Avishraa Reloaded

Sunlight filters through the forest canopy, casting ever-shifting patterns of light and shadow on the dirt below. It's a pleasantly warm day, the heat of summer cut by a gentle breeze. Unknown birds sing their songs to the forest for any who would care to listen, and rodents of various sorts scurry through the underbrush in hopes to find food. Of course, they aren't the only ones trying to do so.

A pair of young, healthy, copper-scaled dragons have been out hunting for dinner for some time now, though there's hardly any rush. It's a wonderful day, and there's plenty of time left before sundown to catch something. No harm in enjoying the outdoors while on this particular errand.

Brothers, best friends, and the best team of hunters Avishraa has ever brought forth, both the pride of their family and line. Life couldn't be much better if they put effort into finding ways to improve it.

But something is different today. They know this section of the forest intimately. They know the tree that's tipped and uprooted itself wasn't here before - neither uprooted, nor upright. Gnarled roots sprawl chaotically through the landscape, marring the forest's perfection, the scent of earth intense, shadows deep. Ashernath tenderly but without hesitation grasps the tip of the root nearest to him, tugging on it as if that action alone would make the offending eyesore erase itself from existence, his expression a silent grimace.

A mysterious uprooted tree that wasn't there a day ago, yet looks like it could be hundreds of years old? If that's not an invitation to explore, Demarath doesn't know what is. Who knows? Maybe this is the start of an exciting adventure! The younger brother leaps up onto the wide trunk, claws digging slightly into the wood, wings partly unfurled to keep his balance. He casts a glance behind him towards the top of the tree, then approaches the roots, sniffing curiously at the tree's base. “How do you think this got here?” he asks his brother, one foreclaw tracing lightly against a nearby root.

The root escapes Ashernath's paw and jitters silently as it snaps back into place. “Fell from the sky,” Ashernath comments, dryly and minimalistically, though his air is inexplicably clear about his ambiguous emotions - he doesn't know if that should be a serious suggestion.

Demarath scoffs briefly at the suggestion; a moment later, though, he adopts a thoughtful and curious expression that Ashernath knows all too well. 'What if it did fall from the sky?' Demarath is thinking; that much is clear even without the mind-link. Eyes turn downwards at first, studying the patterns in the dirt, trying to determine whether it could have landed here as it is. It seems unlikely, but then he turns his gaze skyward - sure enough, there's an unnatural hole in the canopy above the roots, as if the tree had once stretched far into the sky and left a gap in the leaves. “…maybe it did,” he comments, a touch of wonder in his tone. Then he's turned around and looking up the trunk, trying to get a sense of the tree's size.

The rest of the landscape seems fairly unimpressed by the uprooted tree - it's lying amongst the foliage as if it had been gently set down between the plants, trapping only a few twigs and branches of shrubbery beneath it. The top of the tree doesn't seem to be visible from where they are. Second inspection reveals it has none - the top of the trunk merely ends in a charred-looking stump, tapering to an irregular, blunt tip.

Demarath frowns as he finds the burnt end of the tree, tapping one claw gently on the tip, bits of blackened wood flaking off. Curiouser and curiouser. There's no sign of a fire here, though - certainly not a recent one. Was it burnt from the beginning? He hops off the trunk, turning his gaze to try and find the hole in the canopy. He can't, of course - it's too far off. But a tree this large would have caused some damage when it fell - and yet there's practically none to be seen. Like it's always been here. Except it's so obviously foreign.

“This doesn't make any sense,” Demarath notes, walking around to the opposite side of the trunk and following it back towards the root. “There's no way it could've fallen. So…” His eyes trace the roots growing chaotically from the base of the trunk. “Either it grew here like this, somehow, overnight, or it just… showed up.”

As Demarath returns to the tangle of roots, something seems different. It's difficult to put a finger on how. Then it occurs to him: Are there more of them now? But surely if this strange landmark had changed in a way that was noticeable even to his passing pereption, Ashernath would have said something? He's been perched in a sit beside the tangle for this whole time, pushing a forepaw's digit against a slightly elastic, branch-like root, looking pensive. He can't possibly have been lost in thought enough not to notice a change of this magnitude - and it is a change, Demarath is sure of that now. Like the frozen rays of a dark sun, most of the tree's gnarled limbs radiate outward from the trunk, leaving the centre of that uprooted underside quite accessible, even now.

