Avishraa Reloaded

Today was a day without turbulence, of clear skies, of smooth sailing, not that the slab of floating rock that held up Belewe's civilisation in the planet's eternal atmosphere would be much bothered by irregularities in the winds. On some days, if the metropolis was caught in a storm, however, this island in the sky seemed significantly more fragile.

Belewe was not Avishraa, though the Tenneth family had settled here to determine if there were common roots of the draconic species, biologically similar as they were. Belewe's people did not possess whatever genetic make-up made the Chosen possible, wholly devoid of magic, even incapable of familial and friendship bonds of the mind, but they were a prospering race that held no fear in their heart for others. Certainly, Tanith was far removed from being considered a part of them, to physically different for him to register as anything but foreign, but he and his family had integrated a while ago and was quite absorbed in his hunt for a common history.

Equally, Belewe was not Avishraa, which meant that the social tension that increasingly came from being born defective and potentially excising oneself from normal society could be dealt with entirely on familial levels.

Ashernath's idea of dealing with his weak little brother was in equal parts protective as it was pushing him around. Today fell into latter category, urging the young dragon to take a look at all those lovely forbidden books because, really, how dangerous could books be? Even if they discovered a few with links elsewhere, it wasn't as if they were going to follow one. They were old enough to curb their curiosity, not that Ashernath believed for a second that they would have to. They weren't going to strand anywhere if they did pass through. There'd be a way back. There always was.

“What, that's it?” he whispers, curiously peering into the office at the single wall of books. Light from the sky filters in through large panes of a substance that was neither glass nor magic, more sturdy than former, breaking into foamy-like pieces when too much force was applied, used in construction all over the city that so cherished its light, with truly opaque walls only in places where privacy was important. Their abode was mostly opaque. The office was no exception, but still flooded with light.

The thought of sneaking into their father's forbidden library had occurred to Demarath long before his brother brought it up. The young dragon had always had a highly curious mind - always asking questions, each one answered spawning three more. Aside from their disfigured bodies, it was one of the few things he felt like he had in common with his father: a passion for learning, for exploration, for discovery.

To such a demanding mind, the mere concept of forbidden knowledge is anathema. At its best, it becomes an opportunity for new ways of thinking, new ideas that shatter old boundaries. At its worst, it is a lure whose pull is inescapable, drawing the mind in circles around it like a planet orbiting around its sun, forever trapped. Demarath would spend days imagining what those books might contain, what secrets he might discover within their bindings that his father refused to share with him.

So when Ashernath had the idea to sneak into Tanith's library while their parents were away - 'They're good children,' their mother had said; 'They can look after each other for a few hours,' - he was much less resistant than he was to most of his brother's ill-thought-out ideas.

There's a light frown of disappointment as Demarath pokes his head into the room. He'd imagined something much more elaborate than this, a room covered wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling with dusty tomes. An aura of mystery. Not this slightly messy office, mundane, a single wall of books - many books, certainly, but not nearly what he'd dreamed of. It shouldn't be a surprise, he tells himself; he got his hopes up irrationally. It does little to stem his excitement, though. They were here, and no one could stop them. He cautiously steps past his older brother and makes for the bookshelves, eyes scanning over the spines, looking to see what their father had deemed 'too dangerous' for them.

The scrawls on the bindings of the books all look terribly bland, no obvious signs of danger such as symbolic skulls patterning any one of them. Collections of philosophical essays; the ancient songs to Avikael; notes on the Magic of Order, promising almost encyclopaedic content; historic travel accounts of a dozen worlds; a tome on Avishraan biology detailing the precise nature of the plight of the Chosen insomuch as it allowed for analysis; a linking book leading back to Avishraa itself; and then another assorted gaggle of similar books all neatly slotted in after it, in strict alphabetic sequence. Truly the work of someone obsessed with Order.

Ashernath gives a soft snort as he closes the door behind them, cautiously approaching the row of shelves as if perhaps expecting it to be bewitched. Maybe if they touched it, it would come alive and try to eat them, and that was what Tanith had meant - he simply guarded his books from those who would seek to steal them? “Careful,” Ashernath advises, himself inspecting the piece of furniture with greater interest than the books it holds, looking for signs of enchantment or physical traps, just in case.

Philosophy, biology, history, theories of magic… all potentially interesting in their own rights, but one book in particular catches Demarath's eye - one clearly labeled 'Avishraa'. His head tilts to the side in curiosity, eyes lighting up as a smile crawls across his face. A linking book! “Ashernath, look at this!” A hand with thin, bony digits, covered in darkened, uneven scales reaches up, blunted claws hovering a mere inch from the cover.

“Don't,” Ashernath barks, catching the motion, not the title, scales along his spine bristling, eyes wide, briefly disoriented; then he understands his brother isn't about to seize the spine and pluck it out in enthusiasm, but simply gesturing - or caught in the act of seizing it but halted by his brother's remark, either way, cause and effect are difficult to determine. He swerves his neck back from the side of the shelf, having last inspected the inside of its frame, finding no hints of anything threatening just yet but not quite cured of his caution, backing away lightly, then trotting around to look at the gestured book.

The title spawn twin emotions. One part of him, the one that had the idea to come here in the first place, to disobey their parents' urging, inwardly gave a delighted, triumphant squeal at feeling like they've discovered the 'dangerous' book, ruling it not dangerous at all - they were intimately aware of Avishraa's broken history and that a few steps of simple caution would mean they were safe of ever becoming a footnote to the catastrophic event. Another baulks at the term, embodiment of so many horrorstories, coming with the seductive, serpentine promise that they could explore them first hand that - for the moment - merely repulsed him. “It might be booby-trapped,” he comments, a little lamely, regarding it with suspicion, not yet wanting to make a statement about what he felt about this revelation.

Demarath rolls his eyes before shifting his gaze to Ashernath. “I sincerely doubt Father would booby-trap a single book,” he replies, a hint of a teasing sneer in his voice. “If he were going to put security measures in place, he'd have trapped the whole shelf, or the doorway.” Cautiously, his hand moves closer, tip of a claw touching the book's spine. There's a moment of tense silence. “…see? Perfectly safe.”

Demarath was stating the obvious again, prompting a derisive scowl from his fitter brother. Of course it was a matter of the whole shelf. Any implication of otherwise was fully in the runt's head. Abrupt tension grips him as the Chosen touches the book, a whiplash of fear of retribution from the inanimate seeming object - then the instant passes and with it comes relief he wished he was better at hiding. His displeasure at himself morphs into another scowl… and then, a childish curiosity wins out, eager to see what this meant. Eager, perhaps, to see what it was, letting the siren's call draw him in. “Open it,” he urges, brimming with excitement and energy, leaning over Demarath as if in half a mind to snatch the book out, himself.

Ashernath was being overly protective again. To some degree, it was understandable - if their places were flipped, he could easily see himself acting the same way. But that didn't make it any less frustrating. Just because he's younger and weaker doesn't mean he needs to be watched over constantly. He knows what he's doing.

At his brother's urging, his clawed hand traces up the spine of the linking book, then he pulls it out with exceeding care. For a moment, he simply holds it in his hands, like something precious and irreplaceable, one malformed claw tracing lightly along the intricate knotwork on the cover. Then he opens it, gazing at the swirling image of their people's homeworld on the first page with a wide grin on his face.

Thick lines draw the world like an abstract symbol, pastel colours appearing like chalk but for the undulating motions they make along the parchment, enchantment describing the world not in letters but imagery, speaking of winds through thin air, of dark patches across the sun, of two safe havens, of origin, of traces of life, of desolation left behind by cataclysm, of weak shrubbery and trees. Ashernath feels fear crawl up his spine, mixing with childish delight and curiosity into a dangerous, burning longing. Their ravaged homeworld was a few inches away from them now - they just had to brush that shifting page and they would be there, brought into the heart of the Citadel of Life.

Paralysed, Ashernath stares at the page, uncertain what to do… or say. It all seems unreal. The message, that visual description, continues its cycle obediently, enchanted ink following the instruction of whoever had once written the book. Tanith, potentially.

Avishraa. He'd heard plenty of stories about this place. About the Davir Sria and their cousins, the Davir Kaea. Horror stories of the Hzataalar Kaea, Chosen gone mad with power, who tried to destroy all life on the planet. About the Citadel of Life, the one place the Davir Sria had thought was safe - and might have been, if they hadn't had families outside of the Citadel. Those were all just stories to him, tales meant to frighten children, and the Hzataalar Kaea were nothing more than bogeymen. But now, staring at that swirling, pulsing description, he wonders how many of those stories were true.

After a minute of awed silence, Demarath is the first to speak. “Should we… go through?” he asks hesitantly, burning with curiosity and excitement, and at the same time terrified. His eyes remain fixed almost hypnotically on the imagery of their abandoned homeworld, not quite able to drag themselves away.

It takes Demarath voicing what he's thinking for the reality of that notion to snap into place. A bad idea. A very bad idea. And yet at the same time, he was already coming up with excuses: It'll be in the Citadel. The Citadel is safe, at least for Demarath. The Citadel has books, and one of them will lead back to Belewe. They could dip in, get a feel for their own mysterious history, and return before anyone knew they'd even been gone. “…we… could,” he comments, haltingly, staring at the book in fearful wonder.

They could. Possibilities race through Demarath's mind. A chance to see the homeworld they only knew through stories. A chance to see the Citadel, in all its glory - something he's always wanted to see. A chance to well and truly understand a piece of their people's history, even if it's just a small glimpse.

What would the downside be? It could be dangerous. But only Davir Sria and their guests could enter the Citadel, if the stories were true - though he never quite understood how that worked. 'Magic' was probably the answer; he'd seen a little of what magic was capable of, although Tanith had always seemed reluctant to show him much aside from the linking books and a few other minor tricks. Maybe he could find out more about it in the Citadel… - regardless, assuming the stories were true, they'd be safe. But if they weren't, then surely there was nothing to worry about in the first place; he can't imagine the parts about the Citadel were fabrications and yet the Hzataalar Kaea were real.

Demarath stares at the book a while longer in apprehension, then inhales sharply. “I'm going.” Before Ashernath has the chance to protest, he places one hand on the page, and shimmers out of existence.

No! Shit! That was one romantic notion that should not have manifested in reality. For a moment of panic as his brother dissipates to dust, Ashernath forgets to breathe - then in blind automation curls his left forepaw to a fist and punches it against the page, dissolution rippling up along his copper scales, body winking out like an extinguished flame. Only the barest hints of dust settling on the light-bleached, polished floor of the office suggest anyone had been here; the dust, and the open book on the ground.

The transition isn't altogether smooth. They'd never travelled by book before, and Ashernath at least had expected something more immediate - a blink out of one world and the instant reappearance of another. Instead, there was an overwhelming sense of hollowness, empty space without a sense of self to relate to it, cold without touch to register it, and only after an arduous, horrific moment, reality returned like a strike to the senses.

Ashernath's first impression of the new world is his own frantic gasp for breath. The second is the darkness around them, blinding contrast to the Belewean light they'd come from, almost as empty as the void of travel, though cool air and a hard floor betray substance. “Demarath?!” he calls into the dark, frantic, disoriented, fearful - it's likely he'll make a fool of himself, likely his brother is immediately beside him, even more likely his mindlink will say as much as soon as he got his bearings, but he doesn't care. If he loses his little brother, there'll be hell to pay.

Demarath gasps for breath as he reforms on the other side of the endless void, staggering forward a few steps in the dark as he tries to recover from the unexpected shock of linking for the first time. A moment later, there's a sharp sound like rushing air behind him and to his right as Ashernath materializes. Just as Demarath's beginning to get his bearings, Ashernath cries out his name, causing him to flinch. “I'm right here, Asherna,” he comments at an ordinary speaking volume, tone one of mild exasperation. Seriously, did he think something had happened to him in the few seconds separating their appearances?

