Night in the desert is never quiet, especially around an oasis. The whine of insects, the faint telltale noises of animals slinking to the water's edge to drink, the louder noises of other animals finding unwitting meals - in a land where daytime scorched the landscape and it was too hot to move, any sensible creature waits till night to come out. On this night, however, the local fauna has gone to ground early, and the noise in the air is of trees rocking back and forth, of wind and sand.

A cloaked figure huddles in the lee of one of the larger trees, clutching a spear to its chest, a woven sack lying on the ground beside it. As the sand, blown by the wind across thousands of miles, takes any opportunity to pile up behind the slightest barrier, the figure has to keep flinging sand off itself and the bag with green, scaled hands. The hands, and the figure, tremble with exhaustion. Storm season is always bad, but rarely this bad.

Beneath the hood of her cloak, the dragoness wears a pair of crudely-made goggles, and her muzzle is covered in cloth. Inhaling sand is never fun. She has both available because she planned well, but there's only so far one could plan. Even she hadn't foreseen being stuck here through an entire day. The rations she'd brought have helped her make it up to now, but she's eaten them all, and attempting to hunt for food in this mess would be, if not suicidal, then incredibly risky.

What makes it even riskier was that she'd been forced out of the vegetation growing densely around the oasis' waters. Sand had started piling up between the trees, forcing her inward, almost to the water's edge and away from cover. She hates, hates being away from cover. She glances warily at the shape of the book-pedestal, about a quarter of the way around the water from where she sits and difficult to make out through the dusty air, even from here.

If there's a blessing in all of it, she thinks, it's that the remains of the old base camp, though still visible now, ought to be covered over with sand again by the time this is over. She's never had time to rebury them herself, and their visibility has been gnawing at her; by themselves all they suggest is that any inhabitants had died, but she has no desire to pique the curiosity of any visitors.

She squeezes herself more tightly against the bole of the sheltering tree, tips some more sand off herself, and waits. It's all she can do.

Another day in Udunshraa's library, a little further along the seemingly-endless rows of linking books. So far, the process has mostly involved skimming descriptions and making notes in Udunshraa's mental scaffolding as to which ones looked like promising refuges for Srians, which ones had potential, and which ones were unlikely to be of use. Those in the first two categories earned a visit for perhaps a day, simply to establish a sense of what the place was like that the description, by necessity, couldn't convey.

A forepaw carefully returns a book to its shelf, placed perfectly flush with its neighbors, before pulling out the next in line. The forepaw's owner inspects the spine – 'Tarrabor' – then opens it, gazing curiously at the flowing descriptive panel. A desert world – that much alone almost prompts him to put it back as useless, before he spots something. Water. A small oasis of life, in a vast desert. Antennae curl upward and lips pull back into a smile. There's some promise to this one, especially since he nearly discarded it as useless at first glance. Perhaps a Kaean wouldn't have kept looking? And it was, after all, the Kaeans they'd feared….

At the very least, it's worth a look, even if Shahrivrath isn't here to accompany him as he usually is. Demarath places the book carefully on the ground, neatly aligned with the bookshelf, and makes a few mental preparations. He'd need to do something to keep the heat and dry atmosphere from affecting him, though the oasis could also help with that in theory, at least. He pats absent-mindedly at a book-sized pouch tied around his chest, ensuring that the backup book to Udunshraa is safely tucked away. He double-checks another pouch tied around his waist, this one with a bit of dried meat and a metal container with a day's supply of water. He nods once, informs Udunshraa that he's taking a link to Tarrabor and will be back soon, and places one paw on the page, dissolving into nothingness.

A few moments later, a rushing of air, partially muted by the surrounding storm, signals what soon becomes visible – a dragon with copper-colored scales shimmering into existence on the linking platform. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Well, seems he's not going to need to protect himself from the heat, at least, though a couple breaths later it becomes quite clear that there's something else he hadn't considered – he's linked in in the middle of a sandstorm. After a brief coughing fit, he raises one paw, utters a soft hum, and a soft, bluish, iridescent glow radiates outwards into a bubble around him, the grains of sand scattering all around when they collide with the surface. There. That's better.

The cloaked figure tilts her head upward briefly, if only to get the creaking out… and stares. A dragon. Magic. Intruder! Danger! She jerks to her feet, her legs threatening to buckle both under her own weight and the force of the wind, and curses herself; the visibility being what it is, he might not have even seen her if she'd stayed still. Having moved, however, she doesn't dare fail to act now. Too windy to throw her spear, but…

She extends her paw toward the copper dragon, emitting a droning hum of her own through her nostrils; the sand-laden winds howing through the oasis wrap themselves briefly around her, and then hurl themselves at the intruder with redoubled force. As the gale blows past her, the dragoness places her other paw, spear still clenched in it, on the ground to support her.