Demarath frowns as he notices the change in the roots. Did the tree grow more? And if so, why didn't Ashernath notice? There's a hint of unease in his demeanor at this eerie change, but he does his best to bury it under his confidence. “Asherna,” he says as he rounds the radiating tangles of roots, eyes locked in concern on his older brother. “Are you all right?”

Ashernath runs his tongue lazily across his teeth for a moment, maw opening for a feral yawn, gaze shifting across to Demarath quizzically and with slight amusement. “Why wouldn't I be?” he asks, boastfully, grinning toothily and puffing his chest out a little in playful exaggeration. Nope, nothing out of the ordinary there.

Demarath utters a low growl, expression shifting to a glare. Yeah, Ashernath's obviously fine, he just must've gotten distracted or something like usual. “Pay attention, will you?” he comments with an air of exasperation, balling one forepaw into a fist and hitting Ashernath in the upper arm with a satisfying 'thump'. “I swear, there must be fish less easily distracted than you,” he mutters, shaking his head lightly. Then he's turned his gaze back to the exposed base of the tree.

His brother gives a playful snap at the air an inch before his muzzle in response to that, clearly not holding the barb against him, though just as well not deeming it accurate. There was nothing he'd missed. Everything is still as it was before.

The base of the tree is part obscured by the deep shadows it itself casts and the moist, rich earth it's caked in. There's a speck of some other colour like a shard amidst the centre of that dark tangle, though, a silver sheen, like a particularly large shed scale. It's not wholly trivial to reach - he'd have to duck his muzzle and stretch a limb, the underside of the tree seems to be slightly hollow by the looks of things. Maybe that's why it fell - rotting from within. It's not unheard of. Of course, that theory would be more sound if it had been here in the first place.

Demarath flinches at Ashernath's snap at the air, shooting another brief glare his way before his focus returns to the tree. “Hello, what's this?” he asks, eyes catching on something shiny inside the trunk. Maybe something that will explain more of how this felled tree got here? He steps closer, crouching low to the ground and dipping his muzzle to get a better look. A scale, maybe? He sniffs at the air briefly, but if it's giving off any scent it's effortlessly masked by the earth and wood around it. Carefully, he reaches his right forepaw into the opening, grasping for the scale or whatever it is, wondering if it could be pried loose.

The instant the tip of one claw as much as brushes against that fragment of silver, the world lurches around him and instinct jolts him into motion before he's fully aware of his own reactions. Before he can act on lucid intent, the structure's closed around him like a giant's fist, his graceful neck uncomfortably trapped against the wooden edge of that earthy funnel, edge of his jaw caught against it. His right wing is bunched against him, the other twisted awkwardly in a way that's driving a sharp pain into the joint of his shoulder and elbow. His wrists are pressed together, caught in the same loop of a root, an intense pressure against his scales and flesh stopping just shy of crushing him. His breath is squeezed out of him with frightening ease, emptying his lungs and keeping his gut and chest constricted as if wholly set on suffocating him.

Then gravity shifts. At least that's what it feels like for a moment… before it becomes apparent that it's him who's being heaved from the ground instead, something twisting itself from the inside of that trunk, shaking itself, chunks of dark, rich earth flaking from silver scales. Ashernath is stepping back in confusion - but a look of fear or concern is nowhere to be found on his expression.

Demarath writhes in the grasp of the gnarled roots, wings pushing outwards with as much force as is safe, tail thrashing from side to side, claws of his hind legs trying desperately to tear at the roots, foreclaws attempting to claw at the rotting wood with limited success. Roots around his chest and stomach clench around him, driving air from his lungs with terrifying ease. He can't breathe. He can't breathe, his motion is heavily restricted - there's no way he can get out of this himself. ~Ashernath!~ he calls out over the mind-link. ~Help me out of here!~ Just as he calls out for help, though, the world shifts, and he's being lifted off the ground by these roots. And there's something moving inside the tree, something alive.

Ashernath is doing nothing, still dumbly staring up at his brother, half sat on the ground by now, having taking something of a sideward tumble, his wings lightly unfurled, gaze tracking the happening.