Half expected or not, that prompts a soft snarl born of anxious frustration from Ashernath, bristling defensively. The potential that Demarath might have been lost somewhere, lost to Ashernath and his family, was wholly forgotten, replaced instead by their usual dynamic. He's right there, on the other end of the mindlink, as tangible as he would be if they were able to see, but given the circumstance there's no use bickering - even without immediate danger, the situation calls for caution.

“…can you see?” he asks, even as his own eyes begin the arduous process of adjusting to the inky darkness, fragments of outlines not yet forming any coherent whole but perhaps the imagined one of his brother, his position apparent as it is. So there are traces of light here that they can pick up on, whatever their source.

“Barely,” comes the reply. As if to test this, Demarath holds a hand in front of his face - outlines are visible, and he can just barely make out some of the texture of his mottled scales. There's the sound of claws on stone as he slowly moves away from his brother, feeling the ground out in front of him as he does so, before stopping at a wall. Ah, blessed structure. Now he can start to gain his bearings. He turns, keeping one hand on the wall as he looks around, trying to find the source of the terribly faint ambient light.

It's a long moment before those eyes acclimate to the darkness. There's Ashernath's outline, and hints of another wall, perpendicular to this one. He shifts over to the corner, and then he points along the newfound wall. “There, behind you.” Sure enough, at the end of what appears to be a fairly short corridor, a hint of pale blue light can be seen, faintly outlining an open doorway to the right, emanating from somewhere unseen in the room beyond it.

The dull silhouette of Ashernath twists in the darkness as if stung, own gaze searching through the inky landscape for a sign of what his brother spotted. It takes him a slow moment, eyes not quite as well-adjusted as Demarath's - then he freezes, fixing his gaze on the sliver of faint light, as if assessing whether it really is there. It takes him another moment to remember to breathe. “Shouldn't the Citadel react to your presence?” he comments, cautiously. In his mind's eye, their arrival was met with a series of lamps lighting in sequence, but that hadn't happened here. “…does it still work?” he asks, a hint of panic twisting in his gut, the shadows morphing into something more sinister in his mind's eye.

Demarath begins to walk down the corridor, his left wing opening slightly to trace its tip along the wall. His brother's comment prompts some thought - it should be reacting to him in some way, if the stories about it were true. He can't see a good reason for them not to be. Maybe it would only respond to a Davir Sria who had undergone their Second Manifestation? If he had a deeper understanding of magic than the few scattered bits and pieces his father had explained to him, he might be able to determine how plausible that theory was. He'd have to ask more questions about it when they return, he tells himself.

That train of thought is derailed, however, by Ashernath's second question. Demarath stops short, and a twinge of panic coursing through his body like an electric shock. What if the Citadel is no longer functioning? What if it requires active magic to sustain itself? Then when the last Davir Sria left or died, the Citadel would have stopped working. Then anyone could have come in. Ashernath is here, after all, and there were no signs of it affecting him. Then again, it was implied family members could be allowed in unharmed.

There could be anything lurking around this corner. Even a Hzataalar Kaea, for all he knows, ready to tear him to shreds at the sight of him. For the first time since his arrival, he's terrified - but he's far too proud to show that to his brother, so he tries to keep it bottled up. “…I'll bet it doesn't recognize Chosen unless they've gone through Second Manifestation,” he replies tentatively, a slight shakiness to his voice. Damn it, he's let some fear slip through. Nothing to do about it now but keep moving.

The twin emotions of fear and excitement continue competing in Ashernath's skull as he follows his brother. The imperfections of the smaller dragon's physique are lost in this darkness, weakened constitution no longer advertised as a constant reminder to Ashernath. With that gone, and the silent horror the young dragon still felt each time he saw his brother's state, Demarath simply felt like a brother, no strings attached.

With his rational mind by now starting to be convinced that this had been nothing but a bad idea, the rest of him is still entirely involved with their adventure. He wasn't going to panic until they'd searched most of building and found no book to take them back, currently still wholly certain that there would have to be one. Unless someone put a fire to the books of the Citadel and it hadn't managed to put it out - but that seemed wholly unlikely.

“Or maybe you need to ask it for light?” Ashernath asks, hesitant with the suggestion. Lore spoke of a mostly autonomous structure that knew the wishes of its inhabitants, but that could always be lyricism more than reality.

Demarath rounds the corner, peering into the room beyond. The first thing he notices is the source of the light - a small, roughly rectangular patch of pale blue luminescence on the far wall, just bright enough to give the room a sense of scale. It's a square room moderately larger than their father's office back on Belewe, a large workbench taking up the right wall, half-visible outlines of experiments. On the left, an open doorway of the same shape as the one Demarath currently occupies leads into a similar dark corridor. And on the far wall, adjacent to the glowing rectangle of light, is something that looks distinctly like a closed door.

The second thing he notices, which elicits a sigh of relief, is that the room is otherwise empty. There's no Hzataalar Kaea lurking around the corner, ready to pounce and tear them to shreds. Frankly, the very notion strikes him as silly and childish now; he can't help but emit a soft chuckle at his own wild imagination.

Demarath steps into the room, further examining it inasmuch as he can given the dim light. Ashernath's suggestion is met with a derisive snort. Ask the building for light? Highly magical or not, it's still just a building - one might as well consider asking for light from a rock. A tiny piece of him wonders if that might actually work, but it's soon quashed by his more rational side. Besides, he's already made enough of a fool of himself today.

With a better sense of vision - and the dim light is plenty to supply enough to soothe - a lot of his unease dissipates. This is just some long-abandoned building. What could possibly be frightening about such a thing? In the dim light, he shoots a glare across at Demarath for his snort, in part secretly happy that the expression can't be discerned. “Come on, Demara',” he prompts. “At worst, it won't react. No loss.” A different part of him points out that there are two things that immediately come to mind that might also occur - one, the Citadel might be alerted to their presence and decide that Ashernath needed to be purged in some way; two, the abandoned Citadel is not so abandoned and making light would attract undue attention. Both seems unlikely, but he does feel a tinge of embarrassment at his negligent statement, though he makes no move to correct it, hesitantly glancing across the room.

Demarath utters a soft growl at Ashernath's insistance. This is such a silly idea. It's completely pointless. But knowing Ashernath, he'd keep pestering him until he eventually gave in just to shut him up. He's almost tempted to reply with a scathing 'If you're so eager, why don't you try it?' But of course then, if it did somehow magically work, Ashernath would likely be harmed by the attempt, not being a Chosen himself.

“Fine,” he replies snappishly. He shifts his posture to stand up on his hind legs, raising his crippled arms above his head. “O great Citadel of Life, hear my plea and fill this room with light!” If he's going to do something silly anyway, he might as well do so in the silliest way possible. For a few seconds, nothing happens. Demarath shakes his head. “See, I told you it woul-”

What happens next is unexpected. It begins with a tension in the young dragons' antennae, followed by a headache that quickly escalates to ludicrous proportions, like something was exerting intense pressure on the insides of their skulls. It quickly becomes clear that there's someone, or something, inside their minds - some massive, foreign telepathic presence. It initially communicates a series of emotions: Disorientation, confusion, momentary panic, defensiveness… and then, at least to Demarath, something like recognition with perhaps a hint of pleasant surprise. ~Davir Sria.~ The unbearable pressure quickly fades, the last traces of hostility evaporating. A moment later, the room is illuminated with a soft, white light.

Claws skitter across the stone as Ashernath's weight tips him down onto his left elbow, muzzle lightly ajar as he struggles to breathe. Something is in his head, abrupt, absolute, pushing into his skull like an assortment of painless needles, like a weight growing against the back of his head. A hollow, flimsy breath escapes him in his disorientation, head coming to rest against the floor, eyes swiveling, distantly aware of the sudden light, wholly unimpressed given the numb threat of extinction crushed against him. An exhale, barely forced from his increasingly unresponsive body, breaks apart into jitters. There's no time for terror, just an incredulous, stunned, dawning realisation that he's dying.

Two realizations compete for dominance in Demarath's mind. One is a sense of awed wonder - the Citadel actually responded to him, even if it was a delayed response. The other is the terrible sense of impending doom hammering in on him through the mind-link. Whatever this thing in his head is - he's still not quite sure - it's in Ashernath's too, and is trying to extinguish the life from him.

“Ashernath!” Now it's the younger brother's turn to be immensely worried for his brother's health. He whirls around automatically, eyes locking on his brother's dying form. ~Stop it!~ he cries in a panic to the presence in his mind. ~Stop hurting him! He's my brother!~

There's a harrowing silence as his calls lash out toward the psychic presence, brother's state and friendly light both unchanged, former creature uttering a broken yip, thudding gracelessly onto his left shoulder, spine rolling and twisting in slow motion as if he were trapped in a physical grip he sought to wind out of. Then, abruptly, a fresh breath is sucked in, only to escape him as half cough, half pant, antennae pressed tightly against the back of his neck. ~Disengaging,~ the Citadel informs Demarath. ~Sorry.~ The word is awkwardly intoned in his mind, syllables delivered in separation, granting the building an almost mechanical air.

For a moment, Demarath is frozen in sheer terror. Nothing's happening. Ashernath is going to die to some crazy magical psychic force, and it's his fault. He was the one who went through the linking book. He was the one who got this thing's attention. The prospect of trying to live with his brother's death - or, worse yet, trying to explain it to his parents - is almost unbearable.

And then, miraculously, the psychic force relents, and Ashernath takes in a deep breath. The presence emits a disjointed apology, alien and almost mechanical in nature. Frantically, Demarath rushes to his brother's side. “Ashernath, are you okay?” he asks desperately, one twisted hand resting on the older, fitter dragon's shoulder and giving it a gentle nudge.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the back of Demarath's mind, he begins making connections. The lights only came on after this psychic presence recognized him. It didn't hurt him, but tried to hurt Ashernath. It stopped when it found out they were related. And given the almost mechanical feel to its apology, it doesn't feel Avishraan at all. ~Are… - are you the Citadel?~ he finds himself asking tentatively.

With the presence withdrawn from his mind, a clarity returns to him that makes him shiver, the motion travelling in ripples down his scales. He could have died. Whatever assaulted him - though it seemed readily apparent what it had been - was completely overwhelming, leaving no room for hope of escape, much less turning the tables. The notion of being trapped in the gut of something that could kill him with such effortless ease brought a sense of nausea with it, and he grimaced, terror fortunately contained, already alone out of his weakened state. “Fine,” he exhales the syllable, it forming an involuntary whisper. He clears his throat, twisting himself from a by now awkward posture half on his side back into something of a sit instead, staring at the floor. “I'm fine,” he comments, more firmly this time.

~Affimative,~ the structure responds, a certain pride or cheer in that simple response. ~Welcome home, master,~ it announces with boisterous enthusiasm. ~Will there be others?~

He's okay. Ashernath is okay. Demarath exhales a jittery sigh of relief that quickly morphs into laughter as the worry dissipates from him. Everything is okay. Better than okay, even - this place is more incredible than he'd ever imagined, and he's only seen one or two rooms. “Ashernath,” he whispers, eyes lighting up as an excited grin spreads across his face. “…it's talking to me. The Citadel is talking to me.”

Demarath closes his eyes for a moment, focusing on the Citadel's telepathic presence. 'Home'. It feels strange to call it that; he's spent his entire life as far as he can recall on Belewe, and that place firmly registered as home in his mind. But this… - this place responds to him; it could provide him with anything he needed, and all he'd have to do is ask. Those fanciful stories had truth to them after all. ~I doubt it,~ he replies to the Citadel's enquiry. ~I hope not, in fact, or we'll be in huge trouble.~

There's a pensive pause in the Citadel's psychic communication. ~Insurrection?~ it asks cautiously, trying to make sense of why a Srian would fear other Davir Sria.

