative, but I would hope it paints a coherent whole image." The sentence continues inevitably in the silence, unspoken but no less clear, with 'for me to assess'. He's being judged. He and his family are being judged, though at the moment, the interrogation is purely his own, with none of his family - proven by their mute mindlinks - able to hear his words. Privacy, after a fashion.}}

{{wst>reh|Demarath closes his eyes. Lovely. So what he says is going to be judged by a complete stranger with wholly unclear motives, and may mean the difference between life and death, both for him and for his family. No pressure!

For a long time, the young Davir Sria is silent, wearing a contemplative expression. What could he say? He could talk about his life on Belewe, perhaps. Or how that had abruptly come to an end. Or he could try to start from the beginning, maybe? 'Every good story starts at the beginning,' he recalls his grandmother telling him when he was young. With a sharp intake of breath, he begins.

"I was born a little over six hundred years ago, on Belewe," he recounts. "We lived there for most of my life; the four of us and-" There's a brief pause, then he continues, "-and my grandmother, who passed on when I was about a century old. She used to tell us all sorts of stories, about Avishraa, about the Citadel, about..." There's a moment of clear discomfort, as Demarath shifts his gaze to the Hzataalar he's speaking to. "About what happened to our original homeworld." There, that was at least a neutral way of putting it, no need to give his interrogator any reason to harm him more than he already has.}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|The thumb-digit of the Hzataalar rolls across Demarath's trapped antenna, no doubt to serve as a constant subtle reminder to the trapped Srian that he's in a dangerous situation, prevent him from falling into complacency about his position. Of course, the fact his literal position in turn is upside-down certainly adds to that effect; his heartbeat in his skull is quite enough to add a sense of alarm. For now, his captor seems intent on simply staring at him in patient silence, waiting for the continuation of his story. Inwardly, the Hzataalar is considering asking for said story to focus on Demarath - he's not interested in their boring family history - but perhaps it'd veer there naturally if he let the young one speak.}}

{{wst>reh|Demarath shifts his gaze back to the ground momentarily, then shuts his eyes, deciding that he really doesn't want a visual reminder of which way is down. He has enough senses telling him that as is. "I... - for a long time, I thought they were just stories. Even if they were true, it's- it's not like I'd ever run into a Hzataalar Kaea, right?" There's a short, bitter, mirthless laugh at the irony of that, accompanied by a light grimace. "That's what I used to think, at least, until... really only about a year ago."

Demarath pauses briefly, a chill running down the length of his spine and eliciting a light shiver as he recalls the events of that fateful day. "Ashernath and I - my brother, that is - he and I, I don't remember whose idea it was, but we... - we snuck into our father's study one day, and found a linking book to Avishraa, to the Citadel of Life. And..." His composure slips, finding the memories too awful to recount. "And I just- I wanted to see what it was like. I wanted to know whether all those stories were true. I thought it would be harmless. We'd just- we'd just go, look around for a bit, then link back, and it would be safe, right?" Tears begin to well up behind the young dragon's lids; he squeezes his eyes tighter shut, but a few drops still leak through, tracing paths down his muzzle.}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|The young dragon had gone to Udunshraa with his brother. The implications of the narrative are thrilling, of course - what fortune to be speaking to the victim of his trap as the first lucid member of this catch. What exhilerating fortune.

The Hzataalar's tongue snakes out between two vaguely triangular, curved teeth, sharp-edged, and rests there for a moment as he considers Demarath's story, imagination filling in a few of the blanks: The copper dragon, helpless in the tangle of the trap. The copper dragon, poisoned to disable the trap, perhaps by his brother, or by an intervening family member. Murdered, killed, however temporarily, to serve a greater goal. The copper dragon, fleeing from the place of his entrapment, disabused of his trust in the one fortress meant to keep him and his kin safe.

The whole thing crawled pleasantly under the Hzataalar's skin, quite apparent as an open-mawed grin on his face. Then the tongue slips back into his mouth with a brief wet sound and the muzzle closes, grin remaining. "And once there, you triggered my trap, didn't you?" he asks, fascination in his tone.}}

{{wst>reh|Eyes shoot open, staring blankly at the ground below him. His trap. This is the Hzataalar Kaea who put the infernal trap in Udunshraa. He should have seen it sooner - of course it's the same one. He built the trap that ensnared him a year ago, and he built the trap that's ensnaring him now. Fear spikes through him, paralyzing him. Anything could happen now; it could slowly crush him to death, all his worst nightmares could play out in reality. Demarath's composure melts a moment later, and he breaks down into uncontrollable sobbing. In case that isn't a clear enough answer to his captor's question, he nods sharply a few moments later, in between sobs.

