Avishraa Reloaded

Wedged into the especially bright, narrow, vertical tunnel, awkwardly trapped between luminescent fungi, wings furled but itching to spread and steady the dragon, Ashernath rests with his shoulders crushed against blank stone, feet on the opposite side, left forepaw clasped against the edge of the basket suspended in this bright niche, inspecting the contents. If they could get something to grow here in Spore, they'd be a lot less dependant on the neighbouring strata. The earth is a medley of near-powdered mushrooms and a helping of Seed's rich ground, something that - should it work - might help them create a hardy set of plants capable of subsisting solely on decomposed mushrooms over time.

There's a tiny sapling peeking from the grey earth, prompting a little shout of glee from the Avishraan. “It's working!” he calls down, elated. They've slept fifteen times since they planted this thing amongst this luminous nook, though it feels much longer.

Ashernath lets go of the basket and eases himself back down, careful not to disrupt the tight clusters of fungi on the way down, before letting himself drop from the ceiling of Spore and snap his wings open into a soar between the thick forest of mushrooms, twisting his flight path into a tight helix.

A bright grin spreads across Demarath's muzzle as his brother's words echo down from above. “Yes! Finally!” he calls back, joyful laughter spilling out. It had taken so long for this seed to sprout, and this was after three failed experiments with lower soil-to-mushroom ratios. He'd almost been tempted to label this one a failure as well, but Ashernath had insisted on not giving up yet. And now he's relieved to see it's paid off. Now it's just a matter of seeing if it grows healthy. If they can get this working, they might eventually be able to provide all their own food - a major step towards long-term sustainability.

Demarath approaches his brother as he comes in for a landing. “So?” he asks expectantly, an excited expression painted on his face. It's a look Ashernath knows well, even without having to check the mind-link - his little brother wants details. Size, color, how well it's growing in, whether it looks like it needs more water or better soil to survive, how long he thinks it'll be before it could be eaten. Not that they're likely to eat this experiment - it's taken far too long just to get this far.

Oh boy. This was going to be tedious; honestly, he should have probably just unhooked the basket from its hold and showed it to Demarath - though that would, admittedly, have been difficult, and replacing it later would be even more of a pain. But it would have solved the information issue. Ashernath gestures with two claws, showing the size of the tiny sapling accurately as possible. “But it looks healthy,” he adds, punctuating the statement with a single nod. It's hard to gauge the green of plants by objective standards, of course, seeing as the light in the caverns isn't the pure white spectrum that they're used to from most inhabited worlds, but they can compare it to the plants of Seed, and it's healthy by that standard. “My guess is we're doing everything right this time.”

Demarath's enthusiasm wanes as Ashernath holds his claws a tiny distance apart - fifteen days, and that's as far as it's gotten? Still, it's progress. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless. And Ashernath says it looks healthy, which is certainly good to hear, but hardly the level of detail he craves. He half wants to fly up and take a look himself, but even in his excitement and curiosity he recognizes how unnecessarily dangerous that would be. Even if he were as skilled at flight as his brother, keeping himself wedged in the tunnel would be difficult, and it's a long, dangerous fall if he were to slip. So twenty questions it is.

“How about the soil near the sprout? Did you notice any changes?” He'd hoped the root system might've started breaking down the crushed mushroom powder into something it could use, but perhaps that's getting too far ahead of himself. “And how dry was it? Do you think we should water it again today, or should we wait until tomorrow?” They'd been watering the soil roughly every other day, most recent being yesterday - so in theory, it wasn't due for another watering until tomorrow, but it could conceivably need more water if it just sprouted, maybe?

“The soil was still moist,” he tells Demarath. “If anything, I'd wait a bit longer, no use risking to drown it. It's still rather like soft clay in look and feel - it's not crumbling yet, but it has to be breaking down beneath the surface or the seedling wouldn't be sprouting at all,” he reasons. “I wouldn't worry.” He shakes his muzzle lightly. “In three or four days, if it hasn't visibly started to affect the surface layers, that's when I'll worry.” A grin appears on his face, tone encouraging and excited, both. In his head, he's already trying to figure out how long it's likely to take them to breed hardier versions as intended. They'll need a lot more bright niches, that much is clear - but this is such exciting news!