“Good for you,” Ashernath huffs, still recovering from the shock of having nearly been extinguished. That's the only word that really comes to mind - 'extinguished'. He wasn't being choked, he wasn't crushed, he wasn't cut to ribbons, he was simply extinguished, slowly but methodically, and now he was alive again and all his brother could think of was talking to the thing that had nearly murdered him. Splendid. The more rational parts of his mind completely understood the fascination - and even felt enthused curiosity, itself - but most of him was still bloodless from the encounter. “What is it saying?” he asks, softening to bitterness of his prior statement.

Demarath holds up a hand to his brother, a single bony digit extended, requesting silence. Carrying on two parallel conversations at once, in two different media, between two very different forms of sentience, is a taxing exercise in multitasking even under the best circumstances.

~No, it's not that,~ he explains. ~It's just that we're not supposed to be here, because it's 'too dangerous'. If our father finds out we came, he'll be furious.~ He looks around the room briefly, taking in the various experiments on the workbench before frowning lightly. ~Are there any linking books in this room?~

With Ashernath grumbling quietly at being dismissed - 'I almost died, thanks for your touching concern,' flits cynically but unexpressed through his mind - the Citadel doesn't react to the explanation that their father would be upset, not able to keep multiple strands of conversation alive in its own head. Questions certainly always took precedence. Without the enquiry, it might have commented that they're as safe as they possibly could be here within its body, protected by magic, by the physical, fortress-like properties of the building, and by its materal instinct in combination, but as it is, it has something else to answer.

However, it's not a verbal response. Instead, symbols of blue light appear on the floor, on second inspection shining up from between the tiles with their organic shapes - the chaotic structure evidently Citadel-grown rather than of Srian design - tracing a path in an irregular pattern out of the room and through the corridor lighting up outside, the Citadel itself showing them the way.

Ashernath's expression scrunches up lightly in sceptical frustration. “What now?” he asks, warily, his gaze searching the walls for a sign that he might be assaulted again - a ludicrous reaction given that there'd been no indicator the last time, either, and the Citadel seemed perfectly well equipped to kill him before he had a chance to notice it was even trying.

There's a brief look of confusion as the blue lights spawn from the floor. It's clearly a response to his question, but it takes a moment for the connection to be made, and then his face brightens. It's showing them where they can find linking books. “I… - I think it's showing us how to get to the library,” he replies, excitement clear in his voice. He turns his attention back to his older brother, and his excited grin fades somewhat. “…Asherna, are you sure you're okay?” he asks, an unusual note of concern in his voice. Was he still shaken? He had just nearly died, after all.

Instinct was to snap 'of course I'm okay,' as was standard amongst them, power dynamic having constantly favoured Ashernath on Belewe - but here, their roles were practically reversed, the Citadel granting Demarath all the power and hovering as a soundless threat around Ashernath. Honesty might be a better policy. “Just… creeped out by your new friend,” he mutters, almost through gritted teeth given the tension that's seized him. At least they'd be back home soon. The Citadel was leading the way to the library, and there'd be a book to Belewe they could use and then this minor nightmare would be over. Muzzle lowered, antennae curving down at their very tips, posture one of caution, Ashernath follows, the light glare in his eyes threatening Demarath to keep his comments about the obvious fear lining his body to himself.

Two opposing urges grapple in Demarath's mind. On the one hand, this is the first chance he's ever really had to lord his latent magical power over his older brother, and it would be a terrible waste to squander the opportunity. On the other, Ashernath is obviously distressed, when he ought to be excited - this place is incredible, full of history and magic. The library's bound to be interesting, too - full of countless linking books to any world they could imagine. They could finally see the full extent of the Avishraan civilization, rather than the single world they'd grown up with their whole lives.

fter a brief struggle, the latter barely ekes out a win. “There's nothing to worry about, really. It knows you're my brother now, and it won't harm you. Just stay close to me and everything will be fine.” Okay, so he's allowed to lord it over Ashernath just a little bit.

The disgruntled Avishraan resists the urge to mouth those words back at Demarath petulantly by the skin of his teeth, not content with the role reversal in the least, scales at the scruff of his neck still bristled. He utters a sound interpretable as something affirmative, though his body language and the emotion at his end of the mind link doesn't bother to change. Otherwise quiet, he slinks after Demarath, following the marks on the ground with perhaps a bit too much care, as if not entirely trusting his brother's faith in his benefactor and imagining something unpleasant to occur should he stray too far, or dare to touch the walls of the corridor. The markings did say 'This way, please' - he was just wholly unsure whether it was cordially delivered, or was to be understood as with an invisible knife to his throat.

Demarath in the meantime seems much less perturbed by the surroundings, his tail happily swaying back and forth as his eyes scan through the structure of the Citadel, trying to absorb as much information as he can while he's here. Even after they find the library and secure their route home, it might be worth staying for a little while longer just to see more of this incredible place.

Fortunately, Ashernath is oblivious to that train of thought, or the fear-fueled venom he holds for the Citadel would truly bubble to the surface and he'd scold his brother, potential punishment from Udunshraa notwithstanding. Instead, he simply pays attention to his surroundings, corridor curving through the structure. If he remembers the old stories correctly, the Citadel is a shallow dome in the landscape, feeding off sunlight to keep itself fueled, efficiently storing the excess for future use and passing some of it through to internal gardens. But what about the layout? He can't remember the stories ever being so specific as to give it a layout. Where in Udunshraa were they? For that matter: How large was this Citadel?

The path feels like it goes on forever, curving gently to the right ahead of them. Occasionally they reach an intersection with a perpendicular corridor, both directions receding into the darkness. Demarath pauses briefly at one such intersection and considers asking the Citadel to turn on all the lights, just so he can get a better sense of its size. But he's quite sure Ashernath would disapprove of such a distraction, and so they continue walking, following the trail of blue lights.

Just as Demarath is beginning to get tired of the endless walking, the trail of lights makes a sharp left turn, stopping at a pair of closed double doors. The Library. He pauses there, grin of excitement returning to his expression, and glances over to his brother. “Looks like this is it.” He rears up on his hind legs and, with a small amount of difficulty, pushes the doors open to reveal a dark room beyond. ~Light, please,~ he asks Udunshraa as he steps inside.

And Udunshraa complies.

The source of the light seems strange for an instant before becoming apparent - three thick pillars light up from their base in a shallow spiral, beginning with a stark blue only gradually shifting to a clean white as it brightens. The patterns are labyrinthine, like a more intricate form of the one they know from the tiles. It's the scale that's shocking - the ceiling is at least three storeys up, in an instant suggesting that the corridor they've been walking through is just one of several stacked atop each other. Rotor-like protrusions extend from the pillars evenly, as if to segment those very storeys, broad swaths of shallow stone leading to the walls or another pillar, forming solid sections providing both ceiling for what lies below and ground for what lies above. Smaller ledges crawl up those pillars as stairways.

A wire of light fades into existence on and in the centre of the rotor above them, first that deep, royal blue, then brightening into a pure white light as the pillars themselves had done, and the aisles of unblemished shelves in their vicinity become apparent.

Not even the lifetime of a dragon would let them read all the words contained in this library. Not even two lifetimes. Their wildest dreams, effortlessly paled. Why would anyone abandon this, especially given Udunshraa's protection of the survivors of the civil war?

Laughter spills from Demarath, a sense of sheer, childish glee flooding through the mind-link to his brother. “Look at this!” he exclaims, turning in circles to try and take it all in. Row after row of bookshelves, stretching left and right, nearly from the front wall to the back, packed with books of all sorts. “It's incredible!” He makes his way to the nearest shelf, and picks a book off mostly at random. A hefty tome entitled 'Psychometric Subvolution<ref>The discipline of measuring psychological traits enfolded within, or hidden beneath, other psychological traits. An important topic of study in massively psychically connected societies.</ref>: Principles and Applications.' He opens it to roughly a third of the way through; the left page contains a complicated diagram whose components are impossible to identify, and the right is filled with a prosaic explanation, half the words of which he's never even heard of before.

This place is awesome.

Demarath flips through pages of the book he's found, unable to contain his glee at finding something so phenomenally beyond him that he can't hope to understand it - at least, not yet. His eyes raise up to the shelves around him, and he lets out a wistful sigh. “I want to read them all,” he whines lightly, closing the book and pushing it back neatly into its rightful place on the shelf. It'd be a hopeless endeavour, of course; even with the combined lifetimes of his entire family he's not sure he'd be able to read and comprehend everything in these books. And this is just the first level! There are still at least two more above them! Even his wildest dreams of what Tanith's library contained are effortlessly dwarfed by this.

Ashernath 's scepticism toward Udunshraa and its motives evaporated when the lights came on in the library, morphing first into astonishment, then awe, then glee, only to come crashing down with a moment of panic: In a library this large, where was Belewe?! A soft sound like a whimper sits in his throat, barely vocalised, but no less potent. His arms clutch around himself, antennae curling down against his neck again, wide eyes staring at the library. A part of him can't help but be ecstatically overwhelmed by this fantastic discovery, but it's considerably dampened by his fear they might not find a way home.

It takes a moment for the distress coming through the mind-link to fully register to him. For a brief moment, there's frustration - this is the find of a lifetime, and Ashernath's killing the mood by being his irrationally overprotective self. It quickly morphs to concern, though; this doesn't feel like the usual 'I'm worried my brother will fall and break his arms'. “Ashernath? What's wrong?” he asks, turning towards the older dragon.

The question barbs, despite being entirely warranted. He doesn't want to admit he finds these vast rows of books daunting - there's probably an index somewhere and he's just going to make a fool of himself - but he doesn't want his brother to worry just because of the light panic that leaked through the mindlink. “Just… wondering where the book back home is,” he manages to comment, a part of him surprised he's managed to say that without a stammer.

Ah. That's… probably a good point, yes, they should make sure they find the book back to Belewe before they explore much further. Just so they know where it is. They could always stay a little while longer if they wanted to.

A bit of cursory looking around on this level does not reveal an index, or a map, or signs pointing to where anything is. Demarath scans book titles as he walks past; most sound more like titles of works on magical theory than names of worlds. The few he runs across that could be either, he pokes his head into, the first few pages of, only to find tables of contents. If he wanted to, he could probably ask the Citadel for help, but he'd rather explore the stacks himself than rely on the building for guidance. After two or three minutes of searching, he turns his attention to the central pillar of the library. “…maybe there's a directory upstairs,” he offers. It's at least worth a look, he figures. With that, he begins to climb the prongs spiraling around the glowing pillar.

It's an irrational fear that's pulsing through his veins. They might not be able to read all books in Udunshraa's library, but they can certainly read all spines in a lifetime - significantly shorter than a lifetime, even, possibly even a day if they split up. So, as long as there is a book back to Belewe - and why wouldn't there be, in such a vast library? - they should be able to find it. There's no problem. Nonetheless, it keeps nagging at him, far more intensely than a simple fear of getting grounded for coming here.

He should have stopped Demarath. He shouldn't have told him to open the book. He shouldn't have egged him on to go into Tanith's office. He should have been a better bigger brother but there was no turning back on that now. “Hopefully,” he whispers in response to his brother's words, following him like a loyal pet, wholly oblivious to how much he's letting the Srian lead, preoccupied with other things at the moment as he is.

As they climb up to the second level, Demarath's eyes widen. Each of the long, wide rotor blades contains a series of bookshelves, stacked like dominoes except with somewhat more space between each one, a strip along one end serving as a pathway, elegant metallic railings put in place on each side to prevent careless dragons from falling off the edge. With the sheer number of rotors, the task of searching all the bookshelves for a name, even on this level alone, strikes him as incredibly daunting.