It also explains something else - he's keeping him alive. The trap in Udunshraa wasn't designed to kill him, it would, he had reasoned, keep him alive for as long as it could. The Hzataalar is doing the same now - so whatever plan he has in mind for the young Srian requires him to be alive. "Wha-What are you going to do to me?" he wails plaintively, an undercurrent of begging for something - his life, his freedom, his safety, his family's safety... or just whatever he can get.}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|"That depends entirely on how our current conversation plays out," the Hzataalar informs him, tone conversational, soft and friendly, not at all tarnished by that added notion. "Let's not stray too far from the topic, shall we?" he suggests. "I'd love to hear about your experience in Udunshraa. Your thoughts on the matter. And please do be honest, it wastes less of our precious mutual time."}}

{{wst>reh|The answer is distressing, but not altogether unpredictable. Maybe he hasn't even decided what he's going to do to him, and is just relishing his fear. Maybe he's going to use whatever he says and craft a torment out of his worst nightmares. There's no way of knowing. Tension grips the young dragon for a moment - hesitation, as if considering not answering the Hzataalar's query at all. But his earlier warning still burns fresh in his mind: If he doesn't cooperate, he'll certainly get his worst nightmare in return.

"It-" Demarath turns his head away as best he can, trying to get the dichromatic dragon out of his field of vision. "It was... the worst day of my life," he replies. "...before today, at least," he adds as an afterthought. "I... - I thought I was going to die. I thought we were both going to die. I don't know how long we were there for before Father got us out, and..." He pauses, the words caught behind a lump in his throat. He knows what comes after that dangling conjunction. It's a simple, raw emotional fact, one that's probably already obvious to all but the most dim observer. But the idea of saying it aloud still terrifies him, as if doing so would be tantamount to baring his soul to this monstrous creature - and there's still a shred of resistance to that notion left in him.}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|The thumb-digit of the Hzataalar's forepaw is still rubbing against the fleshy horn of Demarath's slender head. Beneath the irritation it causes and the alarm of there being any physical connection between the two dragons at all, there's something distantly, vaguely hypnotic about it. The silver-blue dragon does not, however, bother to bifurcate Demarath's narrative with an encouraging enquiry or continue it by filling in the obvious blank by himself, instead faux-patiently waiting for the Srian to utter the words himself.}}

{{wst>reh|Silence. Another shiver runs down Demarath's spine. There's no prompt from the Hzataalar, just continued massaging at one of his antennae. Almost like he's trying to be soothing; it might register as vaguely nice in any other context, but here, the sensation is much less welcome. Finally, perhaps unable to take the silence any more, he finishes his sentence: "I'd never been more helpless and terrified in my life."

Evidently, that's opened the floodgates. "I couldn't get out. Ashernath tried, he tried to get me out. But when he attacked it, it hurt me. When he tried to leave to find a book that could help, it hurt me. It felt like we'd tried everything, then he tried to pry off the coils and..." He cringes, twisting slightly in his sticky prison. A continuous stream of tears flows down his muzzle, dripping from the tip of his nose to the ground below. "And then it snagged him, and we were both trapped, and I don't know how long it was before Father showed up, and then he... he had to kill me, to get it out of me. And..."

Demarath takes a few moments to sniffle, shaking a few stray tears from his muzzle. "And then on top of everything else, we had to leave Belewe and come here, so we couldn't be followed. And then I started getting the nightmares, but they slowly went away and we started to feel like we were safe, but..." He winces, swallowing hard, then turns his gaze to his captor. "But we weren't ever really safe, were we?"}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|There were very little insults being dealt, something the Hzataalar considered admirable. As much as the rest of the Srian's composure had melted away and was dripping as tears to the dusty, earthen ground, he was being fabulously well-behaved. But if he waited for this animal with a name to get to the point he sorely desired to talk about, he reckoned it would take longer than his patience reached - or at least as far as his mate allowed his patience to reach. "No," he says, simply, smiling. "I am going to ask you a few questions now," he announces, calmly. "And I want you to answer honestly; again, anything else would simply make this more arduous than it needs to be," he adds. He lets that sink in, pausing just long enough for the same, then begins with: "What are you? From your perspective, as detailed as you can muster and deem relevant."}}

{{wst>reh|Demarath nods once in response to the instruction, too overwhelmed by terror to even consider defiance at this point. The question itself, however, initially prompts a stare of incredulousness. He can't be asking for his own edification; it's completely beyond Demarath's ability to imagine a Hzataalar who doesn't know what a Davir Sria is. They were Chosen themselves, they had to know. Then understanding pops into place: This is a test. He's //testing// him, with the vague hope hanging over his head that if he passes, he might live, together with the absolute terror of what failure would bring.