A flurry of motion catches Demarath's eye, and he twists his head in the direction of the cloaked figure. It's difficult to make out in this lighting, his eyes still adjusting to the dim ambient light that the sandstorm allows from the sky. He can barely make out an outline, and–

And then there's a huge flurry of sand heading in his direction, and it takes a sizable chunk of his concentration to keep the shield from collapsing. One forearm covers his face as some of the sand still manages to seep through. His mind starts quickly working through the possibilities – it's vanishingly unlikely that this isn't an act of magic, which means there's a Chosen here. The most likely scenarios are a Hzataalar Kaea or a Davir Sria, and either way he'd certainly prefer not to need to use lethal force.

Well, this is an eventuality he hadn't been terribly prepared for, he mentally chides himself. Now he's going to need to come up with an impromptu plan to subdue this Chosen and determine what exactly it is – Kaean, Srian, Hzataalar or otherwise. For the moment, though, he doesn't move to counterattack, content to simply defend himself until he comes up with a better plan.

Not enough. Not nearly enough. She's shaking again already with the effort of it; air is heavier than it looks, especially when it's carrying sand and dust. But now that the wind is blowing as she wants it, at least she stands a chance of using the spear and hitting them. She begins slowly circling toward the bubble-enveloped intruder, her cloak whipping around her, closing in to a a surer distance.

As she moves, the wind moving with her, a blue corona around her outstretched paw, she notices that the copper dragon isn't attacking. They aren't even moving. She snarls, and casts out the thought: ~Go away. You don't belong here.~

The primary issue he needs to consider here is accessibility. There's a good deal of water of unknown depth between himself and the other Chosen, and while that hardly poses a danger, he'd rather avoid the possibility of getting his linking book to Udunshraa wet. Flying across would be almost prohibitively difficult in this wind. He could try freezing the water, but chances are doing so would require using up more mana than he's particularly willing to.

Demarath's antennae perk up at the psychic message. So it's trying to drive him off, then – and willing to expend a good deal of mana to do so, as well. Either it's just trying to desperately defend its territory, or it's guarding something else. More Chosen, perhaps? A delighted grin spreads across the copper-scaled dragon's muzzle. Perhaps he doesn't need to cross the waters at all, if he can goad it into coming closer. ~Actually, no, I don't think I will,~ he replies.

She knows she has to maintain her distance, even if it means she has difficulty hitting it from here; she'll have a bad time if it ever goes to melee. She jams her spear into the sand for a moment. With a wheeze of effort, she pushes the wind harder with one paw, and with the other, she draws out a throwing dagger from inside her cloak, draws back her arm, and aims. Unlike the spear, she thinks, the wind will have a hard time blowing a dagger off course.

A corona of blue springs to life around the blade, and she hurls it at the intruder, wind and telekinetic force both behind it.

Demarath hisses as he moves to dodge the blade while simultaneously trying to redirect it away from himself – it still slashes his arm and draws blood, but it's much less damaging than it might otherwise be. He shoots a glare at the Chosen. All right, enough is enough. He can't be certain of how many more of those daggers it has, or how well he'll be able to avoid them with visibility this poor. Perhaps if he lights this place up….

Demarath glances down at the dagger at his feet, and an idea begins formulating in his mind. It's not an ideal shape, far too dense, but that could be fixed easily enough. And with the wind as it is…. Yes, this could work. Strictly speaking, yes, it might be easier just to turn the oasis to ice, but this has a certain elegance to it that he can't bring himself to ignore.

His paws rest on the metal, and he shuts his eyes as it begins to emanate a brilliant white glow, unravelling frightfully quickly and spooling itself into a coil of wire. One end begins folding itself at tight right angles into a meshlike pattern; as he directs most of his focus towards that, the iridescent bubble around him collapses inwards, covering only himself and a small radius to work in.

Ilirith, another dagger already in her, paw, watches the bubble contract. For a moment, she wonders if it means a serious wound… but, no, the intruder still upright, and doing something complicated, though she can't make out what. Drawing out another dagger, she flicks it toward the protective bubble, then wrenches her spear out of the ground and begins backing away with a slow, shuffling gait, limbs trembling with the effort of magical exertion.

The winds, though still hurling themselves at the intruder's bubble, begin to weaken.