Demarath nods at Ashernath's comment about not drowning it. “I agree,” he replies, turning his gaze up to the niche with their experiment. After a few moments of thought, he adds, “In that case, I think we're done here for today.” Eyes turn back to Ashernath, and the young Srian's grin returns. “Never thought I'd get so excited about a little beansprout,” he muses, shaking his head lightly. “Come on, let's head back. I want to see what Mother will say when she hears about this.”

And then Ashernath's nodding, only to turn with that boundless energy of his - the vegetarian lifestyle hasn't put much of a dent into that - and snapping his wings back open, taking to the air as if to subconsciously lead the way. They're been well-behaved for so many months now, having earned their parents commendation long ago - but that didn't mean they didn't still enjoy pleasing them. This recent project was their achievement from conception to this first glimmer of hope, with only minimal input from Shiarath to get the ball rolling and gardening tips as enquired. If this took off, if it made them more self-sufficient, if it narrowed their exposure to the world and thus their chance of eventual detection by the Hzataalar Kaea - something to consider, no matter how abstract and bizarre it seemed by now - then it was easily their best achievement yet.

Demarath spreads his wings, takes a running start, and with a bit of flapping takes off after his brother. It's not his smoothest take-off by any stretch of the imagination, but soon enough he's in the air, lagging a bit behind Ashernath, mostly coasting while occasionally flapping to supply additional lift.

A few minutes into their flight, Demarath's wings are beginning to feel fatigued. He pushes onwards in spite of that, though, trying to hide his exertion from Ashernath. It's an admirable attempt, but after another minute or two it gets to be too much. ~I'm sorry, Asherna, but I really have to land.~ Exhaustion is most clear in his mental voice, but traces of shame at his own weakness also leak through.

Ashernath twists in mid-flight, casting his gaze back over one flexing shoulder for an instant, then bringing himself to a halt in a hover, worried for his brother. For a moment, he stays in that relative immobile posture, wings beating to keep himself aloft, then he drifts down to the ground. ~Shall we rest?~ he asks, furling his wings, gaze anchored on his brother as he inevitably descends.

Demarath lands near his brother, setting most of his weight down on his hind legs and tail, wings drooping, resting their tips on the ground. It's several long moments before he catches his breath enough to formulate a response. “No, it's all right,” he replies, shaking his head. “You go on ahead; I can walk the rest of the way.” It was a decent-length walk from here to their small home built into the cavern ceiling - it would take Demarath perhaps half an hour, but that was time he could use to rest his wings and prepare for the necessary ascent at the end of the trip.

Ashernath frowns, antennae drooping. For a moment, he's torn between his urge to help his increasingly frail brother, keep him company at the very least, and the knowledge that it might be taken as patronising or belittling even without that he'd ever intend it as such. Demarath took his autonomy seriously - the least he could do was respect that. Still, he hesitates, not yet straightening his antennae back out, letting his gaze drift through the landscape as if searching for an answer within the mushrooms' lamella. “Are you sure?” he compromises, careful not to let his tone come across as pushy, simply wanting a confirmation of his brother's desire.

Demarath's antennae twitch lightly in mild irritation. 'He's just worried,' he tells himself. 'He's just trying to be a good brother.' “I'll be fine,” he promises, making concerted effort not to snap at his brother, giving a slow nod of his head. “I'll see you when I get home, okay?” he adds, smiling. “Then we can tell Mother and Father about the experiment together.”

That settles it, then - his brother doesn't want to be witnessed in this weakened state any longer than absolutely necessary. Ashernath nods silently, antennae slowly thawing back into their usual posture. “See you there,” he smiles, hoping to sound encouraging. He takes two steps back, then uses the space he's granted himself to rise up with a few beats of his powerful wings, then resumes the flight through the dimly lit cavern, swerving out of sight further into the landscape, copper scales lost amongst the dull luminescence.