"D-Davir Sria," he utters quietly, the first answer that he can muster. For a moment, it almost looks like that's going to be the entire answer, then he wrinkles his snout into a pensive expression, trying to ignore the streams of tears. A name, but that's not all he's looking for. What does it mean? "It's... a genetic condition, and it means I'll eventually have magic, but until then...." There's a pause, and the young Srian grimaces, more tears flowing from his eyes. "It just means I have a weak, fragile, useless body." There's clear resentment in that, together with a hint of self-loathing. It's not fair that he should have to suffer for what amounts to a genetic mishap.}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|There's a heavy, pregnant pause, smile on the Hzataalar's muzzle near-imperceptibly widening. Is he waiting for Demarath to continue? There seems to be something on the tip of his captor's tongue, a very specific type of tension in his flawless body, like someone impatient to get to the punchline of some elaborate plot but holding out to make it all the sweeter.}}

{{wst>reh|Maybe it's something in the Hzataalar Kaea's expression, maybe it's the topic of conversation reaching something he already feels sensitive about, or maybe it's the fact that it feels like he's already hit emotional rock bottom and there's just nowhere lower to go. Whatever it is, that spark of indignant defiance has managed to rekindle itself.

"Maybe you can help me understand something," he says, that same bitterness still present in his voice, glowering at his captor. "Why do you do this? What exactly is it that you have against us? It's not bad enough just waking up every day and seeing another patch of blackened scales. It's not bad enough just feeling like your body's slowly failing you. It's not bad enough just dealing with a family that //always// worries about you - and I know they mean well, and they're just showing they care, but every time I run out of breath, every time I'm too weak to carry something heavy, it's always the same. We have to deal with Hzataalar Kaea chasing after us on top of all that. All we want is to live in peace as best we can, and we can't even do that."}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|The smile of his captor's seems unbroken. "Again with the assumptions," he chides, though it's light this time, evidently not going to result in any punishment, not even a twist of that antenna. It does beg the question, of course, what notion exactly the Hzataalar is contesting - surely not that they're being chased, that was obvious by the very circumstances they found themselves in? That they had something against Demarath's kin? What other reason could anyone have to hunt another being to extinction? "You'll forgive me for not answering a fundamentally incorrect question, I hope, but I have another for you: If I were to offer you health and strength in exchange for temporary but absolute, unflinching obedience - necessary, I assure you, for my part of the deal to be fulfilled, and certainly expressly excempt of such perversions as making you harm those dear to you - would you consider accepting?"}}

{{wst>reh|Demarath bristles at the Hzataalar's comment. How is he making assumptions? Or, more accurately: What assumptions is he making, and how are they incorrect? And if he's making incorrect assumptions, why isn't his captor making any effort to correct his misconceptions?

The question piques his interest, though. Health and strength? His heart leaps in his chest. It would be like a dream come true, a prayer being answered. Ashernath and Shiarath would never have to worry about him again. It sounds far, far too good to be true, though, and much as he wants to believe, he's too canny to believe it's as simple as that. "Consider? Certainly," he replies, tone one of caution. "But I'd need more details than that to decide."}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|"Really," the Hzataalar retorts, a tinge of amusement in that word. "What details do you need?" The way the question is asked sheds focus on the current situation: Dangling from the underside of some mushroom, caught in an impenetrable resin, with a Hzataalar kneading at one of his antennae, no doubt waiting for some statement from Demarath to damn him to a slow and painful death.}}

{{wst>reh|Well that certainly didn't have any ominous undertones at all. Fear starts creeping back into Demarath, sapping away at his briefly-newfound confidence, but he manages to keep what composure he's managed to regain. There are three issues he's already identified, and while he could certainly see a few other possible issues that might crop up... he'd rather not try and push his luck with too many questions. "Just three things," he replies, somehow hiding the waver from his voice. Three it is.