Whether due to wind or fortuitous positioning, the dagger misses its mark, if only barely. The part of Demarath's mind that's still paying attention to his surroundings considers whether, given the weakening of the winds assaulting him, an alternate use for the mesh he's constructing might be worth considering. He quickly discards that as triply pointless, though – the wind speed is still too high to make casting a net viable, the mesh he's constructing is too fine to cover a sufficient surface area, and the dagger doesn't supply nearly enough material to be terribly effective. Better to just stick with the plan he already has.

The mesh is constructed, less than a palm's width across, with still half the wire remaining. It's not perfect, certainly, but given limited time and resources, it's the best he can do. He scans the surrounding area briefly, then finds a good-looking rock; he ties the loose end of the wire around it, and drops it into the oasis, while carefully releasing the mesh. As expected, the wind picks it up with ease, dragging most of the remaining wire along with it. That done, he smiles and turns so the wind is at his back; the bubble expands again, and he spreads his wings and takes off, trying to gain as much altitude as he can.

In the swirling dust, the cloaked dragoness struggles to see what the intruder is doing. Something splashes into the waters of the oasis, now muddy with dust and sand, and their protective bubble soaring upward, to vanish in the brown haze above. She wants to shout curses at the sky. What are they doing? They can't possibly see her from up there, not through this. She shuffles back toward the tree she'd been sheltering under, and collects her bag.

It's clearly time to start moving before the intruder can do anything tricky; perhaps a chase into the dunes will take the fight out of him.

She looks up at the sky again, trying to detect the intruder's psychic presence before setting out.

Given that he's trying to fly in the middle of a sandstorm, Demarath's doing pretty well for himself – the protective bubble certainly helps, as does the fact he's flying with the wind rather than trying to fight it. Nonetheless, it's still a difficult proposition, especially as he's trying to maneuver himself into a good position above the oasis. He finally manages to circle around to above where he's pretty sure the oasis is – it's far too dark and hazy to make out from here. He's at least pretty certain he didn't overshoot; if he had, what he's about to do would probably turn out much worse for the Chosen than it's intended to.

Demarath takes a deep, calming breath; his eyes close; his mind blocks out the strain from his muscles and the noise of the storm, finding a singular focus. He feels out the pathways of turbulent air below him, the chaotic particles of sand and dust bumping against each other, tiny, microscopic sparks between them. And there, far below, is the metallic net he cast into the air minutes ago. There's a lot of potential here – if he's not extremely careful, this could have drastic unintended consequences. With a low hum, he starts to nudge the sand and grit out of the way, producing a field not entirely unlike the protective bubble around him, a channel devoid of particles running down towards the oasis.

Once the end of the channel is close enough to the ground, Demarath puts the last piece into place. One foreclaw extends downwards, and a spark of electricity jolts across his scales, charge gathering at the tip of his claw. For a couple breaths, it simply slowly gathers there in a point of blindingly white light, then, in an instant, it's shot down through the channel in a bolt of lightning. It finds the wire mesh with ease, arcing down the wire and across the water's choppy surface, electrifying it and giving off a blinding flash of light.

The hood protects her eyes only a little. The goggles she wears over her eyes help not at all; they're clear, having been designed to keep out sand and dust, not light. And, possibly, no amount of protection exists for the sound of a bolt of lightning striking the surface so near, water or no. The cloaked dragoness shrieks, temporarily blinded and somewhat deafened, the faint tingle of residual electricity running over her scales.

Disoriented, she stumbles vaguely through the vegetation surrounding the oasis, only to slam into a tree and fold up into a heap of sand, paw still clutching her bag. She lies there, waiting for her senses to clear so she can stand up and flee.

Demarath, meanwhile, was significantly more prepared for the lightning flash; it's only a few moments later that the retinal burn fades enough for him to open his eyes. The oasis is trivial to spot now, the mesh of wire still glowing brightly from the lightning strike. Now it should just be a simple matter of locating the Chosen – disabling it, if still necessary, should be fairly easy once he's gotten into close range. He begins his careful descent, aiming to land in the general area he last saw his prey.

The dragoness finally staggers upright, struggling to see through a lingering haze. Her psychic senses are blinking at her, telling her that the intruder is nearby again; she begins shuffling slowly away form him through the vegetation, making for the dunes. Out there, her cloak will help conceal her from sight. She's hidden out there before, though never before from an intelligent opponent, and certainly not while weak from lack of food.

A long litany of curses drones through her mind, however. Even if she evades capture for now, the intruder knows she's here. She'll have to pack up everything, and move it through to one of the books she's written, and drop it down the water hole as she links through for the last time. She'll have to learn how to survive on a different world, and start all over again.