And there's no map or directory. Lovely. The urge to ask the Citadel for help arises again, but he dismisses it. This is a library of a brotherhood dedicated to Order, after all, so there must be some logic to it. It's just a matter of figuring out what the system is.

Demarath steadfastly approaches one of the nearby bookshelves, examining its contents. These titles look promising… he pulls out a book labelled 'Kerreden' and opens it to the first page and - “Ha! There we go.” A linking book. To… somewhere foresty, that's as far as he studied the swirling description before closing the book and returning it to the shelf. He scans through some other titles on the shelf, then develops a wide grin - all of them start with 'K', except a handful of 'La's near the bottom right.

“Okay. Good news,” he says, turning to Ashernath. “I'm pretty sure this section is all linking books, and they look to be organized alphabetically. So it should just be a matter of finding where the 'B's are.” He looks around at the nearby prongs, and points to an adjacent one. “You try that way, I'll keep checking along here, and prod me if you find it.” Organization! They'll have found it before they know it.

Relief washes over Ashernath. The horror scenario of 'read the spine of every book in Udunshraa' becomes a laughable tale much like the absent Hzataalar Kaea. That'll be a fine story to tell his offspring once he has any. The adventurers who got lost in the archives of Udunshraa and died of thirst before finding the means to return to their home. That ought to scare them into behaving - and certainly prevent them from doing something as stupid as they'd done.

No matter, it's almost over. It feels like they've been here for a subjective eternity, but that's not right, is it? They probably haven't even been here for half an hour. They'd be home before dinner after all and their parents would be none the wiser. A certain euphoria grips him as he starts to browse the shelves of the indicated section, silently mouthing some of the titles to himself as if their first letter were only apparent once spoken, or intoned in his mind at the very least.

Let's see. K's, L's, M's… Oh, well, that's probably not a good sign this is the right direction. Still, it might be worth seeing how far this extends. Is this entire floor made of linking books? At the far end of the current prong, he can see another intersects with it, carrying its own set of bookshelves; maybe the B's could be over there.

As he passes another bookshelf, this one filled with the letter N (given the current rate, it starts looking unlikely that the entire floor is filled with linking books), something catches his eye. A lone book, in the third shelf from the bottom, is sticking out, laid on its spine with the pages exposed up to the air. Demarath's antennae twitch irritably. Who in their right mind would leave a book sticking out like that? With a huff of frustration, he walks over to the offending book and carefully removes it. Oh and they even put the top side inward, forcing him to turn it around awkwardly before slotting it back in properly. How inconsiderate.

There's no warning; there's not even enough time to complete his loving gesture of Order on the book. Instead, something thin and strong as wire's twisted itself along the entirety of his neck in a spiral, one end digging against the back of his jaw like a claw. The next instant, before instinct can force him into any one motion, the starting point of that spiral at the back of the base of his neck flares into a brief, sharp pain as an extension of it passes through the scales like a knife through butter and passes as a sliver of cold into his spine, bringing a fierce chill with it that spreads through Demarath's entire body.

The book thuds quietly to the floor.

Demarath lets out a cry, instinctively dropping the book to the ground as… something cuts into him. One hand twists up to grab for the source of that cold pain, discovering a strand of something thin reaching upwards; the other tries to tug in vain at the part wrapped tightly around his neck, only causing it to cling even tighter. He tries to crane his neck up or twist his head back to get a clear sight of what this is, but it's no use - whatever this is, it's significantly stronger than him, probably even stronger than Ashernath or Shiarath, and it's gotten a tight hold on both his neck and upper spine.

A shiver of panic passes through Demarath. He can already feel it snaking further down his spine, holding it fast and bringing a terrifying chill with it. What is this thing? Why is it here? What's it doing to him? And most importantly: How does he get it off? In a fit of terror, he tries to claw at the strand stretching up to the ceiling, but between the awkward angle, his lack of strength and the bluntness of his claws, it's a futile endeavor. Telepathically, he cries out for help - to Ashernath, to Udunshraa, or to anyone or anything else that might listen.

It's hard to say how much the sense of that wire within him is any indication of actual motion, but it feels like whatever this contraption is, it's coiling itself about his spine, creeping under his skin at an alarming rate, bifurcating and pushing along the edge of his collarbone. The string holding him is either pulled taut or more of a rod, resisting all attempts of his forepaws to manipulate it. Thin luminescent copper tendrils spawn from the back of his own neck, bringing with them a creeping sense of hollowness, as if they were made of his own bodymass, lashing up flexibly along his arms and pulling them back from the wire with an unrelenting application of pressure. At the edge of his vision, he can see another line thrust itself between the shelftops and wrap itself in a spiral about the sliver the book he'd dropped is missing from.

The Citadel conveys confusion and disorientation. ~What is attacking you, master?~ it intones in his mind in puzzlement and concern, trying to comprehend the data its senses are supplying, fragments of pain and distress without another mind close enough to cause it. Ashernath is not guilty of this, it's decided. Something else is happening, mostly opaque. Has Demarath cut himself on something?

And then Ashernath is almost upon him, a light shudder travelling through the shelf as his sprint is in part stopped by the piece of furniture, claws grasping near-blindly at the wood for support, both physical given the sheer volume of distress pounding through his psyche and demanding his attention and strength, and mentally in that he could really, really use some support right now… even if it's the inanimate sort. “By Avikael, what can I do?!” he comments in frantic whimper, even as his gaze darts along the lines increasingly holding his brother in place, deceptively simple, wholly intimidating for how easily it should be to cast it aside by its appearance alone. For the moment, he hesitates, cowardice keeping him from even trying to engage the wretched piece of technology, though his gaze does shoot up to its source, partly in panic, partly in conscious intent.

~I DON'T KNOW!~ Demarath broadcasts in reply, full of fear and panic. It's an accurate answer to both questions, really. Okay, okay, try not to panic, and think. What's going on? It's difficult to tell, because he can't really see where it's coming from, but given that it started around his neck and there's a rigid strand leading to the ceiling, that's as good a place to start as any. “Asherna, can you-” Ergh. With the tip of the wire coiled around his neck pressing against his jaw, talking is uncomfortable. ~There's something going up to the ceiling, I think that's where this is coming from? But I can't do anything to it.~ A cold shiver ripples through his hide as his arms are pressed to the ground by the copper tendrils. ~Please hurry,~ he adds, tears streaming from his eyes.

A mound of something curved like a short horn juts from the ceiling, tip disgorging that infernal wire. Fueled by fear for his brother's life, Ashernath snorts a breath and begins to climb the shelf, wide-eyed but entirely lucid, muscles rippling under his copper scales. The lump on the ceiling, white just like the rotor it's attached to, has one designation, and one designation only: Enemy. With only minimal delay, he's brought himself into a steady posture against the top of the shelf, snarling soundlessly at the Enemy, and thrusts his left forepaw up to scratch at its surface.

It's hard as the stone it's coming from, but the scrape of claws against it nonetheless has an effect - a punishing pain lances down Demarath's spine, hot and burning, and another set of fresh tendrils twist themselves up along Demarath's weak wings, forcing them into a folded state, his trembling body manipulated like putty. Maybe Ashernath would be able to fight this, but Demarath's attempts at freeing himself with force are hopeless.

Demarath cries out in pain as Ashernath swipes at the source of… whatever this is. Is it some kind of creature that he's never heard of? A parasite, maybe? …or a predator? That spawns another bout of panic: Is it trying to eat him? Suddenly he has a mental image of him being immobilized and digestive juices flowing down the wire from the ceiling. There's a brief attempt at panicked thrashing, doomed from the start as the only things he can really move are his legs and tail, and perhaps his head to tiny degrees. Is this why father considered the Citadel to be dangerous?

~Please help,~ he calls out to Udunshraa. ~I… - I think this thing is trying to eat me, and I don't know what it is, and I'm scared and confused and I don't know what to do and I don't know what Ashernath can do and please tell me you know what's going on and can stop it.~

The cry makes Ashernath stop, paralysed in the middle of another swipe, claws hovering above the stone. Frantic panic in his eyes, he glances down at his brother, own skin crawling. What can he do? Maybe he needs to attack it despite the pain it's causing Demarath. Maybe as long as he can detach it from the underside of the rotor, everything will be okay. But he's hesitating, uncertain, terrified of hurting his little brother, and yet almost equally terrified of doing nothing at all.

~No accurate sensor data pertaining to what is attacking you,~ Udunshraa apologises, sounding deeply perturbed, but likely not grasping the severity of the situation. In a pleasant, patient and worried tone, it continues with: ~Please describe your problem.~ The light in the library changes, draining out of the pillars and toward the point where Ashernath and Demarath are, dim in the rest of the massive hall, brighter in immediate vicinity, though still far removed from blinding, simply illuminating the area around them as thoroughly as possible.

Further lines are winding themselves along his body, immobilising him, but doing nothing else. After what feels like an eternity, his weakness running through his body as never before, almost to point of sedation, the structure stabilises, the flexible tendrils dimming in their luminescence and hardening like cooling metal.

Lovely, the Citadel can't see him. Okay. Okay, don't panic. Just… - just try to stay calm and explain what's going on while it slowly immobilizes and - okay, no. No, stop panicking, that doesn't help. ~I… - I don't entirely know. There's something on the ceiling, it's… - it has a wire or something that's digging into my neck, and it feels like it's coiling around my spine, and there are all these tendrilly things coming out and trying to immobilize me and…~

Okay, no, he can't do this. He can't bring himself to intricately describe his own condition with the precision of a scientist. He just can't separate himself from what's happening to his body. ~I'm scared,~ he whimpers through the connection. ~Ashernath tried to attack the thing on the ceiling, but it just ended up hurting me.~

Further coils sprout from the back of his neck, wrapping around his body; a few go for his legs, exerting the same pressure on them as it has to his arms and wings; one coils around his tail, even though given the creature's firm grasp on his entire spine at this point, it hardly seems necessary. Limbs pull out from under him as pressure from the coils forces him onto his belly, a bit more wire unspooling from the ceiling-bound contraption to provide just enough slack. Just as the light fades from those bindings, there's another pang of cold hollowness, and a pair of new tendrils sprout, coiling around his skull and snout, locking his jaw closed and tugging his muzzle to the ground. As those final coils 'cool' and solidify, a soft whimper escapes Demarath. ~I don't want to die….~

~Symbiont presence detected; no psychic signature,~ the Citadel diagnoses. ~Srian biological attributes stable. No toxins or pathogens detected. Slight bruising, two minor penetrative wounds.~ A pause. ~Medkit construction in progress.~ …great, that was probably all kinds of useless. ~Consult books?~ Of course, the books! If this worked at all with established concepts, maybe they could find something. Maybe that's how Ashernath could make himself useful, search for a book on this infernal contraption.

Ashernath watches in horror as his brother's weak body is pushed to the floor. “D-D-Demara, I'm going to attack it again, okay? Even if it hurts, I'll get you out of there, hold on, okay?” he stammers, whipping his attention back up to that horn-like protrusion, revulsion knotting in his gut. How did this get here? Is it some kind of burglar alarm, like he'd falsely expected in Tanith's office back on Belewe? But why? If the Citadel can intercept any intruders, why have a trap? And surely the Hzataalar Kaea had no means of getting in here and setting traps to ensnare the unsuspecting… did they? Did they? Panic crawls up his spine, hyperattentive gaze trying to spot all the outlines of the growth in its hard shell, intending to attempt to pry it from its hold on the ceiling once he has it scoped.