Demarath swallows hard and runs his tongue across his lips. "First, how long is 'temporary'?" he begins. "Second, what else would the process of granting me health and strength entail? And third..." There's a brief pause, as he seems to consider whether this is actually a wise question to ask - but it's too late to change course now. "...what would happen if I refused?"}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|"'Temporary' is as long as it needs to be," the Hzataalar responds, plainly. "I realise that's an unsatisfying answer, but if it was easy to gauge beforehand I would give you a rough estimate. As for the process, it's wholly unpleasant, awful, painful and dangerous, but it shouldn't be difficult to deduce that." That much is true - given that Demarath's is still plagued with its weakness, it stands to reason there must be a reason they haven't escaped their plight. A large part of that is, no doubt, fear of ending up as insane as the Hzataalara of lore, but this one doesn't sound very insane. "And if you refuse, why, obviously I'll kill you." ...correction. He is insane.}}

{{wst>reh|Well. That's not much of a choice, is it? When 'death' is one of the two options, it's pretty hard not to find the alternative much more attractive. But accepting the alternative itself is not an easy task either. He counts no less than three potential downsides to accepting the offer. First is the most obvious - he'd have to swear unquestioning loyalty to this Hzataalar, for a finite but unknown length of time. 'Unflinching obedience' isn't actually something he's particularly good at - he's far too fond of asking questions, of trying to dissect a request and understand why it's being given.

Second is the process itself - 'unpleasant, awful, painful and dangerous' isn't exactly a selling point. And third, perhaps the most frightening, is what unintended side effects the process might have. Would he end up sharing the Hzataalara's insanity? There's a risk, but no way to know for sure. Maybe he'd be fine. And he could certainly dutifully follow instructions when he needed to, and delay searching for an explanation until afterwards. And he'd faced hardships before, in Udunshraa, and gotten out alive. And the reward... a lifetime without being looked down on for his fragility, without being coddled by overprotective parents and siblings. Of being able to feel //pride// for who and what he was. Of never needing to fear death at the hands of the Hzataalara again.

In the end, it would all be worth it. If nothing else, it would be better than dying. Demarath swallows hard and shuts his eyes. "In that case... assuming this is an actual offer, and not still a hypothetical one, I agree."}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|The Hzataalar seems to consider the answer for a moment. There's a hint of pleasant surprise creeping into his demeanour. "Wonderful," the silver-blue dragon comments, delight in his voice - perhaps a bit too much of it. The grip on Demarath's antenna relents, newly freed forepaw rising for a moment as if to free the caught Srian from the resin, before hesitating. "...if you don't mind, for your safety and everyone else's, I'd like to wait with freeing you until I've spoken to the others of your family." There's really no 'if you don't mind' about it, of course, that's just a hollow platitude.

Almost on cue, a shift in Tanith's breathing suggests he's fought his way back to some semblance of coherence, struggling out through the thick of his unconsciousness.}}

{{wst>reh|Demarath's antennae twitch lightly, enjoying their newfound freedom of movement. For a moment, it looks like he's going to be freed, but then his captor stops and decides to speak to the others first. How that has anything to do with anyone's safety is beyond him, but it's not like he's really in a position where complaining will help anything. So he remains silent.

Tanith, in the meantime, is slowly dragging himself to consciousness. He takes in a deep breath, and immediately his throat shoots full of pain, sending him into a brief coughing spree. He tries to stretch his wings, and finds he can't - they're stuck in place, somehow, as are his other limbs. There's something off about gravity, too, though he's not quite lucid enough to place what it is. Several long moments of disorientation pass, and his eyes open, staring unfocussed at the ground above him. Above? Below. The ground's below him; he's upside-down.

Still only dimly aware of his surroundings, the memory of his last moments before 'death' comes back into sharp focus. His family's in danger. He struggles futilely in whatever is binding him in place, sending out a mental ping to the others - all alive, all but Demarath unconscious. ~Are you injured?~ he asks Demarath, groggy and disoriented on his end, through a veil of pain. ~No,~ comes the reply, laced with concern, followed shortly by: ~I'm fine.~}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|The silver-blue Hzataalar swerves his gaze from the boy he's just forged a mutually beneficial agreement with and onto the other Srian that's waking. He lights up like a Christmas tree, lowering himself abruptly onto all fours and walking across to the dangling Tanithfruit. "Tanith," he says, a deep fondness ringing in his voice, as if there were more to the dragon's identity than a Davir Srian he's about to impart his offer to. Recognition, perhaps. A past friendship? Or the Srian's been in this Hzataalar's grasp before. Maybe that fondness is thickly laced with malice: 'Maybe you won't be so lucky this time.'}}