Demarath's landing is a bit rough, as he comes in a bit fast and leaves a small crater in the sand, mostly caused by the iridescent bubble surrounding him. He's upwind of the last place he saw the Chosen, and telepathic cues tell him it's still nearby. It's not long before he's spotted her, the glow from the wire mesh still present but quickly fading. His eyes lock onto her, and moves to intercept her trajectory, already mentally preparing to disable her.

The cloaked dragon senses her foe land nearby and start to move, and her heart sinks. She can already tell that he'll cut her off from the open dunes; running, or at least shuffling at speed, won't save her. She unfurls her wings from beneath the protective flaps of her cloak, and beats at the air in an attempt to take to the air, but she lifts only a foot or two before thumping to the ground. She's too weak, and carrying too much.

No chance to take off the harness now, and, in any event, she has no plans to leave her bag. Snarling, she drops the latter at her feet, takes the spear in both paws, and holds it at the ready as Demarath closes in.

She sees, through the protective bubble, the form of an Avishraan, physically unblemished yet wielding magic. It's the sight she's been dreading since her childhood, and she's in no condition to face it… but at least she can be sure that the hzataal won't get an amusing death out of her.

She inches forward, ready to thrust with the spear. ~Are you coming for me or not?~

Well, whatever variety this Chosen is, it's certainly either tenacious or desperate. Demarath eyes the spear with derision – such a primitive weapon. 'Don't get too cocky,' he has to remind himself. 'Keep in mind what Davinath managed to do to Chandarmaneth. They may be weak, but they can still cause severe damage if they're sufficiently desperate.' There's a moment of hesitation, and then he leaps forward, one paw moving to sweep the spear out to an angle where it couldn't cause much damage, the other lunging to grab at the dragoness.

The dragoness had been ready, or so she'd thought. As the intruder shoves one end aside, she moves such that her foe's own force helps whirl the butt-end of the spear around to catch him in the chest - but by that time, he's moving to fast to stop, and his other paw has already reached her neck. She scrabbles weakly at his arm with her claws, then, spent, slumps.

She trembles, overcome with a mixture of limb tremors, exhaustion, and - despite her defiance - even a bit of fear. She had expected to die, but not yet. Not like this, all her plans circumvented. With considerable effort, she raises her head, goggled eyes staring into those of the intruder; it's small comfort, but at least she can make him look her in the face.

Demarath winces as the butt of the spear slams into his chest, and hisses as the Chosen's claws start scrabbling at his arm. A moment of concentration later, and an electric shock courses from his paw – much too weak to be lethal, but strong enough to painfully lock up her muscles, potentially exacerbating the tremors in her limbs.

Demarath pulls the spear out of her paws, tossing it aside with ease, then shifts to looming over her, both of his forepaws coming to rest on opposite sides of her head, claws of the central digits just behind her eyes. “Hold still,” he barks, tone commanding and impatient. He closes his eyes, focusing for a moment, before those claws suddenly and forcefully pierce inwards.

A shriek erupts from the dragoness' throat, but her only movement is in the uncontrolled jerking of her limbs. Even without that, she doesn't know that she'd be able to disobey the command; she feels no strength in her.

Somewhere deep inside, under the pain, she wonders in horrified fascination what the hzataal is doing. Playing with his food? Is this more fun than just killing her? He seems to be concentrating more than anything. Perhaps there's just a correct way to go about it, although that hadn't stopped the last one she'd seen from making an enormous mess…

And then… it's over. His claws have pulled back, and a wide grin is spreading across his muzzle, antennae curving upwards in delight. “Srian,” he comments, with a note of… pride? Affection? Excitement? Whatever it is, it's very firmly not 'hatred'. One paw slides up to grasp firmly at one of her antennae, fingers gently kneading at it. “You are extremely lucky that I found you.”

The dragoness draws raspy breaths, trying to catch up with what's happened. The intruder digs in his claws, somehow finds that she's Srian, and now… what?

The sandstorm around them has been dying down; though the air is still filled with dust, faint light filters through it from behind the intruder, signalling that dawn is slowly approaching. She knows that the fact is important, but exactly why isn't coming to her; she's confused and worn out. She wants sleep. Or death, if death is going to happen. She blinks slowly behind her goggles, and re-focuses on her captor.

“Lucky?” she says. The word is nearly a croak. She barely remembers the last time she's spoken out loud; even outside the present circumstances, her voice is rough, from parched throat and lack of use. With evident concentration, she manages to add, “And how… is this… lucky… hzataal?…”

Demarath's grin widens. “There are a wide variety of reasons,” he replies. There's a brief pause as he considers how best to approach this, his first ever conversation with an unconverted Srian. It would be difficult to explain the precise reasons without first gauging her willingness to be converted. “Which I'll be happy to explain in time, once you've answered a few of my questions.” He's not yet entirely sure yet what his questions will be – the excitement of finding a living Srian is distracting. “…Why don't we start with your name?”