Symbiont. Okay, that sounds like it's bad, but it also sounds like it isn't going to kill him. No toxins, that's… - that's a good sign. He's stable, he's not about to get digested, and while he can't move an inch with this tangle around him, at least he's otherwise fine, if exhausted, and it doesn't seem to be doing anything else to him. The books. Maybe Ashernath can find a book on symbionts? But the library is enormous, and they've barely even scratched the surface just glimpsing at titles.

It takes Demarath a moment to process Ashernath's comments. A twinge of fear runs through him. Attacking it might help. Maybe. On the other hand, it might just cause it to rip his spine out. There's no way of knowing. And given the pain that shot through him the last time, he's not anxious to try that again without knowing a bit more about what this thing is.

~No, wait. Ashernath, I… - I don't know if that's going to work.~ There's a noticeable pause as he tries desperately to collect his thoughts and keep his mind calm. ~I think it's stopped whatever it was doing. It's not hurting me right now. The Citadel is saying this is some sort of symbiont; there's probably at least a dozen books here that could tell us what it is and how to get rid of it. Hang on, let me try something.~ A moment later, he shifts to address Udunshraa instead. ~Can you direct Ashernath to any books that are likely to help?~

A probing motion against the base of the protrusion is halted before it's fully executed, Ashernath's antennae in disagreeance with their alignment, twisting anxiously, his gaze dropping back down to his incapacitated brother. The notion of climbing back down from his perch to browse the library for input on the matter seems ridiculous, however much the tension is starting to ache in his muscles, and however likely it seems that at least one book here would contain some useful information. He stays suspended in mid-motion, cautious, fearful, and doubly paused as Demarath asks him to hold. He nearly takes the instruction a bit too far, having to force himself to continue breathing normally.

In Demarath's head, a worrying pause sets in. ~Affirmative,~ the Citadel remarks, finally, perhaps having searched some form of database to come to its conclusion. It takes only another moment for a patch of the third floor to light up might like the focus on their current position, advertising a section presumably containing either books on medicine or biology or magical traps, or the overlap of all three - and the familiar blue glow draws itself along the white floor of the rotor they're on, leading to the stairs, winding itself up along the pillar, and presumably continuing along the interconnected rotors forming the third floor to that final destination.

“Is… that…?” Ashernath begins, then both his antennae tense, curving upwards in sudden insight and an intense bout of hope. Even without further communication to instruct him, he lets go of the shelf and launches himself into a run along the rotor, hoping to get to the book as fast as possible.

It takes no more than an instant for that to reveal itself as a bad idea. The supposedly inflexible wires wrapped around Demarath's awkwardly angled body tighten in an increasingly vice-like grip, feeling like if they're allowed to continue the process for even another second, some bone will snap and splinter effortlessly under the force.

A muffled scream of pain emanates from the younger dragon, strangled a moment later as the wire closes around his throat. It still continues over the mind-link, though. Something is terribly wrong. Why is it doing this all of a sudden? Does it somehow know that Ashernath is trying to find a way to combat it? He doesn't know, and he doesn't have time or energy to think. All he can do is scream telepathically for help. Maybe Ashernath can kill it. By Avikael he hopes so.

The bound away from Demarath stops, Avishraan dragon paused in his motion, bewildered, not understanding the situation well enough to even feel adequate terror, just disoriented and trying to understand what's happening. The pause grants partial reprieve to Demarath, at least - the crushing force doesn't get any worse. The wail across the mindlink persists, though - and a moment later, Ashernath bounds back across, fueled by burning, frantic concern for his brother. “Demara!” he calls, hoping for some coherent reaction. The Davir Srian, meanwhile, would find the grasp on him relaxing again, returning to its 'original' state of simply holding him still when Ashernath is hovering back over him.

Breathing. Thank Avikael, he can breathe again. Demarath's entire body still aches, even with the tendrils' grasp relenting to 'merely' holding him immobile. Eyes strain to look up to Ashernath, not quite able to focus on his older brother. ~I… I don't understand.~ His immediate distress and pain is gone, replaced by terrified confusion. ~I don't know why it did that.~ He's confused, and he's trapped, and this thing could crush all the life out of him in a matter of seconds if it wanted to. ~Asherna…~ Tears born of helplessness spill from his eyes. ~I… - I think this thing's going to kill me.~

Ashernath is torn. On the one hand, his motions probably set the thing off in some way. On the other, the more it's causing his brother pain, the more he wants to follow the Citadel's lead and find a book to help. It feels like Demarath is living on borrowed time. Ashernath breathes heavily, not dealing well with the stress of the situation, confused, disoriented and frightened. Then: “…I- I'm going to look for the book, Demarath. I'll be careful. Please be all right,” he whimpers, antennae hugging his neck again. His head bobs in anxiety for a moment of indecision, then he begins to slink away, body language making him look as if scolded or beaten, cautious in his motions.

But all caution doesn't help. At least the slow progress makes the correlation better apparent this time, pressure on Demarath gradually increasing the further Ashernath crawls away along that rotor.

Shit. Whatever's causing it to tighten is correlated to Ashernath's distance from him. He tries to endure the pain for a little while, knowing the importance of Ashernath's quest to his escape, but the pain quickly becomes unbearable, even before Ashernath gets as far as he did the last time. The same muffled scream emerges from his throat. ~Asherna!~ he cries out, his pain starting to bleed through over the mind-link. ~I can't handle this, it's too much! Come back, please, please come back!~

Newly confused, Ashernath pauses at a distance once more - before he makes the same realisation Demarath made. He gives a little yip of distress, anxiety fully claiming his demeanour, half walking, half crawling back to his little brother, overwhelmed by a sense of futility, of uselessness. Whining, no longer caring about what the contraption might do to him, miserable in his relative freedom, he rubs his muzzle against his brother's head, nipping at one antenna gently, simply guided by instinct into soothing gestures. Tears glitter in the corners of his eyes and he blinks, trying to get rid of them, not thinking much of such displays of emotion, but they refuse to be altogether dispelled. “We'll figure something out,” he comments, lamely, transitioning into something of a distressed, low hum. “Maybe father can figure something out. Maybe the Citadel can help.” That was an awful lot of maybes.

Once more, the constricting tendrils relax. Demarath tries to nudge some part of him out of their grasp, hoping they might be slightly weakened when relaxing, but of course it's no use, and he tires out before he can get very far. His eyes open, straining upwards in an attempt to find the lit section above them. So close. So close and yet so far away. A part of him wonders if perhaps Ashernath could fly up, if that might trick this infernal creation into not crushing him to death - but he's not nearly masochistic enough even to suggest such an option, let alone try it.

Ashernath's comments only manage to draw out a completely different sort of terror. They're both trapped, now: Demarath in the coils of this symbiont, and Ashernath by his connection to him. He couldn't go back to Belewe and get father to come; they'd have to wait here until he arrived, surely furious at them both for coming to such a dangerous place. And what then? What if father got stuck here too? They'd be trapped here forever. A muffled sob chokes out of Demarath, and he shuts his eyes, giving up on the fight against his tears as he'd given up on the fight against this trap. ~I shouldn't have gone through that book,~ he projects. ~I was so stupid. I should've listened to Father's warnings; now we're both going to die here because I couldn't even keep my own curiosity in check.~

Ashernath, antennae held low, eyes dark and stray quivers travelling along his shape, finds himself wondering morbidly whether the frantic hope he feels is nothing but a hollow attempt of his psyche to deal with this problem. Death is not something he wants to think about. He wants Tanith to come here and fix everything, to ground them for life for all he cares, but just get them back out of this mess. The notion that Tanith might get trapped in the same way Ashernath was bound to his brother doesn't occur to him - Tanith is an adult. Adults don't get trapped - they aren't that stupid, they come up with clever solutions to tricky problems.

And then, silence. Between them, silence, and waiting, punctured by occasional, soft whimpers spilling from Ashernath, and the sound of his breathing that simply does not want to calm down, even over the subjective eternity.

Eventually, something chirps. Something new brushes up to Demarath. A rough tongue laps at the scales of his neck, attracting his attention, and a coo follows, before the owner of the voice steps forward in all of its ten inch glory, tilting its smooth amphibian head to peer at Demarath. Its small hands rise to paw at Demarath's muzzle, a quizzical purr escaping it. It looks vaguely like a white dragon, although with an assortment of spines instead of wings, a pouch on its belly, and a flabby, folded throat pulsing slightly with each breath to reveal crimson and blue flecks.

Above all, it's almost nauseatingly cute, something that really doesn't suit the distress the situation is causing.

Silence.

The silence is almost worse than the physical restraints. It's no less oppressive, and no less unbreakable - except by muffled grunts and pitiful whimpers. Even if he could speak vocally right now, though, what would he say? What is there to say? Father isn't going to show up for hours at least, and even when he does, there's no way of knowing he won't get trapped himself. And the Citadel, for all its power and protective instincts, could hardly do anything to help them.

Demarath closes his eyes, trying to shut out his brother's fear and misery. He's so tired from fighting against this trap, he has half a mind to just sleep until Father gets here… except that a part of him is terrified that if he sleeps now, he'll never wake up. And so he lies there half-awake as time passes by impossibly slowly.

He's not sure how long it is before something changes; there's something chirping and brushing against his neck. Eyes shoot open, and adrenaline tugs at his head, pushing it against the immobilizing tendrils. Is the trap doing something else now? What's going on? He tries to get a good look at whatever it is, but all he can make out from his angle is a hint of white at the edge of his vision. Then it steps forward - some sort of tiny white wingless dragon. Fear turns to confusion, as he gives the newcomer a quizzical look. His antennae twitch slightly; it doesn't seem to have any real mind to speak of, barely even an animal. After a few moments of confusion as it nuzzles against him adorably, he decides to ask the Citadel. ~Citadel… what is this thing?~

There's a noticeable delay before the Citadel answers, in part out of having dipped back into a certain idleness, itself, in part out of being at first wholly uncertain what 'thing' pertained to. Then: ~A pharmaceutical aid, sole currently functional unit. Specialised on open wounds, inflammation and common bacterial and viral infections.~

As the Citadel elaborates, the creature climbs the immobile Srian, paws padding along Demarath's face, though cautious in its ascent, balancing itself along the back of his neck, until it comes to a rest near the base of it, where the wire's pierced his scaled skin. A brief, rolling sound escapes it, some guttural midway noise between a chirr and a coo, as it peers up the line with curiosity. Its build, meanwhile, reveals itself to be compact - it has a lot of mass for something its size, though not to point of discomfort for its current perch.

So this is the medkit the Citadel mentioned earlier? He's not entirely sure what he had expected, but certainly not this. He shuts his eyes as it starts climbing across his face - it's much heavier than it looks, probably due to whatever medicines it has stored inside it. Even so, it probably can't do much to help him get out of this mess, unless it also has ludicrously more strength than its frame and purpose imply.

It takes a moment for anything to happen - then the creature's tiny forepaws set down against the stinging puncture, kneading those short fingers, moist with something, against the scales immediately around it. For a moment, that makes the light sting worse, flaring it up into a barb of discomfort, the wire suddenly tangible between those tortured fibres - then a certain numbness eases into him around it, soothing the sense of intrusion.

“…what's it doing?” Ashernath's voice is soft and slightly shaky as he speaks, peering with concern at the strange creature. The deeper instinct is to ask what it is, and whether it's friend or foe - but Demarath hasn't yowled for his help yet, so it must be a friend.