{{wst>reh|A low hiss escapes Tanith's teeth at the sound of his name. The voice certainly doesn't belong to anyone of his family, but neither is it entirely unfamiliar. Clearly a Hzataalar Kaea, given the context. It knows his name - was it one of the ones he'd been captured by all those centuries ago? Or had it learned his name from Demarath? Moments later, it comes into his field of view from below, scales patterned blue and silver. A half-breed? That's unusual. And blue and silver... - something about that combination is ringing bells, but he's not yet quite focussed enough to connect it with anything. Given the glare and scowl on his features, he evidently doesn't recognize the Hzataalar's face.}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|"I would ask you how you're feeling if it weren't so plainly apparent," the Hzataalar comments. "You have a fantastic Srian son," he praises, betraying his fondness for the boy and his readiness to play along. "And you killed and resurrected him just to get him out of my trap. I'm glad you managed. It's very clever. I haven't figured out a remedy to that trick yet," he admits, conversationally.}}

{{wst>reh|Tanith's scowl fades slightly, replaced by confusion. ...this doesn't sound like a Hzataalar Kaea. There's genuine fondness for him and his son in his tone, something no Hzataalar's ever shown for a Davir Sria. It doesn't make any sense. And he's speaking as though to an old friend, but it's not possible that Tanith's ever met this individual before. The only Argentha-Azratha he'd ever met was-

Oh no.

Tanith's eyes instantly go wide with terror, studying his captor's body. It's different now, obviously, with none of the signs of frailty associated with being Davir Sria, no blemished scales or wrinkled skin. But there are too many similarities to ignore. "Sh- Shahrivrath?" he asks, wincing slightly as he speaks in a raspy voice. That Sanguith obviously did quite a number on him. "Is that... really you?" He didn't think it was possible. Surely Shahrivrath had perished, he'd assumed all these years. "What in Avikael's name... did they do to you?"}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|The notion of anyone doing anything to him considered harmful elicits a light chuckle. "Isn't it fantastic?" he asks, grinning broadly, righting himself back onto the standard bipedal posture, imbuing the same with a certain pride and dark exhileration. "Health and strength, Tanith," he addresses him, almost glowing. "It was a bit of a struggle to get there, but can you conceive how fantastic it is?" he asks, bunching his forepaws to tense fists of reverence, tensing the muscles of his arms and shoulders. He gives his neck a little shake to dispel the very same tension a moment later, beaming at Tanith. "The mark is gone," he informs, excited tone steady and soft despite his enthusiasm. "It's a gift I hope to pass on to you as well, if I may," he comments. A much shorter lead-up than with Demarath - though that stands to reason, given they apparently know each other, and no assessment needs to happen.}}

{{wst>reh|This conversation has evidently piqued Demarath's curiosity, as he's craning and twisting his neck to get a better view of it. ~Father, you know this man?~ he asks, mental tone full of curiosity. ~Who is he?~

Tanith tenses, readopting his scowl. This is too much information to take in at once, in his current state. He's still a few steps behind, trying desperately to catch up with everything. "You're the one who put the trap in Udunshraa," he rasps, then coughs. He recalls the Citadel's words: it had only let in Srians and Srian relatives. "That's why it didn't stop you. It recognized you as Srian."

Demarath's eyes widen. "What?!" This Shahrivrath, his captor, is... a Davir Sria? Or- His train of thought is interrupted by his father's telepathic reply: ~I used to know him, long ago, before you were born. He used to be a Davir Sria.~ 'Used to be.' That's a frightening thought. ~We'd been captured by Hzataalar Kaea, and he helped me escape.~ Wait. Wait, Father had been captured by Hzataalar Kaea? Why hadn't he ever told him this? If he had, maybe he wouldn't have been so careless. Maybe he wouldn't have thought of the Hzataalar Kaea as little more than horror stories. Maybe he wouldn't have gone to Avishraa, and gotten caught in that infernal trap, and this never would have happened.

Tanith has meanwhile turned his attention back to Shahrivrath. "I'd always assumed you'd perished at the Hzataalar's hands, all those centuries ago," he comments, keeping his voice soft to make it easier on his damaged throat. "But this..." There's more than a trace of horror in his expression. "This is even worse. You've become one of them. A Hzataalar Sria... I never thought it was possible."}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|"Worse, my friend?" Shahrivrath echoes, in equal parts amused and incredulous. "This freedom is exhilarating. Please don't be an ignorant, narrow-minded animal about this in instinct, Tanith," he implores. "I know it's hard to comprehend, but you know me; I have no cause to embellish the process. I do still recall my terror, but it's causeless. Don't you see? I'm free. And it's freedom I'm offering you." There's a pleading edge to his statements, although blatantly not out of desire to be accepted, no part of his pride seeming to have diminished given Tanith's implicit insult. "Your son understands what I'm offering," he adds with a quizzical tinge, as if wanting to ask if he honestly questioned the intelligence of his own son to the implied degree.}}

{{wst>reh|Tanith continues to glare sceptically at the Hzataalar Sria who he'd once considered a friend. At least, until he mentions his son, at which point his eyes go wide with fear. ~Demarath,~ he addresses telepathically. ~Is this true? He made you this offer?~ Horror is clear in his tone. Please let him not have accepted.