The cloaked dragoness' antennae had already been dipped low; now they're drooping. Why questions? Why now? She laboriously produces a string of names. “Sriatha… Vedetha… Iliritha… Karanutha…” A deep breath. “…avi'Pellitha… tel'Sibratha.” Her gaze, swimming in an out of focus, takes in the growing light again, and a spark goes off in the right part of her brain. “Dawn soon,” she rasps. “Shelter. Dangerous… in the day.” Her voice falters.

The copper-scaled dragon nods gently, mentally processing the fragmented syllables into a coherent whole. The family names aren't any he recognizes, but that's hardly surprising given his isolated upbringing. Her next comments spur a brief moment of confusion, followed immediately by a scowl as he twists his head towards the brightening horizon. “Lovely,” he comments venomously. He could probably alter the protective shell to deflect heat as well as sand, and surround them both with it, but he's not terribly sure how much longer they're going to be in this desert, and whether his mana will last that long. Better just to find shelter. “I assume you know of a place that can act as shelter. You're going to lead me there, and we can continue our conversation then and there. Understood?”

Ilirith fleetingly envisions the linking book just a short distance away, on its pedestal… and, she realizes, he has a book with him. Surely either would provide easier reach to shelter, but she's not really in any position to argue. Nodding wearily, she is released, and slumps awkwardly to the ground before raising herself up on all four shaking limbs. Taking up her bag, she lays it across her back before turning to face the morning light, where, off in the distance, across the dunes, rocky hills line the horizon. “This way,” she croaks, and, moving even slower than usual, begins shuffling her way back home across the sand, her captor in tow. Here and now, there's no other option. Later? Perhaps things will be different.

By the time the pair reach the approach to the cave, the sun is already above the horizon. The blazing heat of Tarrabor's day had begun to build up by now, and for the last half an hour Demarath had resorted to heat-shielding them from the worst of it. Scrambling up a loose, scree-covered slope, they approach the face of a cliff, some twenty-five feet high or so; as they near it, they enter its shadow, hiding them from the sun's glare. Ilirith, nearly crawling under the weight of fatigue, leads Demarath into a deep, narrow gully, which goes almost straight backward to what seems at first glance like a dead end, but which contains a narrow cave entrance. Ilirith gestured vaguely as they reached it. “Shelter,” she mumbles, “such as it is.”

Out of long habit, she lowers her hood and removes her goggles, padding into the cool air of the empty outer chamber. The carved symbols covering the floor, ceilings, and walls barely register in her mind; despite her situation, she's mostly wishing for bed, or at least being allowed to lie down while talking to her captor.

The long trek had tried Demarath's patience, and on several occasions toward the end, when he was beginning to think the other Srian was simply wandering aimlessly out into the desert in some desperate attempt to kill them both once he'd run out of mana, he'd very nearly considered simply dropping his protection over her, to ensure that it was not. But, in the end, it wasn't necessary – and she'd proven herself at least more sane than some Srians he could name.

If he weren't so distracted by his excitement at having found a potential convert, perhaps he would have paused and noticed the symbols carved into the stone. Between that and the mild exhaustion from the earlier combat and maintaining the heat shield, he's simply too distracted to notice them until his hindpaw steps on one.

The particular circular arrangement of lines, curves, and symbols on which the copper dragon had stepped - and it is not the only set littering the ground of the outer chamber - flares into life, the etched symbols glowing with ghostly fire, and a matching set on the ceiling doing the same. Between them, a cylinder of glowing blue energy snaps on, surrounding Demarath in a barrier that is, though not physically hard, somehow curiously durable. The hum of its activation causes Ilirith to turn around in momentary astonishment; the dragoness stares for a moment, then barks a single laugh, her tips of her antennae curling up slightly in weary amusement.

“Hah. I didn't… even remember. The traps… walked right through, without thinking.” She turns around, heading into the inner chamber briefly. “Imprudent of me. Never forget… your own traps. Whether… they're designed to affect you… or not.” She returns a few moments later, having taken off her cloak and the carrying-harness underneath, bearing a bowl of water and her last pieces of dried meat. She sinks to the stone floor nearby and sprawls there, glad of the opportunity to rest herself, if only for a moment. Plunging her muzzle into the bowl and slurping it half-dry, she finally looks up at the ensnared dragon and comments, sounding slightly less muzzy, “Though I wonder what you were thinking. You could've just linked away with me, couldn't you?”