The fist clenched around Demarath, that tight spiderweb of roots, distends only marginally against the best-placed and strongest of his struggles, eagerly wrapping back against him as his own motions tire ever so slightly. The constricting grip doesn't shift for dangerous long moments, while it becomes increasingly apparent he's caught in the tangles of corrupted wings, base of the earth-caked roots set against strong silver-scaled shoulders, a dragon jolting itself from its lazy slumber, smouldering, paradoxially bright black eyes set into its grinning skull. The roots around him pulse as if suddenly infused with life, as if it wasn't already readily apparent they possessed it, and finally loosen their grip enough to let him breathe.

Ashernath, radiating an indifferent calm, has peeled himself from his stunned posture and is taking a few cautious steps back, granting the spectacle some room to unfold, a hint of dark curiosity escaping him, tinged with scepticism… as if something about the current attack were Demarath's own fault.

A ripple travels through the tendrils holding him, born of a shrug of those shoulders beneath him, and he finds himself caught in only half of them, held aloft another fraction of a second, before he's slammed down on the ground, threatening to lose his fleeting grip on breath all over again, perhaps more permanently this time; then to detriment of his wings, membranes screaming abuse at his head as they're dragged across the ground, he's pulled and pushed from his belly onto his back. Three of the thick root-like appendages crush against his neck just behind his head, one of them wrapped about his antennae, other two under them, forcing them to stretch and bend uncomfortably, muzzle turned onto its side. His legs are firmly caught together, and each one of his arms now has a dedicated root grasping at it, pulling them apart.

The young Tenneth's struggles quickly grow weaker, unsustainable without a steady supply of oxygen. Eyes lock on the creature stirring within the depths of the fallen tree. It's… - it's a dragon. It's a dragon and these aren't roots, they're its wings. Horrible, corrupted wings with far far too many fingers, and impossibly strong. For a long, terrifying moment, he locks eyes with it, staring in mute terror. Then the wings pulse against him and he squirms, perhaps hoping to twist himself to freedom rather than break his way there - and then he coughs and sputters as air fills his lungs again. Precious air! He gulps it down greedily.

Demarath lets out a loud yelp of pain as he's slammed into the ground, then a longer, drawn-out sound partway between a groan and a scream as the relatively delicate flesh of his wings grinds against the ground, sticks and rocks tearing at them. He catches a glimpse of Ashernath as he's twisted onto his back, rendering him dangerously exposed. He's… he's just sitting there, watching. “Don't just sit there, do something!” he cries out, voice filled with terror. Then the roots press against his neck, winding around his antennae and yanking his head to the side, as further root-tendrils pull at his limbs. His tail thrashes wildly, hoping to gain some traction to help him pull at least one limb out of the dragon's grip, but it has hardly any effect.

Ashernath seems to be growing ever more disconnected, in every possible way - it's like the mindlink has morphed into a oneway street, leaking out Demarath's emotions and abstract thoughts without giving him anything in return, a bleak emptiness presenting itself to the trapped dragon. There's no regular empathy there, either, nor comprehension of the situation his brother is in - or, if there is, simply a chilling lack of involvement.

Fingers clasp against the trapped dragon's muzzle and one digit pushes its way past the back edge of his sharp teeth, forcing his jaws apart, a dull ache in the joints and at the points of pressure the black-eyed dragon's hands are crushing against his bones. Unbidden, a thick root slides itself across the lashing tongue, pushing a trace taste of earth against it, and before he can adequately twist himself in protest has lodged itself in his throat, by some miracle letting him breathe past it as it descends, however papery. The hands let go and the grip on his neck and antennae relents, though with the strength of what had him trapped, he has little option but to follow the curve of the tendril within his throat with his neck.

~What are you hiding?~ whispers across his mind - but it's barely verbal, more like a memory even the instant it appears, full of curiosity and reckless fascination. The monstrous dragon is grinning down at him toothily, horrific counterpart to Ashernath's earlier expression.

Demarath struggles briefly, trying desperately to dislodge the root from his throat, but he quickly stops as it slides past his windpipe, its strength effortlessly dwarfing his own. Futility. His writhing motions subside, tears beginning to well up in his eyes. It's hard to tell which is more horrifying - the awful sensation of that rootlike appendage sliding down his throat, or the sheer hollowness coming from Ashernath, the fact that he doesn't seem to care one bit about what's happening to him.

~Please,~ he calls out to the black-eyed, silver beast. ~Please let me go. I'll do anything you want, just please, please let me go.~ A part of him in the back of his mind scowls at him. Demarath the coward. Is that really how he wants to be remembered? It doesn't matter now; all that matters is survival. ~Please,~ he begs.