~Yes, Father,~ Demarath replies, tone respectful with a dose of hopefulness.

~And did you accept?!~ asks Tanith, tone turning desperate.

~I did.~

Tanith shuts his eyes, uttering a soft groan. This is like a nightmare turned real. ~Why?~ he asks. ~Why would you do that? Don't you understand what's at stake? What you'd become?~ Emotions are running high, fear mixed with anger mixed with disappointment.

Demarath tenses. ~I know the risks, Father,~ he replies. ~I didn't make the decision lightly. I know there's a risk I'll turn out like them. I know it's dangerous. But it's worth the risk. Not having Ashernath and Mother constantly having to watch over me. Not constantly running out of breath when I fly for too long. Not waking up every morning feeling weaker than the night before. I'm tired of being like this, Father. I'm tired of being dependent on everyone else.~

Tanith shakes his head lightly, tears burning in his eyes. His own son. How could his own son choose this fate for himself? Had he learned nothing from the stories of the Hzataalar Kaea? Had he learned nothing from the dreadful experience in Udunshraa? Or had he just taken away entirely the wrong lessons from those? It feels like betrayal. For a long moment, silent tears spill from Tanith's eyes, and then he speaks quietly to Shahrivrath: "I assume that if I refuse, you're going to kill me?"}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|Shahrivrath hesitates visibly, the question and implied unbudgable difference in opinion paining him. "...of course," he says, tone tinged with sadness, bordering plaintive. "You can't understand that, but it's quite necessary," he adds, this time with more resolve, a bitterness entwined with his matter-of-fact manner. A pause. "Please don't make me do that." Despite the 'please', his voice is neither pleading nor overly stern, more like a thinly veiled instruction.}}

{{wst>reh|Tanith nods once, almost as if in understanding - though of course there's nothing of the sort. He couldn't possibly understand why Shahrivrath would see his death as necessary - but he doesn't need to. "I suppose I was right, then," he comments sadly. "My friend really is gone." For a moment he simply closes his eyes, taking a moment to mentally finish his earlier prayer, then calmly announces: "My answer is no."

Demarath squirms in his prison of sticky resin. "No!" he cries out. "Father! Father, please, reconsider! He'll kill you!" As he's crying and twisting, the two remaining dragons begin to stir, as if woken by Demarath's cries.

Tanith's voice comes in clear over the mindlink. ~There's nothing to reconsider, Demarath,~ he replies, tone stern. ~Both options are death. It's only a matter of how we die - we can choose to pass from this life, or to become a weapon against any others of our kind that may still be out there. The very least we can do is choose the noble death; we owe that much to ourselves, to our ancestors, and to the world.~

"There's nothing noble about this!" shouts the young Srian. "Please, Father!" he begs, tears spilling from his eyes once more. In desperation, he turns to the Hzataalar. "Please. Please don't kill him. You don't have to do this. Please."}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|Completely ignoring the desperate shouting from the young Srian, Shahrivrath regards Tanith with a numb stare and an air of futile helplessness. Perhaps it had been inevitable. He has no hope that he can convince Tanith if he just keeps at it, that much is certain, as much as a part of him wants to - the Srian doesn't see the gift for what it is, how could he hope to put a dent into that misconception? It's a bitter truth. It's Tanith - they've been through much together, back when they were both animals. But that only applies to one of them now, as much as nostalgia tried to convince him of otherwise, tried to imbue him with a personhood that he simply didn't fully possess. There was a fragment there waiting to be nurtured... but he didn't want it.

The numb stare of Shahrivrath's lingering on the bound, adult Srian is much akin to the owner of a pet being told the beloved companion needs to be put to death.

"All right," he says, voice almost a whisper, full of resignation. A moment later sees him reach up to the resin, pushing claws into the substance and gripping it as if it provided with him handles on the copper dragon, stepping back to pluck him from the thick tendril connecting him with the lamella of a mushroom. Gravity takes a sudden, lurching hold of the package, and Tanith crashes to the ground, right shoulder absorbing most of the impact.