Demarath hisses as the cylinder of energy surrounds him. His first instinct is to attack it with his claws; his second is to attack it with lightning. Neither one is particularly effective. Stupid, he mentally chides himself. 'You should know by now to pay attention to your surroundings when going someplace for the first time.' His head whips up, eyes studying the glowing symbols on the ceiling. It's not a form of magic he's used to examining – it seems to have more in common with the writing in linking books than anything else. He has no way of knowing how long it will remain active. And of course, now the Srian he's been following has little incentive to let him out.

On the bright side, she's right about one thing – he isn't truly trapped here. He still has the book back to Udunshraa, and even if he didn't, it wouldn't be terribly long before Shahrivrath noticed he was missing. “Oh, I could have, yes,” he comments, shaking his head slightly, chuckling bitterly. “But the risks involved with bringing you back to Udunshraa's library without having had the chance to properly explain your situation to you were too great.”

Ilirith's antennae spread wide in alertness, and her eyes narrow. After a lengthy period of silence, she says, “I thought you were one of the Hzataalar Kaea. But you're not, are you?” The words seem to be coming easier now. She's curious… and, admittedly, a bit hungry for conversation. “The book was in Udunshraa. You're talking about going back there. And it wouldn't have let a Kaean in so easily. They couldn't get in before; I remember that.”

It isn't only conversation she's hungry for. Absently, she begins wolfing down the jerky.

A wide smile spreads across the trapped dragon's muzzle, antennae tilting upwards in a mixture of delight and interest. “That is accurate – I am not one of the Hzataalar Kaea,” he replies – but rather than choosing to elaborate, he falls silent, shifting posture into a sit, silver eyes sparking with curiosity. He could certainly explain himself, but he'd much rather see what the Davir Srian across from him can deduce on her own – all the better to determine how likely a candidate for conversion she'd be.

Ilirith's antennae stiffen as she fights down a feeling of annoyance. Clearly, her captor… or captive… enjoys mind games, which she isn't in the mood for. With a sigh, she drains the rest of the water, gets up on shaking limbs, and shuffles closer to the edge of the trap before sitting down, staring intently. She thinks: certainly Chosen. Not Kaean. Not Davir Sria. That removes all the possibilities she knows of, but…

Her antennae slowly curl up in surprise, her mouth opening in a grin before snapping shut again. Without a word, and without ever quite taking her eyes off Demarath, she meanders into the inner chamber, coming back out with a small box of rounded stones, of various colors. Sitting back down in front of the trap, watching carefully for his reaction, she holds out the box to one side, and, with a shudder at what she's doing, dumps the box out onto the floor, scattering the stones everywhere.

Demarath watches Ilirith, still smiling, still with an analytic glint in his eyes. It's a crude, simple test of her intellect, but it also quite effectively gives him more insight into how she thinks, something other methods would have difficulty with. She has an idea, and… is walking away? A hint of confusion winds into his demeanor, before she returns holding a box.

As the box tips and the contents spill onto the floor, Demarath visibly flinches, one forepaw clenching partway, only prevented from instinctively reaching to pick the stones back up by a higher level thought that quickly determines such an attempt would be useless. His forepaw rests back on the ground, and he's glaring annoyedly at the scattered stones. A moment later, the reason for her action occurs to him – she's testing him, in her own crude but effective way. He lets out a slow sigh. “Was that really necessary?”

Ilirith notes his reaction with satisfaction… and, it must be said, a certain amount of awe. Sweeping the stones back toward herself with her tail, she begins picking them up and putting them back in the box. “I don't propose to do it again soon,” she said. “It was foul. But it wasn't prudent to just say what I was thinking and rely on being told I was right.” She carefully places the box on the ground, and then leans in toward the trap. When she speaks again, it's almost a whisper. “You did what… they… did. Hzataalar Sria. …Great Avikael, how dangerous that must've been.”

She sinks back to the ground, looking shaken. It's not an idea she would've ever considered in a lifetime. She doesn't even know how Davir Kaea had been turned into their more fearsome counterparts, except that it had happened. To think of the same thing being done to her kind is a terrifying thing. Admittedly, the dragon in front of her seems… sane, if somewhat smug, but what strangeness might there be inside? Ilirith looks up at him, and asks quietly, “Why are you here?”