If he were less preoccupied being wholly terrified, he might stop to ask himself how, precisely, he's communicating with this monster - how can they be linked? His waking self might have a passing grasp on telepathy to others, but his dream-self was the flawless Avishraan, the hunter, devoid of magic or blemish, both, which left only a Link to explain the way they spoke. Perhaps it didn't matter, given how effortlessly the monster was doing everything else, but the circumstances certainly wouldn't be assuaging his alarm.

~What are you hiding?~ it simply repeats, a bit less patiently now, a roughness to that mental voice, and a firm grip locks itself around Demarath's antennae, crushing them together and straining them at the base, a familiar unpleasant sensation. The creature's free hand brings up a single digit to run down the underside of Demarath's jaw and along the path the unlikely limb is taking inside him, tracing his neck from the outside.

An abrupt pain, over as quickly as it appears, explodes as shrapnel against the inside of his chest, as if the root had branched suddenly and violently within him but done only fractional harm to the membranes and fibres of his physical body. Far worse is the sensation of the new filaments wiggling through him, foreign, unwelcome, and yet near-ubiquitous. Whatever struggle is still in him seems to fade, tension liquifying and running in lazy trickles like stolen blood along the unnatural furrows as along straws, draining him of the physical will to fight by reaping him of the possibility to amass enough energy for it. An alien pulse, plainly identifiable as not his own, presses gently against his constricting flesh and bones. The black eyes stare at him.

Demarath utters a muffled cry of pain, instinctively biting down hard on the root in his mouth. He thrashes his tail once more and tries to wriggle his legs free, at the very least, but it's only met by increased pressure from the appendages wrapped about them. Then those struggles die down once more as he feels the roots spreading through him, drinking up his physical strength in a terrifyingly familiar way. Even the great hunter he is has wound up completely at this silver dragon's mercy.

The only thing he can hope to do is cooperate. Maybe if he answers its questions it'll let him live? 'What is he hiding?' What does that even mean? ~I- I don't know! I don't know what you're talking about, I swear I really don't!~ Eyes squeeze shut, failing to hold back his tears. ~Please don't kill me.~

A thin hiss escapes the creature, this time physically uttered, and the tip of its muzzle comes to hover an inch from Demarath's right eye. The bright, black orbs marking the monster's eyes narrow, losing none of their intensity, that perpetual grin still on its reptilian face, and a silver tongue - impossibly perfect in matching the colour of the creature's hide, unnatural like the rest of that corporeal apparition - escapes the hideous maw, only to drag itself along the scales of his skull. It doesn't hurt, but there's something strange about it - his skin seems far more malleable to it than it ought to be. It's hard to see what's happening, given that it's right around his eye, but it feels like layers of skin are coming off with each lick, lapped from his face like some sticky, viscous liquid, honey or oil.

Demarath instinctively tries to twist his head away as the black-eyed dragon runs its tongue along the side of his face. What… - what is it doing to him? His right eye opens, blinking away tears, trying without success to make sense of the strange sensation with visual data. It feels almost like his skin is a liquid it's licking up. Oh Avikael it's eating his face. He makes another tiny, short-lived attempt at struggling out of its grasp, then whimpers in mixed terror and exhaustion. This creature's going to eat him alive and there's nothing he can do about it and Ashernath is still just standing over there, he can't quite see him from this angle but he knows he's there. ~Asherna… Asherna what is it doing please get it off me,~ he pleads. ~Why are you just standing there?~

Ashernath isn't so much just standing there anymore as he's crept closer, by now sat beyond Demarath's head, peering down at him from what amounts to not all too much of a distance, but not quite encroaching on his personal space, either - not that it would matter, given the demonic silver-scaled dragon is making up for that. There's a tinge of disappointment in his air, still psychically invisible, but no less alarming for it, and a sneer is creeping to join it. “Can't you free yourself?” he asks, part derisively, part in a bitter amusement, his gaze locked on the face of Demarath's, coming apart slowly as it is. “I suppose you can't,” he continues, faux-sadly. “You're just a weak little runt after all.”