The instinctively broadcast pain jolts the groggy Ashernath into full lucidity. A sucked in breath later, he's fully grasped their situation - their sticky, transparent prisons, wrapped around them like a tight suit; their enemies, two or three in number; and the death breathing down Tanith's neck with a horrific inevitability. A death for their father. A death for a mindlink. It would sear through them and burn at their synapses until they shrivelled and scarred, taking a whole section of their psyche down into the grave with it. Memories, emotions, personality traits, all about to be brutally shredded from them, not enough time in the process to disconnect themselves in a peaceful ritual.

Ashernath emits a howl of anticipatory anguish, wings straining futilely against the resin, struggling to tense the substance to point of snapping apart and freeing him. Beside him, Shiarath sways lightly, like a lazy pendulum, her head rolling around in incredulousness. It's not that the situation is somehow beyond her grasp - she has the same lucidity now that the others of the Tenneth family have attained - but it's absurd. It's ludicrous. It's surreal. Grief paralyses her, silently focussed on her mate.

He was going to kill them both. She's sure of it. Even without raising a claw to her, even without harming her directly, she'd be erased. There was no other possibility, and she reached out to Tanith in silent grief, knitting herself against him, willing to be burnt out with him, deliberately reducing her chance of survival in his wake. It was no crueller to her sons than for Tanith alone to die, a part of her reasons. It's not altogether selfish, how she's crowding herself against Tanith's mind, pleading with him, loving him, promising never to part, silent in her heartache. She wasn't murdering anyone in cold blood. She was simply going with him, unwilling to survive him.}}

{{wst>reh|Tanith instinctively cries out in pain as his shoulder crashes into the ground, throat complaining once more. It's difficult not to be terrified - with the threat of death looming above him, with his sons crying out in anticipatory pain, with Shiarath tying her psyche to his. He initially opposes her decision to die alongside him; concerned for the long-term future of his children he asks her to stay behind and watch over them - but of course, such a request is futile. They're all going to die. An entire line, an entire family, either wiped from existence or twisted into something they should never be. And even if it weren't futile, he knows Shiarath's stubbornness far too well. This was her choice. ~I love you,~ he whispers to her, taking what little comfort he can from their togetherness in death.}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|Shiarath has embedded herself into Tanith's psyche, sunk into synapses, clung to the life of her mate as if the gesture made a difference to anyone but the two of them in death. It's a link so tight the mental tension surrounding it almost adds a headache to the list of Tanith's woes, but thick with love and affection, the Avishraan equivalent of tightly linked hands. There's an abyss beyond them, a precipice they're balanced on together by circumstance, impossible to defeat.

Shahrivrath's left forepaw's wrapped itself about Tanith's two antennae, crushing his head down against the ground, right foot setting down against his shoulder as he rolls him onto his side, twisting his head against the soft ground until his neck is bared. The dull marks of Chandarmaneth's bite still linger there, tiny, scar-like imperfections, in part the dark crimson of crusted blood.

Then she's beside him, a crimson shadow almost mirroring his proud and purposeful posture, disturbing it chiefly with the reveal of a dagger ten times the length of a foreclaw, forming a decorative extension of her left hand, and with what is perhaps a merciful swiftness the tip of it drives into the shallow furrow delineating neck muscles from throat and shreds down along it, leaving a desperately frantic heartbeat to push the blood from the artery, spilling it uselessly and with a visible pulsing force across scales and onto the dusty ground. The sharp blade's wound finds itself mirrored in the other captives, like someone's pushed a fork into one eye and begun to twist it.

Shiarath's spine curves unnaturally, an absolute tension gripping her body as she howls, the sound not even under her own control, simply an instinctive response to the impossible pain burning like a wildfire through her and unravelling her reality. Her breath runs out, leaving the howl to sputter and taper into a tense silence, muscles aching from the strain reflex has forced on them, eyes blind to the world eyes as they open.

Ashernath yowls, but the sound is quick to die down into a whimper, latter born less of the agony in his skull and more of having to listen to his mother's monotone sob, though it's a subconscious reaction, all grasp on lucid thought beyond him.}}

{{wst>reh|Demarath screams in pain, writhing and twisting in spite of the fact that it does him no possible good, only exhausting his already strained muscles. It's like someone's set his synapses on fire - all of them, at once. Something precious and intangible is ripped out of him, leaving only a burning pain behind, echoing through his entire being, refusing to die down. The screams turn to sobs, only the dimmest thoughts finding lucidity in his mind. ~Why?~ There's no further context to that thought, no elaboration, no continuation. Just an endless question repeated over and over. Why is his father dead. Why is his mother gone. Why is his life so full of pain. Why.}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|A different voice cuts across the horrific scene, bitter but soft, worn down to a tired stump. "You're making a mess of things again." Inspection, if it weren't beyond the Tenneths at the moment, would reveal the source to be the ashen Azratha, muzzle raised to glance at them. The face is flawless, but the side of his neck is spattered with ugly, withered blotches forming no particular pattern. "Do you always have to do that?" he asks, with a resigned exasperation. "Blood //stains// and it's all kinds of discourteous to the natives. Are you going to clean that up?"