Regardless of how he might feel about the act, he holds a certain grudging respect for her dedication to certainty, even if strictly speaking it was unnecessary. He pushes one forepaw against the cylindrical cage of energy, palm facing outwards, as she leans in toward the trap. “'Dangerous' is perhaps not the word I'd have chosen,” he corrects. “The process is, at this point, well-understood. We know what we're doing.” 'We.' Does that mean there are others like him out there? Other Hzataalar Sria?

“As for why I'm here, I came in search of any Srians who might have escaped the Culling, to offer them the same gift I was offered – health, strength, and freedom.” There's a brief pause, followed by a hopeful: “I don't suppose I was lucky enough to find a world with more than one?”

The green dragoness stares at the floor, her head spinning with the effort of taking in everything. Hzataalar Sria. 'We'. An possible end to… all this, the weakness and the hiding and the solitude… and Demarath's final question does not improve matters. “No-” she begins, and then pauses, her voice cracking, before starting again. “No. There was only my mother and I. This was her world. Now it's just me.”

She looks up at Demarath, her gaze unsteady. Reaching out with a trembling paw, she touches several of the symbols carved into the floor around the edge of the trap; the cylindrical wall flares briefly, then fades to nothing.

“A shame,” the copper-scaled dragon replies, antennae dipping slightly but still retaining a subtle upward curve. His eyes follow her paw as she touches at the symbols on the floor, releasing him from the cylindrical prison. “But at least you survived,” he comments, right forepaw moving to massage gently at her antennae. “And now you don't have to be alone any more. You can come with me, and we can fix your body, and you won't have to keep living in fear of being discovered by Hzataalar Kaea.” His left forepaw lifts off the ground, turning palm-upward in front of her in invitation.

Ilirith glances at the proffered paw. She opens her mouth, tongue running over her teeth in indecision, and shuts it again, before saying, “I… don't know if I'm ready to be… fixed. That's something I'd like to think about first. But if I can still go with you…” She trails off, and then adds, rather more briskly, “Also, I don't believe I know you well enough yet to have my antennae touched like that.”

A tinge of disappointment touches the copper dragon's expression. Of course. He should have expected this, after all. She was still confused and uncertain, and likely a little bit afraid as well, though if she is, she's certainly hiding it well. But she's also definitely interested – and he can use that to his advantage. And she even wants to come with him – all the better.

Her second comment draws a spark of irritation from the Hzataal, the grip of his fingers tightening and twisting it at an awkward angle. “You may certainly come with me, but there are a few things you must understand first,” he replies, condescending tone leaking into his voice. “The first and foremost is that you are in no position to be making demands of me.” … Demands? How was asking for her personal space to be respected a demand? “I will make every reasonable effort I can to make your life comfortable, I will gladly give you all the time you need to make a decision regarding conversion, and most importantly, I will protect you from any and all Hzataalar. In return, I ask for, and expect, nothing less and nothing more than your absolute obedience – something which I assure you is necessary for me to keep you under my protection. Am I understood?”

Ilirith makes a truncated 'urk' sound as her antenna is twisted. A chilly feeling fills her stomach. Absolute obedience? What's the need for one Srian to give orders to another? Why this reaction just for asking to observe basic etiquette? She grits her teeth. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should have left him in the trap. And now… she's much, much less certain that she wants to go with him. She's tempted to say 'no', now. Somehow she doubts, at this point, that it would do her any good.

She's not strong enough to fight him off now. And, anyway… she has to learn more about this 'conversion' process. She's not sure she wants to become like Demarath now… but she is quite, quite sure that she doesn't want to die an early death from her body betraying her.

Through gritted teeth, she responds, “Yes… if you insist. But your point… would have been.. more effectively made… in a less… disproportionate… manner.”

Demarath narrows his eyes, a hint of displeasure in his demeanor. This Srian's attitude will need some adjustment, clearly, but that's something he'll have to deal with later, once she's been properly relocated. He's also unconvinced she completely understands the nature or meaning of his requirement – but that, too, will have to come with time. In the meanwhile, he's finally found a Srian – a live one, who even seems like she may be interested in the prospect of joining the growing ranks of the Hzataalar Sria. Even if she were the surliest, most uncooperative animal in existence, he'd still be pleased with such success.

Demarath releases his hold on Ilirith's antennae, his own curling slightly upward in satisfaction. “Good,” he replies, turning his attention to the remainder of the cave. “You may gather what personal belongings of yours you require; we'll be leaving shortly.”

Ilirith makes a brief noise as the pressure is released. She sags briefly before hauling herself up again, then looks blankly into the inner chamber. She'd considered this before, of course; she had to know what to take and what to leave in the case of a hasty exit. For all that, however, this isn't quite the kind of exit she'd been expecting, somewhere between rescue and successful capture, and she tries to think of what's already in Udunshraa, what she might not need, what's really hers… ah. First things first.