A memory of something barbs through Demarath, a sudden clarity. Humiliatingly, he's not a strong hunter at all. He's got no strength - that's why this monster is bending him to its will so easily. There's no fight in his weak, brittle body, and he's hid it, and the monster is dissolving his facade away. But not all is lost - maybe if he finds the strength to turn his face to the other side and the emotional power to lie despite the truth clearly present in his mind, no doubt fully accessible to his otherwise severed brother, maybe then Ashernath will be fooled and everything will be fine again.

Clearly in response to the fleeting thoughts, proving them wholly transparent, heart-shatteringly, his brother laughs, a hateful, dismissive series of sounds prattling against him, digging into him more sharply than the silver-scaled creature's probing root pushing down into his chest.

No. No, this can't be happening. ~No,~ he tells Ashernath. ~No, I'm not weak,~ he cries out in desperation. ~I'm not! I'm not weak, I'm not! I'm not! I-~ As if in vain hope that by simply saying it, he'd make it so, a newfound struggle erupts from him, but it dies off disappointingly quickly. ~I- I'm not.~ A whimper escapes him. It's all a lie. He's a weakling, with a frail, brittle, useless body that he hid behind a mask of strength and confidence. Evidently this is the punishment for his hubris. ~Asherna… Asherna, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please. Please help me out of here. I don't deserve to die for this.~

“Even if you were dying,” Ashernath spits. “You've done everything to deserve it. Letting curiosity get the better of you like that. Poke, poke, I wonder if it'll react?” he sneers, casting his gaze up to the sky casually and giving his own flawless copper neck a lazy scratch.

The lick at Demarath's face relents, the monster's tongue tracing along its own rows of teeth in sated glee after it's done, before grinning mouth closes and the tip of its muzzle brushes that curving neck, descending along it with a steady speed, as if hoping to discover something else. At his collar bone, it stops, and the tongue flicks out in curiosity, but the skin is taut here, not as eager to melt under the thick tongue as the patch on his face had been.

A light nip at his left side jolts a fresh sensation up Demarath's trapped, helpless body, and like a benign form of sandpaper, the tongue returns, unravelling scales, this time more visible to the victim himself, slanted gaze revealing the dark, unhealthy, withered skin beneath the previously so pristine copper.

Ashernath's scornful comments are met first with denial, then with hot self-loathing and guilt, but soon Demarath's emotional reaction cools and hardens into something far worse. Betrayal. How could Ashernath be so bitterly callous? How could he deny him, his own brother, help in his time of greatest need? Were their situations reversed, he'd do everything in his power to help his older brother. He wouldn't let Ashernath die. He wouldn't stand by and watch him get hurt like this. The very thought of it is anathema to him.

~Heartless,~ he accuses, eyes shutting tight. Maybe he can hide away in his mind, ignore the sheer discomfort from his body, bury himself away and pretend it'll just stop eventually. Who knows, maybe it will.

If Ashernath cares about the accusation, he's being remarkably unchanged by it, neither goaded into venom nor into any other action, simply sat in place where he is with an almost bored air, punctuated occasionally by a pang of dark curiosity and a glance across at the rootdragon's actions, as if idly fascinated by what it was uncovering.

Finally, the muzzle withdraws from the fresh patch, tongue once more lashing about the jagged teeth of the predator, and a moment later has it poke the tip of its closed mouth against the edge of Demarath's ribcage. A moment later, a sudden, sharp pain presses up past said edge and through his skin, breaking through as a finger-thick tendril coated in glistening blood. With both its hands set down against Demarath's body to steady itself, the creature laps at the blood, three simple motions, then narrows its eyes anew and utters a threatening hiss. “Davir Sria,” it comments hatefully, this time not mentally, though its physical voice is hardly much different from the soft, whispery mental one.

Demarath lets out a muffled cry of pain as something sharp and thick digs into his chest just below the ribcage. Claws clench against the roots holding them, teeth dig weakly into the root that's found a home inside his chest. But it's no less futile than anything else he's done since he was assaulted by this dragon in the first place.

'Davir Sria.' It almost sounds like the creature is condemning him for some heinous criminal act against dragonkind, just for being born with a genetic anomaly. Like that was all it ever needed to know to feel nothing but unconditional hatred for him. It refuses to make sense for another few moments, and then suddenly it clicks into place perfectly. ~Hzataalar Kaea,~ he projects, eyes open wide and staring in utter terror at the black-eyed beast.