Demarath winces as pain flares up briefly around the wound, only to relax again as a numb sensation replaces it. After several heavy breaths, he seems to acclimate to it. ~It's a medkit, apparently,~ Demarath replies. ~I'm guessing it's just treating the wound,~ he adds a moment later. 'The wound'. There's an almost clinical tone to that phrase - an attempt at separating himself from what's happening to him. It's the only way to keep himself from panicking further, by trying to pretend he's just an outside observer. ~…I think it's helping.~

“Oh,” Ashernath comments lamely, to equal parts assuaged and confused. Why did the medkit have arms and legs - and was breathing and chirping, for that matter? Was that normal for Avishraan medkits? Or was that just a Citadel thing? If he's very honest with himself, he doesn't really want it to be on Demarath, something about it is triggering instincts for dealing with parasites, but given the trap itself is triggering those far more, he's not compelled to act - especially given that it does seem to have a bit of an improving effect on his brother's health.

The Medkit meanwhile stops its knead of that puncture wound, a sound like a wavering pur spilling from it. A long moment later, an awkward but not outright uncomfortable sensation twangs at Demarath's spine as it tries - somewhat comically - to chew at the wire.

A soft whine emerges from Demarath. And now it's decided to start doing something to the wire, most likely. Thanks for nothing, you useless reptile. ~Can you get it to stop whatever it's doing right now?~ he asks his brother. There's no pain or deep distress coming through the mind-link at that request - at least, no more distress than the usual - just a mild sensation of discomfort and annoyance. How frustrating, he thinks. He can't even nudge the creature away from the wire, he has to get his older brother to do it for him. All he can do is think, and think slightly louder.

Ashernath reacts to the instruction with a notable hesitance. …touch… it? It's like some part of him has decided it's thoroughly suspicious, no doubt subconsciously reenforced by his brother's current psychological discomfort. With a grimace, tips of his antennae twitching, he reaches forward with his left forepaw, muzzle cautiously raised to peer at the creature, and then carefully tugs at one of its spines, trying to peel it away from the wire. Fortunately, it doesn't resist - whatever instincts it's been programmed with, apparently an aggressive self-preservation instinct and defensiveness is not amongst them. It's evidently not for use in any battlefield - though that stands to reason, given that it seems to have a leisurely pace. “Better?” he asks, even as he grimaces deeply, watching the amphibian nip and lick at his wrist, evidently its own benign way of trying to compel him to let go, without actually writhing or applying pressure.

The awkward sensation surrounding his spine fades away soon after the nibbling Medkit is removed. ~…better, yes,~ replies Demarath. They can't hurt the base of the symbiont attached to the ceiling, or it will hurt him. The same applies to the wire. So it stands to reason that if he's ever going to get out of this trap alive, the tendrils wrapped around him are their best bet. But then of course, the wire's still holding his spine… but it's still worth a shot. ~…Ashernath, I have an idea. What if you tried prying away the coils themselves? It won't get me free, but it might let me move.~

The thought of trying to do anything to the trap is mortifying - he still vividly remembers the second-hand pain from its assault on Demarath just for his brother daring to leave the vicinity, he can't imagine trying to pry any part of it off would result in anything but agony. If it was just Demarath's agony, he might be tempted to do it - it was his request, after all - but since it's his own psyche similarly on the line, there's a near-prohibitive hurdle in the way. But he has to do something. He has to do something so they can escape and get back home, so their parents don't ground them for life. A wry, bitter chuckle at himself spills from him - what a silly thought. He'd love for his parents to show up, they'd probably know how to deal with this.

Swallowing dryly, he sets the eager little medicine machine down at a bit of a distance, ignoring it for the moment as it loyally wanders back to Demarath's fallen form and begins another attempt at getting up on him, this time climbing up along one of his trapped wings. Ashernath presses his lips together and frowns, resisting the instinct to squeeze his eyes shut and blindly fumble with the wires, instead focussing on one of Demarath's arms, prising at a tendril.

Instead of budging, a chill barbs along Demarath's spine, stealing another helping of energy from him, but not resulting in pain - and a tendril winds itself in an abrupt motion against Ashernath's lower arm, holding it fast. The result is predictable: Ashernath gives a curt, childish shriek of terror, promptly tugging himself back, claws scraping against the smooth floor seeking firm purchase and finding none.

Demarath shuts his eyes, a shiver briefly rippling through his body as another tendril springs out. It's a deeply unsettling sensation, like a part of him is being sucked away to create it, but it isn't actually painful. It's not explicitly hurting him, it's just trying to wind more tendrils around him, so that's a good thing, right? Then Ashernath lets out a shriek of fear and the younger dragon's eyes shoot open. Just within his visual range, he can see the newly-formed tendril, still glowing with a warm light, wrapped around Ashernath's forearm. ~Oh no. Oh Avikael, please no.~ It's… - it's going to trap Ashernath too.

Okay. Okay Demarath you need to think. You need to come up with a plan. Something that'll stop this thing from getting a hold of his brother the same way it got a hold of him. ~Maybe… maybe you can break out of it, you're stronger than me.~ And it's not digging into his spine drawing bits of his life away to boot, so he has that advantage too. ~Or… or maybe the medkit can help?~ He's just tossing out every idea that occurs to him, in the hopes one of them will break his brother free.

Speaking of the medkit, the little fellow is back to the point it had previously sought to nurse. To his credit, Ashernath has enough lucidity given the bout of panic to swat at it, giving a soft, whining 'nrrgh' noise in the process, like someone overwhelmed by separate sources of stress. Then his brother is saying something about the medkit potentially helping, and he leans across to gently pluck it back from his brother's spine, claiming it for himself, without having half of a clue what it might be able to help with. If it's not been able to pry the tendrils off of Demarath with or without triggering its defences, what makes either of them think it can help with Ashernath's trapped arm? An instant later, a cry spills from Ashernath and he drops the creature, instead clutching at his arm, the end of the luminous wire pushing against his scales until it breaks the skin, sinking an inch into his flesh like a particularly brutal needle. He- he needs to get his arm out, now. He needs to get out, by Avikael, or something is going to happen and he's not even sure what it is, nor does he have any desire to find out. A high-pitched, humming keen escapes him.

~NO!~ Between having to watch the tendril pierce into Ashernath's flesh and vicariously experiencing his brother's pain through the mind-link, it's enough to override any logical faculties. ~LET HIM GO!~ he broadcasts, perhaps in some futile hope that the trap could and would listen to him. Maybe the Citadel could help, somehow, but given how useful it's been so far, it seems doubtful. ~Oh Avikael, please…~ Fresh tears stream from Demarath's eyes. He's so stupid. Why did he think prying the tendrils away would work? Now it's going to trap Ashernath here with him in a much more literal sense than it already had, and it's all his fault. He shouldn't have come here. ~Ashernath…~ A soft whimper escapes the younger dragon's throat. ~Ashernath, I'm so sorry…~

Tugging isn't doing anything. Tugging isn't- he's trapped. He can't get out of here. He hadn't been able to get out before, but this was far more absolute, tapping into his visceral fears like he wouldn't believe. And then a chill spreads through his veins up his arm, prompting a jittery whimper of terror, the rest of his body flattening itself against the ground, desperately wishing to disassociate from the limb. It's… - it's sapping his energy, lazily siphoning his life away. His eyes squeeze shut, animal fear holding him still, paralysed, practically playing dead, crying silently. Soon he won't have to play dead anymore, a cynical part of him points out, it'll be genuine. ~It's eating my soul.~ It's a childish, silly thing to say, carried over mindlink like a frightened whisper, but it's the only thing that feels apt. He can't feel a crawling sensation and pain within him, so it's evidently not eating him in a literal fashion, but he's diminishing.

Ashernath's terror seems only to compound with his own, feeding into each other in a dangerous loop. His description of what's happening to him does little to help with that. ~It's…~ The terror he's feeling escalates further. ~It's doing the same thing to you that it did to me.~ Does that mean it's been eating his own soul too? Has he only not noticed because it's so intricately connected with him? ~…I hope Father comes soon,~ he comments. ~He'll know what to do. He has to.~ Where is he? How much longer are they going to have to wait?

The trouble with linked minds is that in absence of any other balancing force, they tend to re-enforce each other and worsen their own state. As such, Ashernath's own fear is hardly assuaged by Demarath's reference to their father, too focussed on the fragments of terror flowing back into his psyche from his brother. He squeezes his eyes shut, whimpering, resigning his arm to its fate, awkwardly suspended as it is, in part outright willing the thing to hurry up so he can die in peace. But it doesn't happen, of course. Instead, the situation slowly seems to stabilise, though he can't help but suffer a wholly psychosomatic nausea. Demarath was right about one thing above all others, of course - Tanith had to know how to help them. If he didn't…? Ashernath didn't want to think about that.

Silence. There's only the postive feedback loop of strongly negative emotions between himself and Ashernath, and the occasional mild uncomfortable twinge running through his spine as the medkit has returned to nibbling on the wire extruding from the base of his neck. It's almost maddening. There has to be something he can do, some way to take his mind off of the sense of doom surrounding them both.

Minutes pass before a thought occurs to him. Father would show up eventually; he has to. He can at least do something to warn him of the nature of the trap he's gotten them both into. ~Citadel,~ he addresses the presence in his mind. ~…Ashernath's- he's gotten trapped too.~ There's a small spike in his distress at having to communicate that, but it quickly fades. ~…but our father's going to show up, hopefully soon. When he does… can you warn him about this- this infernal symbiont? Because if he…~ He shuts his eyes tightly, cutting that train of thought off. ~The more he knows about this before he gets here, the more prepared he'll be to get us out. Can you make sure he knows?~

There's a pause, perhaps denoting that the complex instruction needs to be parsed more carefully than some prior statements. Then the Citadel responds with: ~Affirmative.~ Insomuch as it has an inflection to its mental voice, it sounds equal parts confused and concerned, but doesn't seem to want to ask about the situation again. Are Citadels capable of feeling like they're communicating shamefully redundantly? Or is there just something about Demarath's choice of words making enquiry seem unnecessary?

Elsewhere within the Citadel and elsewhen in time, a copper dragon manifests like a thunderclap. A heavy breath spills from him, not from the transition, but from the context of his visit. There's a quiver to him and his eyes widen in focus as he extends thoughts out into the fabric of the Citadel like pushing fingers into foam and rakes through it like hot coals combing for signs. A jittery breath born in part of anger and of a nauseating level of concern escapes him and he straightens himself, briefly blind to the world as he interfaces with the Citadel.

They're in the library. They're well, but they can't leave. They have been sent a medkit that they've not put to use. They have not been given instructions because the Citadel does not understand their situation but there are books around them, lots of books, and surely one of them would contain some information.

He sees the outlines of the situation in intuitive abstraction. Something is in them and while it's doing nothing to harm them at present but keep them still, it is a foreign body. He reaches out to their minds, finding a spike of fear he struggles to subdue. Experience and patience let him whittle it down and he surges through their psyches like a flood of calming acorporeal balm, siphoning energy from the negative loop with a concentrated effort.

He's moving, automatically, toward that room, barely taking note of the external cues he's following, driven chiefly by directions almost directly grafted onto his motor control on request, purely needing to be indulged in. He asks for a diagnosis of the rotor above the two, reading fractures and thin, webbed roots of something like a fungus within the resulting data, aged, sturdy, foreign. He feels it pull at him indirectly, sense of unease in Ashernath at each motion not a rapid step in his direction - and pauses. His sons might be afraid of his wrath, but they wouldn't know of his path, they weren't that refined in their sense of pinpointing a linked dragon yet, suggesting the foreign body the culprit. He's too far away for it to punish his sons, but it's reacting to his presence.

He still hasn't spoken to them. They'd know he's here now, or have a deep hunch thereof, but he's been silent despite himself, perception drowned in raw information. He breaks the surface of the ocean of frantic thought and anchors firmly against his sons, and a terse, authorative bark assures: ~I'll figure something out.~ No greeting, no venom. They could exchange pleasantries and scolding after the situation was resolved.