“Books,” she mutters. “Have to get the books first.” She looks at the crude set of shelves at the far end of the cave, then takes up her bag and starts carefully piling the books in it; some of them effectively textbooks on various subjects, but most of them bearing only a single word on the cover. She only hopes she can carry them all in the sack. “I suppose,” she says dully, “that you will not want me to bring my harness, under the circumstances. There are many instruments of a… sharp nature.”

“Under the present circumstances, yes, you'd be correct,” Demarath replies, briefly examining the wound she'd given him earlier. It probably needed to be washed, but that too could wait. “Though if it's something you will require, I can certainly carry it instead.”

The green dragoness looks around, then shakes her head at the rest of the cave. Not much else here that could be taken, really. “There are useful tools I carry in it that I'd like to keep, yes. But… just that, and the books.” She puts on her cloak, heaves the bag awkwardly onto her back, releasing a brief wheeze under its weight. “I expect… you have a Writer among you in any case, but these might be useful.” She glances up. “Between them and the tools, I won't need anything else.”

The able-bodied Srian's antennae perk up. So she's a Writer… interesting. And also far too easy to lose, if she ever decided to foolishly try and run off on her own. She could potentially link away at some point when his attention is elsewhere. And if she could render the book somehow unusable in the process…. Of course, given what he's already observed, that's phenomenally unlikely, but she could still surprise him. “Here,” he says, coming over to her to grasp the bag of books and gently tug it away from her. “No need to burden yourself unnecessarily. I wouldn't want you to injure yourself, after all,” he comments, a hint of smugness bleeding into his tone.

Ilirith shivers. The books. He is… what is he doing? Why is he taking the books? She can carry the books. There's no need for him to carry the books. “I… what? I've done this before. I'm fine. You don't have to… look, please…” There's not very much else the dragoness would be inclined to plead about, even in the face of death. For quite some time now, she hasn't lived for the sake of living; however well she had adapted to it, she's spent her existence in a burning hellhole with unpleasant memories for company. But she has lived for her books, and for her Writing…. her only joy. They are her life, one even more than the others.

She tries to hold on to the bag. “Don't take them from me, please.” Her antennae, alert with nervousness, twitch frantically. So does her eyelid. “They're my life.”

A low growl spills from him, his pleasant demeanor dissolving in an instant. His left forepaw snaps forward, gripping at her muzzle with terrifying strength, claws pressing uncomfortably into her scales – even as he yanks the bag of books out of her grip. He twists her head so that his eyes are staring directly into hers. “Listen carefully,” he instructs, tone venomous, “because I'm only going to explain this once.”

“Despite whatever misconceptions I'm sure you have about me, I assure you that I have your best interests at heart. It is because of this that I am taking all reasonable precautions to ensure you don't do anything breathtakingly foolish while my back is turned, such as stranding yourself on another world, until I have enough evidence of your character to determine that you won't.” He pauses, closes his eyes, inhales, exhales. “You may access these books on request,” he continues, tone calmer now. “And you may do as you like with them, so long as you are under supervision.” His eyes open again, staring piercingly into hers. ~Do I make myself clear?~

Ilirith's antennae had drooped during the copper dragon's speech. Though a foggy mix of exhaustion and panic, she struggles to keep from collapsing out of her captor's grip. The thought of being kept from her books, even under these terms, makes her ill, but if she refuses… No. She doesn't dare. Better this than them being locked away out of her reach.

~Clear,~ she manages. ~Will try to behave.~

For several long, agonizing breaths, nothing changes – before finally, Demarath snorts, and he lets his gaze drag itself elsewhere. “For your own sake, I sincerely hope so,” he comments, then his grip relents. Then his paw reaches up to the pouch on his chest, unbuttons it, and pulls the book out. He walks over to a nearby flat surface, lays the book down, and opens it to its front page. He turns, one paw beckoning her to come. “Time to leave.”

Ilirith dips her head in weary acknowledgement, and shuffles toward the upturned book. She pauses, very briefly, to regard the swirling imagery on the front page, straining to see something familiar there, but… has it been too long? Or is she just too tired, too shocked by the intruder's rough treatment? She had scarcely dreamed that there would be an opportunity to return to the Citadel in which she'd been born, but even then she would never have imagined this - threatened by a fellow Srian.

She reaches out a trembling paw, and places it on the front page. As the strange sensations of travelling-between-worlds overtake her, she remarks to herself, silently and bitterly: 'Welcome home, Ilirith.'