Panic grips him. It can't be one of the Hzataalar Kaea. It can't be, because that would be too terrible to be possible. But it hastily becomes clear that, too terrible or not, that's what it is. ~Asherna,~ he pleads. ~Asherna, you have to get me out of here. Please. It- it's going to kill us all. Please, Asherna. I- I don't deserve this. I don't deserve to die like this.~ What could he do, though? Even if Ashernath came to his senses, even if he ceased this bizarre, hateful scorn towards him, what could he possibly do to stop this creature from killing him? It's already inside him. It could rip him to shreds just by yanking one root.

There's no way out of this. It's abundantly clear now - he's going to die, and it's going to be excruciatingly painful. His throat clenches around the root as a soft, curt sound surely meant to be a sob escapes him. If there was ever a point when fighting back his tears was a viable option, it's long past gone now.

It seems death is not that readily being bestowed upon him. Instead, his left arm is near-simultaneously grasped by its forepaws and mostly released from the grip of the root-like appendages, yanked between them in a single rough motion almost dislocating his elbow given the twisting force applied midway through, though the final posture is fortunately not unnatural. A sole root remains to steady it in some way, wrapped around his upper arm near that aching elbow. The back of his forepaw is facing the silver dragon, the digits of Demarath's fingers crushed in its grip, and the creature's other paw rises to force a claw against the knuckle of the central finger. For an instant, the sensation is only uncomfortable, then rapidly spikes into alarming pain, piercing the scales and dragging down along the tendon, half tearing, half cutting skin with the sharp tip of the hooked claw.

What starts as a low whine of discomfort quickly escalates into shrieks of pain, only partially muted by the root occupying his throat. The young Tenneth wastes what little strength he still has on ineffectual writhing, tail thrashing and beating against the ground, wings and fingers on his unheld hand tensing, neck twisting through the extremely limited range of motion the root allows. ~STOP! STOP, PLEASE!~ he screams out mentally.

It's odd - Demarath may have a very low pain tolearance owing to his condition, but this fire running up his arm, bleeding into his wing and spine, is far worse than any pain he can remember experiencing. Maybe if he weren't so preoccupied with desperately trying to cope with it, he might recall enough from his anatomy lessons to know why: It's cutting along a major conduit of magical energy - even though such a conduit is of little use to him in the current stage of his life, there are still a lot of nerve endings along it.

None of the sort happens. Instead, given his thrashing, Ashernath thaws into sudden motion, both his forepaws snapping to steady the Srian's lower arm. His right wing eclipses Demarath's sight of the canopies of the trees and the trunks of some, membrane a dull copper. Nonetheless, the raw agony relents a moment later, granting the struggling Srian a reprieve, if not emotionally. A moment later, the grip on his fingers twists the wrist, letting him see the jagged gash slashed down the back of his hand. Amidst the angry spatters of red and flecks of white is a wire of dull blue, like a particularly prominent vein or artery, though a blemish on it makes it readily apparent it's anything but - a blue substance drips in tiny droplets from it, quickly washing out against the crimson, in part coming with a strange sensation where they hit, somewhere between acidic and a tickle that might register as pleasant were the dulling pain not overwhelming any such notions.

The sudden motion catches Demarath's eye. Ashernath! Is Ashernath finally going to do something to get him out? Has he finally come to his senses? He's grabbing his arm, and… holding it still? He's colluding with the Hzataalar?! A moment later, the fierce, burning pain abates into a dull agony, and the screaming dies down. ~You're siding with him?!~ he cries at Ashernath through the mind-link. ~How could you?! How could you ally yourself with a Hzataalar Kaea against your own brother?!~

Sobbing and breathing heavily, Demarath shifts his gaze to the wound the Hzataalar made, staring at it in mute horror. That's the conduit. That's his magic, what little he has, leaking out. Incontrovertible evidence of what he is. It feels like an accusation, even if no such thing is outright said. Agony from the wound mixes with guilt over his deception, with his brother's betrayal, with despair and terror over his hopeless situation, leaving him locked in a spiral of negative emotions with no conceivable way out. ~I just want it to end,~ he thinks, not even fully aware he's transmitting. ~I just want this to be over and everything to be okay.~

But Ashernath isn't responding to his half-pleading, incredulous accusation. His expression is difficult to make out given the angle Demarath's head is at, making it blissfully interpretable and the likely hateful grin on that muzzle ambiguous. Maybe he's not himself. Maybe this Kaean has… influenced him somehow. Maybe he's under a spell, under some kind of possession. That would also explain the blankness, wouldn't it? If it's not really Ashernath, if he's unconscious somewhere beneath the Kaean's psychic grip, of course he won't feel his brother's emotions and thoughts.