His thoughts catch up to him: A trap. Someone has put a trap into Udunshraa. Someone has managed to get in here and tarnish this place with some kind of contraption. The Citadel takes the accusation in stride; only Srians have been permitted into these halls, or Srian kin granted Srian authority. It's been loyal and watchful and valiant. It would know if something else had come in. But how could that be? What Srian would lay a trap for another? Unless it was not meant for Srians, but in such a case, the trap is carelessly manufactured, something he cannot in good conscience attribute to his brethren. It's all very confusing.

The Citadel tells him the thing is a symbiont. He believes it. Something entwined with his sons' bodies, in equal part feeding from them and giving back. A biological entity. What have they tried? Only forceful removal and attempts to damage it directly, the memories of the Citadel reveal. Is it soft anywhere? The images don't suggest so. He descends into the depths of the Citadel's knowledge to sift through a list of the medkit's capabilities, specifically the chemical components available to it.

With the preliminaries clear, he takes a deep breath and continues his journey, aware he needs a plan, ideally a better one than the one that he has in mind.

The enquiry accepted, however tentatively, the young dragon returns to his by now default state of worry and mild discomfort. He tries desperately to use the small bit of hope that brief conversation's given him to ameliorate the loop of negativity, but it makes barely any headway, if any at all. They're doomed, and there's nothing they can do.

It's hard to say how long they're stuck in that steady state before something changes. There's something else inside Demarath's mind - for an instant, he panics, thinking the trap has started affecting his mind, but that dies instantly as he recognizes his father's presence. ~He's here,~ he whispers to Ashernath over the mind-link. Of course, it's hardly necessary - his brother would certainly already know. He hasn't said anything, though. Why hasn't Father said anything? A short while later, he receives Tanith's message. He's angry, of course - but he's keeping it in check. A bit of tension winds its way into Demarath's form, uncertain as to whether he should reply. After a moderately long pause, he sends a quiet, submissive response: ~Thanks.~

Ashernath does not seem to be reacting much for the first few moments after Demarath's prodding, still soaked in misery. Then it sinks in - he's not having a pleasant dream, this is reality. A high-pitched, ambigously intoned sound escapes his throat, antennae righting themselves, body peeling itself out of its miserable slouch. Help is on the way? Help is on the way! The part of him not concerned with keeping up any pretense practically explodes with a relieved and hopeful happiness. ~Father!~ he calls, mental tone full of joy and relief.

~Be still,~ Tanith instructs them both, although not gruffly. ~I will be with you shortly and I need the time to think.~

And with that shared, Ashernath stares at the wall into the rough whereabouts of Tanith as if willing it to become transparent and quite surprised that it's doing no such thing, fractionally dejected, but still full of fresh hope. After what seems like a subjective eternity, it occurs to him to shift his gaze, at first hoping to track his father's signature, then realising that, too, is silly, and instead peering attentively to the door.

Tanith arrives a few minutes later, only to take the direct route up to their position, wings unfurling and flight guided by experience raising him up to the height of their rotor, landing against the edge of it in an impressive perch, forepaws clutching at the rim, hindpaws balanced against it. Judging by his expression, he's wholly unsurprised by the setup, informed by the Citadel in preciser ways than it knew to speak to the younger dragons. An instant later, he tips forward and toward them, ending with three paws on the ground almost directly beside them, fourth raised to gently touch at the vertical wire, focussed attention shooting up to take in the base of the trap. “How long have you been trapped here?” he asks, plainly, without accusation, though it's no doubt imagined into his tone by his sons.

A little bit of Ashernath's joy and enthusiasm rubs off on Demarath, pushing aside the part of him dreading his father's arrival. They'll be safe. He even hazards a brief chuckle at the instruction to 'be still' - as if he has any choice in the matter. It comes out as more of a cough, though, his throat dry from disuse. Father will figure out a way to get them out of this mess, and then they can go home and he'll never, ever, ever use one of those linking books again - or at least, not without his father present saying it's perfectly safe.

As the minutes tick onwards, a mild tension creeps into the wires encircling Demarath's body. For a moment, there's fear that the trap is going to strangle him again, but the pressure doesn't increase further. It's almost as if the contraption sought to remind him that it's still in control. Then he hears the sound of the door, and wings unfurling, and moments later the tension in the wires reduces as his father appears. He has a plan. He has to have a plan. Maybe he can magic them out of the trap?

A mild tension grips at Demarath's spine, mixture of the trap reacting to Tanith's touch and him reacting to his question. 'How long ago did you sneak into my study,' he mentally rephrases the question. Hesitation spills over the mindlink. ~I… I'm not sure,~ he answers, vaguely but honestly. ~…a long time,~ he admits a few moments later, guilt clear in his mental tone.

In parallel, he's queried the Citadel for the time of their arrival - approximately three thousand breaths ago - and its rough estimate of when they were trapped, given that it declines precise knowledge of when their state began - only a fraction less. “I see,” he comments, tersely, regarding the trap with contempt. Wisps of blue wind themselves around the flexing digits of his free paw, hints of magic hesitant in its otherwise instinctive appearance. Then the colour extinguishes and he removes his other hand from the wire and dips it down to scoop carefully under the medkit, setting it down on the ground before him and using one claw to raise its head, scritching its belly with his other hand, rubbing fingers across its collarbone in what appears like a very specific way. “Have you come up with any solutions or partial solutions to your situation that you can't pursue given that you're both ensnared?” he asks, purely analytically, hoping for a source of inspiration, even as he continues handling the tiny creature.

Well, at least that's a question that is hard to interpret at anything other than face value. After a few moments of organizing his thoughts, he replies. ~Before Ashernath got trapped, I suggested he go upstairs and look for books that could help, but…~ He hesitates, afraid to even think about what happened next. ~It wouldn't let him leave. If he got too far away, it… - it would try to kill me.~

The patterned cracks in the stone of the pillar lights up in a particular portion of the library as Tanith's attention swerves across to its whereabouts as if he might be able to see something from this distance. He can't - it's an instinctive reaction to knowing the direction of what he's currently querying by other means, one of the indices. A moment later, he's closed his eyes, muzzle contorted in a subtle and silent snarl, and his forepaws relent from the tiny critter. For a moment, it's still - then it begins to bound along the rotor with surprising speed, only to hurry along an orthogonal path as it reaches the pillar, following the curving path to the next one over and hopping up the stairs winding up along it.

Long moments pass in which nothing happens at all. Then Tanith's eyes open, unfocussed, and his tongue flicks past reptilian lips and through sharp teeth in a subconscious gesture of concentration. His breathing is deep and calm, but appears almost artificial given the circumstance. The tip of his muzzle drifts almost as if guided by dreams, state persisting.

Demarath watches his father, inasmuch as he can from his current vantage point - then he sees the medkit race off, well out of his field of vision. What's it doing? What's Father doing? The young dragon watches with mixed confusion and curiosity as Tanith's eyes open, muzzle drifting slowly, breathing calmly. Is he in a trance of some sort? Demarath sends out a brief mental ping to make sure everything's all right, but it comes back fine - he's just busy. For a minute or so, he remains confused - and then he asks himself why the medkit rushed off like that. Suddenly, an excited thought clicks into place: Is he controlling the medkit, remotely? Does that mean that one day he'll be able to do that as well?

The creature he was guiding was too weak to carry a book back to the three dragons, so it had to be his eyes. Reading through the eyes of a creature not literate itself was difficult, though not to the point of being prohibitive to his reading speed - it merely required extra concentration, which, given the attention needed to keep his control on it firm, exhausted his potential. Even with adrenalin pushing him to new heights, this wouldn't work forever, of course - so he'd set himself a limit. If two books didn't tell him of some generic biotech off-switch, he was bringing the critter back and going by what he himself knew. A medkit capability manual was at his fingertips in the form of the Citadel itself, so there was little risk of doing something with it that it wasn't designed for.

Although, wholly strictly speaking, what he had in mind wasn't what it was designed for, in that it was meant for first aid, not for resuscitation. To be entirely fair, it wasn't going to be responsible for the resurrection, though, it was only going to be there to prevent a second death.

A hiss surfaces from Tanith, tapering off into a growl, and his charred-looking, wrinkled left shoulder rolls to ease what might be a distracting pang of tension-pain out of the joint. His muzzle angles upwards steeply, left forepaw clutching iself into the subconsciousness-guided simulacrum of a fist, right set down on the ground.

Finally, after many minutes, his muzzle dips anew, his weight pushing forward and down against his right arm, wirey as it is; and then the medkit reappears, bounding down the stairs to the connecting rotor, heading toward them. Once it's halfway down the broad flake of stone suspending them, his eyes readopt focus and he straightens his spine as he wills his disorientation about his canonical sense of perception returning away.

Then his expression melts into something stern. “Demara,” he addresses his son, tone suspended somewhere between authoritative and soothing. “I need you to hold still and trust me. Can you do that? I am going to try something that will be very alarming for you,” he explains, staring directly at his son. Ashernath gives a quiet, distressed whimper, evidently at unease about the choice of wording.

Whatever it was his father was doing, it didn't look like it was accomplishing what he had hoped it would. A minute later, he's back, his eyes refocusing. The young Srian has so many questions, but before he has the chance to pick one to ask, his father's addressing him. The question is evidently as distressing to Demarath as it is to his brother. Hold still and trust him. How hard could that be, he tells himself. He's already guaranteed to be doing the first, and of course he trusts his father. Still, it takes a long time for him to build up the courage to answer. What's he going to do? What's going to happen? 'Whatever it is, it can't be worse than what this thing has already done,' he tells himself. ~…I- I'll try,~ he responds, closing his eyes. Whatever's about to transpire, he's sure he doesn't want to see it.

Tanith glances across at Ashernath as if pondering whether or not to soothe his son, but realising with some wry dismay that there's nothing soothing he can really say. With how connected the two dragons are, there might be consequences to what he's about to do even to Ashernath, although he hopes it won't come to that.

The medkit happily scampers back to its primary target - Demarath - and begins to climb him anew. It doesn't get far before Tanith peels it off the younger Srian, using his other hand to grasp at one of its spines. His expression fades back into the distance for a moment, focus losing itself once more, and he's back to rubbing along the creature's belly, pressing against its ribs. It doesn't seem bothered, though its attention seems similarly drifting for a moment, as if the touch were telling it something it was attentively taking in. Then it gives an alarmed little shriek, twisting reflexively out of the grip of the adult Davir Srian, though the instinct is quick to pass.

Tanith's eyes flutter for a moment of concentration, still dragging fingers across the creature's body. The he's letting go with one hand, only to bring it up to one of the spines, only to tug at it, easing it from the skin holding it. It comes off with surprising ease, no sound of discomfort coming from the little creature despite its suddenly asymmetric appearance. There's no warning; a second later, the tip of it is pushed as a painful, hot barb past scales and into Demarath's flesh near the point of intrusion of the 'symbiont'. An awful sensation gallops through the young dragon, spreading outward in branches, effects hard to grasp in those first few instants, but deeply alarming in itself.

Demarath winces slightly at the high-pitched shriek from the medkit, but otherwise doesn't move, keeping his eyes still closed. Then there's something sharp digging into his skin at the base of his neck, near the entry wound of the trap's main tendril. There's something spreading through him - medicine, hopefully, or something that will make the symbiont inside him leave. But then why is it raising so much alarm? What's going on?

An instant later, something flares up in his chest like a dagger through his heart, a burning, sharp pain up his senses, clutching at that pulsing organ and constricting his lungs. Ashernath cries out, no doubt struck by whatever agony from the poison is lapping at him through the mindlink, unprepared. Tanith squeezes his eyes shut briefly, then eases a second barb from the medkit's shoulder, granting it symmetry once more. The trap abruptly lurches against Demarath's body as if stung and convulsing, equally crushing against Ashernath's arm, although it's clearly an instinctive reaction rather than a structured attempt to do harm. The surface of the 'wire' leading up to the ceiling creases, and a sense of death winds itself around Demarath's spine, in part exuded from the creature partly inside him, in part stemming from his own tortured organs. Whatever the substance injected into his body is, it's acting fast. It's killing him, and there's no doubt to his mind that it'll manage. He's going to die.