The series of statements prompts a guttural growl from Chandarmaneth, snapping her muzzle around to glare daggers at the Chosen, nostrils flaring, lips pulling back from her teeth in a snarl. Rather than speak in retort, she jerks the dagger from Tanith's dead body and herself into motion, striding energetically across to the weak and no doubt bound creature to strike at his muzzle.

Shahrivrath doesn't seem inclined to intervene, ignoring that spat and looking down at the fallen body. No matter how much he'd rather it otherwise, this is the corpse of a friend. If he'd been less fortunate, perhaps he would have formed a mindlink with him and would feel the same agony his family is going through, but they'd always wisely decided that unless they sought to spend their life together, a link was just setting them up for pain.

He'd much rather that hadn't been true.

His breath slows and he rights himself, gently placing his right forepaw into his mouth and licking the flecks of blood off the digits. It's done, it's over. He's done the best thing he could for the stubborn Srian - he's given him a quick death. More delightfully, he's set a precedent, though there is only one more Chosen on his tree of Dragon Fruit, and he's already wisely agreed to the offer. The others...?

Quietly, he approaches Shiarath, hanging limply as she is, a hollow stare lingering on the ground, volition drained out of her as if it had been a fluid someone had neatly separated from the others in her body and squeezed from the fibres of her body. There's a dull agony radiating out from her to her sons, revealing her not-quite-dead. It's worse than that, of course - she's gone. Her mind is gone. There's not enough of it left to possess thought, be that her own or that of others. Shahrivrath's muzzle nudges against hers as if in some long-forgotten gesture of empathy still grafted to his instincts. Her face is dry - she hasn't cried and in her soulless state, she won't start now. Another nudge. A plaintive moan escapes her, hollow, harrowing, no more than an empty outline for an emotion she couldn't feel. "Are you still with us?" Shahrivrath asks, voice one of infinite caution and care, awful in its sincerity. But of course, there's no answer.}}

{{wst>reh|The burning agony slowly loses its edge, transforming into a dull roar, like an ache made infinitely worse. They're gone. Father's gone. Mother's gone - at least her soul is, though her body's still sending signals of trauma. "They're gone," Demarath whimpers softly. Everything feels awful. He just wants to curl up into a ball and go to sleep. He just wants the nightmare to be over now. Can the nightmare be over now?}}

{{wst>pinkgothic|The sensation of Tanith's death and Shiarath's emotional evisceration drag through Demarath like a tight spiral snaking through him and crushing his bones, stealing his breath. Ashernath is spilling forth little wails, giving the impression though a churning, chaotic tangle of emotions forming the boundry to his psyche that he's dealing with this less well than his brother is, though it stands to reason - Ashernath hasn't had much experience with emotional pain. Demarath's is limited, too, of course, but he's at least felt token ostracised before, and every little bit helps.

Shahrivrath rubs his muzzle against Shiarath's a few more times, a gentle motion, before he finally withdraws in an abruptly cold gesture, assessing her as good as brain dead. There is, however, no reason to take her over that threshold - she's little more than a vegetable, she's no threat to anyone, and the only effect her True Death would have is to harm his protégé's psyche further. No, the Avishraan dragons would be left alive. They would simply be... left behind. They could starve to death, or someone could save them, it was frankly all the same to Shahrivrath. He does, however, flirt with the idea of dragging Ashernath along simply to have a tangible threat to hold over Demarath's head should the young dragon become too cocky for his own good. There was, after all, no use in his project self-destructing out of stubborn pride.}}

{{wst>reh|Demarath is just barely lucid enough to realize he can't deal with this alone. ~Asherna,~ he calls, reaching out to his brother. His last mindlink, and arguably the strongest of the three, given how much of their life they'd spent together. There's dismay in his reaction - Ashernath's even more of a wreck than he is. ~Asherna, it's... - it's going to be okay,~ he whispers. He's not sure he really believes it, though; it's just a hollow platitude. It's not going to be okay. His parents are gone. Nothing's ever going to be okay again. ~We... - we can get through this,~ he tries, still not quite convinced himself. ~We- we can get through it together. We still have each other.~ It's hopeful, but falls short of being any more than that.}}