But it's not conclusive. In all the stories of Hzataalar Kaea, there have never been tales of possession or telekinetic control, just of the potent magical power that came with any manifested Chosen.

One forepaw of Ashernath's rises steadily and swiftly from its grip a moment ago, only to stab two claws into the weeping wound to grab at the blue tendril, a hollow hiss escaping him as those two digits invade the raw, flayed flesh, fresh, intense pain flowering into existence around them. Then his grip has established itself, and a moment later, all of Demarath's perception seems to be incinerated as the Avishraan yanks at the alien organ with an unimaginable force, as if hoping to tear the wire right out of his body.

This isn't Ashernath, he frantically tries to convince himself. Ashernath would never do this. It looks just like him, and even has many of the same mannerisms, but it can't be him, it just can't. Maybe it's some kind of trick. Please let it be some kind of trick.

Pain flares up in the wound again as the thing that may or may not be Ashernath digs his claws into the flayed flesh. What comes next is a level of pain impossible to process - worse than the worst pain he can imagine, fire consuming all his senses. For a second, that's all that exists - there's no more Demarath, just pain. Then, as if the world had decided to grant him his last wish, it's all over.

Demarath jolts awake with a scream. Wide eyes dance around the dark room before the familiarity sets in. He's in his room. He was just asleep. It was all just a terrible, terrible dream. His heartbeat races, his lungs greedily swallow as much air as they can in each breath. There's a phantom pain in his left arm; he traces one finger gently along the wrist and back of his forepaw, finding no damage besides the usual uneven scales.

He's alive. He's alive, and he's fine. Nothing's trying to vivisect him, no one's trying to pull his precious life out of his body, there's no Hzataalar Kaea clambering over him with tendrils spreading through his body. A choked sob escapes him, and his head lowers to lie flat on his bed, forepaws covering his eyes. “Just a nightmare,” he whispers to himself between sobs. “Just a horrible, horrible nightmare.”

“…Demara?” It's a groggy, concerned enquiry, barely lucid. The shriek from Demarath has evidently woken his brother, sharing their sleeping quarters as they are, the regular Avishraan now angled somewhat oddly off the edge of the artificial nest, thin blanket tangled mostly in his right wing that's become unfurled in some dumb instinct.

Demarath cringes at the sound of his older brother's voice. Ashernath is the last person he wants to be talking to about this right now. “I'm fine, Ashernath,” he retorts, a hint of a chill worming into his tone between the quiet sobs. “Just a stupid nightmare, that's all.”

Then a terrifying thought occurs to him. What if it had been Ashernath there after all? They'd had shared dreams before, it was a relatively common occurrence among mind-linked individuals (or so their mother had told them once when they were younger). It's not impossible that this was one as well. But… - but surely Ashernath would say something, if that were the case? Surely Ashernath wouldn't have bared his true feelings in the dream, while pretending to be none the wiser in the waking world. Surely he wasn't that devious, that deeply spiteful towards Demarath's condition. Surely Demarath knew his brother well enough to know better.

Ashernath seems still for a moment and the mindlink suggests contemplation, perhaps slowly taking in the emotions from his brother. It'd be blatantly obvious that he's in distress, but then, nightmares could do that - and even though they could connect with each other this way that hardly meant it was any of Ashernath's business if his brother was still afraid. It was no less humiliating to have that kind of thing pointed out just because it was more plainly obvious than it would be amongst humans. “…if you're sure,” he comments, both encouragingly and with the invitation for finality, then slowly thaws into quiet motions to sort himself back into his nestbed.

'If you're sure.' As encouraging as Ashernath's tone is, his mind can't help but find a frightening second meaning to that phrase - if he's sure it was only a simple nightmare. If it wasn't a sign of something else. If he's sure that his brother is who he thinks he is, and not the heartless creature of his nightmare.

Demarath shifts his posture in his artificial nest, trying to find some comfortable position to sleep in. He pauses mid-shift as he realizes that there's still the tendril of the trap from earlier today wrapped firmly around his spine. There's a soft whimper of despair, followed by a light thump and the sound of shifting fabric, as the young Davir Sria curls up as tightly as he can, softly crying himself back to sleep.