A muffled cry of pain emerges from Demarath's throat, followed by a brief, pointless struggle against his wiry bonds. The coils tense, convulsing as if in pain themselves. Everything hurts. It feels like his insides are burning up, and the coil around his spine is tensing, and it's hard to tell how much of it is caused by the medicine and how much is caused by the symbiont. Everything hurts and nothing makes sense and-

…oh.

'Alarming', it seems, was an understatement. Panicked terror courses through his mind, as he realizes what's happening to him - easily overwhelming his attempts to stay calm. It's not medicine. It's poison, and it's going to kill him. ~Father!~ he shouts through the mind-link. ~Father, whatever this is, please stop it! It's going to kill me!~

The simple response from Tanith is far more horrifying than anything the young dragon's had to deal with all day, steep order as that is: ~I know.~

He- he knows. This is deliberate. This is why he was asking for trust; but how would trust help in this situation at all?! Death is death, some naive instinctual love between father and son wasn't going to put a dent into that.

With that realisation searing through him almost with as much heat as the poison itself, his straining heart hammers against his chest, trying to escape the clutches of the dying body before it falls prey to the venom.

The chill from the trap dies down, its grip on the young dragon, attempt at anchoring itself to life, perhaps, abruptly slackening. The creases along the wire disperse. Something drips from the ceiling, oozing in small amounts from the base of the wire and cracks in the rotor's stone.

The last thing Demarath feels is the distant sensation of a different spine shakily pressed into his skin, this time piercing directly into the veins of his arms. Then the world comes apart into fire and agony, engulfed in a single large flame taking his life with it.

…he knows? ~W-what?~ Then why isn't he doing anything to stop it? Why is he just standing there? How is he supposed to trust his father when he just effectively sentenced him to death? The pain in his body mixes with the pain of perceived betrayal, threatening to overwhelm him.

Is this… - is this supposed to be his punishment, he wonders? For breaking into his father's study, for travelling to Avishraa despite the warnings? It hardly seems a fitting punishment. ~Why?~ he cries out, lacking the focus to direct it to anyone in particular. Then the pain flares up once more, burning him in an all-consuming fire, and all he can think to do is scream.

The dying cry hammers against Tanith and Ashernath's psyches, whitehot, blinding, mixing with the radiated pain and nearly driving even the experienced Srian to madness. Somehow, miraculously, he keeps himself steady against the boy, but the paralysis is hard to shake out of the moment the life blinks out of him. He needs to act. He has to act right away, every second he waits decreases the chance he can do anything to bring his boy back, but it seems impossible to will himself to do anything but grieve, to do anything but perhaps follow him into death, dangerous instincts gripping his spine. He gives a low, shallow cry of his own, the sound miserable - then jerks back into motion, forcibly blinking his eyes and hammering focus back into them, inhaling sharply and struggling to think past Ashernath echoing the whole horrid medley back on him. His left forepaw seizes a hold of both of Demarath's limp antennae, and the tip of his right forepaw's central digit digs itself against his skull between his eyes. A dark colour ripples under his scales, moving almost in a flash, and something twitches through Demarath's body. Nothing. Tanith gives a low hiss, then repeats the act, grip nearly tearing at those fleshy horns given his tension. A shallow, flimsy breath returns to the boy along with consciousness, the fibres of his body still aflame, and a hesitant, erratic heartbeat pushes the antidote through him.

Pain. His breathing is stuttered, erratic, accompanied by a similarly erratic heartbeat. Everything hurts. There's something new, something tugging at his antennae, something sharp pressed between his eyes. It takes a few moments before conscious thought is possible again. Is… - is it almost over? Is he going to die now? Or… - or is he already dead? Is this the afterlife? A soft whimper drives its way through his vocal cords, renewed sense of helpless terror occupying his synapses. ~I don't want to die,~ is all he can think. ~I don't want to die. I don't want to die.~ The same thought, over and over.

There's an overwhelming urge for Tanith to curl in on himself, whimper, and nap, preferably forever, but while the immediate danger is over, succumbing to such depressive thoughts was not going to help. He could curtail the erosion from his sons' emotions with some effort and he had a parent's responsibility to do so - the alternative was the three of them landing in a deadly spiral. He breathes slowly, letting go of Demarath's head, letting him slowly find his own way back to life, not quite finding it in him to respond verbally but sending a reassuring beacon into the depths of the young Srian's psyche. Methodically, forcing himself to stay in motion for everyone's sake, to stay focussed, he begins to peel the dead tendrils off of Demarath, starting with his neck.

The cycle of fear and misery slowly begins to die off as Demarath finds the calming beacon from his father. If his willpower weren't completely broken by now, he might have found some reason to ignore it out of spite, to refuse to give up on his panicked life, but the lure of peace and calm is too strong. He wants everything to be okay. He'd be so eager for everything to magically be okay.

Demarath slowly opens his eyes, taking in the same view of the bookshelf in front of him. There's more information available to his senses, but he's still just barely able to process this. Too many questions rumble in his psyche. What happened? Is it over? Is he getting better? What's going on? His eyes are tugged over to the left, finding Ashernath, curled up and whimpering. ~Asherna?~ he projects, weakly. Everything's confusing and strange but the pain is slowly fading, and that's a good thing, right?

Then something else attracts his attention. His neck. Something's happening to his neck. It takes a moment for him to realize what the sensation means - it's unwinding. The tendril around his neck, which started this entire mess, is unwinding. He's… Is he free? ~Is… - is it over?~ he asks softly.

Ashernath is panting shallowly, body aching from the prolonged tension he's had to struggle with, stemming from emotions and agony, with the line between the two having blurred so much that he wasn't even wholly sure he knew the difference between them now. ~Here,~ he whimpers through the mindlink, minimal cerebral ping that he can muster.

~Yes,~ Tanith comments, wearily, similarly trying to sort himself, although much more successful than his non-magical son. The slack tendril is tugged from its now light grasp of the young dragon's neck until that's freed, leaving depressed scales in its wake - they'd take a bit of time to revert back to smoothness.

There's still a deep nausea in Demarath's gut, no doubt the aftermath of the poison and potentially the antidote, but it seems like his health is certainly improving rapidly. With Demarath's neck free, Tanith leans across to the punctured arm, sliding the medkit's spine from the arm, only to squeeze his hands against the resulting tiny wound, crushing it together and preventing copious bleeding. His other hand reaches around to nudge at the medkit - and it heads toward the wound, only to take over for Tanith by licking happily at that wound as if perhaps delighted by the taste of blood. It knits together quickly under its attention, though, and the creature simply continues, evidently driven by some other engineered instinct. Meanwhile, Tanith has pulled the other barb from Demarath's scales; that particular puncture mark not anywhere near as troublesome as the other.

It's over. Relief spills through Demarath's synapses, eliciting a raspy, muffled laugh from him. He's free. He's finally free - or, at least, close enough. He makes an attempt at movement, trying to shift his posture, then immediately stops as an unsettling sensation rubs along his spine - evidently the main coil is still inside him, even though its grip has loosened to the point of giving him some degree of motion back. Instead, he focuses on the arm that's not currently being cared for by the medkit, trying to worm his way out of the coils with limited success.

It takes a subjective eternity for Tanith - and Ashernath after he thaws out of his miserable passivity - to free him from his coils. The final one wound around his spine remains a problem even in death, though, and Tanith cautiously tugs at it, curious if it'll slip free now that it's no longer clinging to the dragon. No such luck. Perhaps they'd have to leave it in until he had adequate accessories to deal with it - a scalpel comes to mind. For now, Tanith's focus is on the wire between their ceiling and his son's spine, grasping it near its fleshy anchor and applying a precision chill to the line until it's brittle, only to wrench at it with his other hand and break its hold. “We'll take care of the rest of it back home,” he announces, matter-of-factly, tone suspended somewhere between stern and tired.

Once Demarath's arm is free, he's able to offer a bit of help, tugging away at the coils around his snout and jaws, and then afterwards at those around his other arm. There's a fair bit of awkward shifting around, especially with the coils around his torso, but eventually the task is done. The young dragon shivers a bit as Tanith freezes the wire near his neck. He nods briefly at his father's instruction, then takes a few tentative steps to test his newfound freedom. Motion is still very awkward, hopefully he won't have to do too much walking before it's taken care of. Demarath leans his snout against his father's shoulder briefly, closing his eyes as tears of gratitude slip between the eyelids. “Thank you so much,” he whispers hoarsely. It feels good to talk again.

The lack of reaction brings a chill with it - Tanith isn't done with them. Disapproval leaks through the mindlink, though he doesn't yet scold them, merely unwilling to give them a pat on the back. Instead, he peels himself away from the two of them, letting them tangle against each other if they'd like, attention guided to the rows of linking books, considerably more familiar with the order here than his sons and thus beelining toward where Belewe would be. Then his forepaw is setting down against that very linking book and tugging it out of the shelf, cautious not to disturb its neighbours.

The reality of the situation begins to sink in, through the awkward feeling in his spine and the vague nausea in his gut. Demarath's eyes move to Ashernath, worry clearly visible. ~We are in so much trouble.~ But at least they're alive. They're alive, and they're free, and everything worked out in the end. Even if they get grounded for the rest of their lives, it's better than dying or remaining trapped here forever. Slowly, awkwardly, Demarath begins to follow his father's path, head held low to the ground.

There's a pause as he sets it down on the ground and opens the cover, watching the abstractions of the world flow over the page, telling tales of clouds and floating rocks. He was going to have to leave Belewe now, that much was clear. They'd pass through and the book would be here, plainly visible to anyone looking to check on their trap, providing a trail to them. He could try to set up some way of destroying the book once they were through - a small fire, perhaps - but the idea of permanently destroying a book actually caused a visceral reaction in him.

The strange malevolence of the trap still perturbs him. If the Citadel's accounts are correct - if only Srian life and their consensually accompanying kin had been within these walls - none of this made any sense. The trap wasn't meant to protect Srian life, that much was clear - it would have been swiftly lethal if it had been meant defensively. It existed to trap Srians along with bonded family, which spoke tales of the Hzataalara… but surely they were all Kaean? A part of him wanted to stay and find out, stubbornly thirsty for knowledge. The other was already making plans to move out of Belewe in favour of a different, perhaps less luxurious home.

He exhales, then steps aside. “After you,” he instructs his children, statement surprisingly neutral given the circumstance and the gravity of his unspoken thoughts.

Demarath glances over to his older brother briefly, then steps forward, moving to place his forepaw on the page. ~When will you be returning, master?~ the now familiar voice of the Citadel intones in his mind. Demarath pauses, hesitant, turning his eyes up to look into the stern face of his father. It's not hard to guess what the answer would be. ~I… - I don't think I'm going to be coming back, Citadel,~ he replies tentatively. ~At least, not any time soon.~

For a long moment, there's only silence from the Citadel. Then, it replies, ~Acknowledged. Farewell, master.~ He's almost certain there's a hint of hollow sadness in the chime of those syllables, the pain of saying goodbye to a close friend met only for far too briefly. Demarath takes a final look around him at the great library, a hint of sadness in his eyes at not having had the chance to explore even half of it. What must it have been like to live here, he wonders briefly, imagining dozens, maybe even hundreds of Davir Sria moving about in this library. ~Goodbye, Udunshraa,~ he says, and places his forepaw on the page.