And then Demarath is alone. Alone with his near-crippled self, joints aching from exertion, lungs burning lightly from the effort he'd extracted from them not long ago. This was such nonsense. It was so unfair - there was no reason he shouldn't be just as fit as his brother. They've done practically everything together. There isn't all that much exercise that Ashernath has that Demarath doesn't, short of those where he's had to abort early… but his brother just seems infinitely healthier, like nothing could physically stop him if it tried. And all this, just because of some… genetic mishap?

Demarath watches Ashernath recede into the distance for as long as he can bear to, before he collapses in exhaustion onto the soft ground. Stupid, useless body. He managed to fly most of the way over here before, but evidently his wings didn't have enough time to rest in between. Or something. It feels like something's always going wrong with his body. Even Father doesn't have this much trouble.

On the bright side, though, this is probably close to the worst it's ever going to get - at least if Father is right about him being close to his Second Manifestation. Then his magical potential will awaken, and his frailty will hardly matter. As far as he's concerned, it can't happen soon enough.

After a minute of lying there, regaining his strength as much as he can, he pushes himself to his feet and begins setting off homewards. He's not going to let a little incident like this get in the way of today's good news.

Nimble azure digits weave the air, easing elastic, transparent strands from it as if those pristine claws were stuck in some ethereal tar or honey, and with the patience of a saint and methodical, orderly motions, a complex pattern emerges like a painted artwork. There's no rush, no haste. Reality parts with the malleable syrup as a gift to be cherished. The knots are worked into it like a complex braid, gradually forming a prototype bearing only passing semblance to what it'll flower into. All patience aside, if he drew it in full he'd be here all day, and as slow as the fish was, it wasn't slow enough as not to be long gone by then.

No, the bulk of the structure had to draw itself from this seed.

How long had it been? Did this creature dragging itself along the ground in its pitiful weakness remember the incident in Udunshraa? Had it been a part of it, or was it a second-hand story to its perception?

He could engage it directly, of course. A physical struggle would be decided in his favour quite certainly - but he might risk damaging it unduly before the time was right, especially given its state. This was far gentler, even minimising the harm it could do itself in the process of the inevitable panic.

A transparent, de-facto invisible, textured seed hangs from his left forepaw, one claw hooked under a single thick fibre from where its weaving ceased. In a cautious motion, he lets it descend off the edge of the domed perch he's been camping on, a fresh line of sticky resin drawn from that core. The creature is close now, approaching steadily on foot, nearly in range. The thrill of that is subtle, coming with no doubt or anxiety: Unless it's looking for a shimmer of blue and silver scales in the canopy, there should be nothing warning it of its impending fate.

Like an unconventional lure on a fish hook, the seed sways amongst the thick stalks around it, only lazily waking to the presence of its prey. The package unfolds from the core, tendrils flowing down invisibly like the tentacles of a jellyfish, swaying lightly as if in a breeze. The surface of the smooth dome left behind creases, rippling and coiling into taut shapes, curves delighted with their own existence.

Below, a strand brushes a wing, bringing with it an alien, stray sensation, and instinctual motion. For an instant, two more chance encounters caress a bewildered muzzle - then the whole thing unravels. Like the sound of heavy rain, the coils jerk outwards, ends impacting with the stalks and anchoring themselves into place, as the rest of the resin bleeds down along the creature, far less interested in grasping at any limbs and instead simply transitioning to something impossibly adhesive.

Demarath indeed seems perfectly oblivious to the trap he's stepping into - at least, until something brushes against his left wing, and a quick flick doesn't shake it off. He turns to take a look, and then there's two strands of something on his muzzle. He gives his wing another shake, trying to dislodge whatever's on it, and it hits something thin and sticky he can't see, and trying to tug it loose doesn't work. Meanwhile, his left forepaw has reached up to brush away whatever's on his muzzle, and has gotten itself stuck on it in an awkward position; trying to tug it loose only ends up getting his elbow stuck on one strand and the right side of his neck stuck on another.

There's a few brief moments of panicked tugging, which only manages to get his other arm stuck on two of those invisible strands. Then there's a moment of thrashing, with predictable consequences - namely, the entanglement of his chest and his other wing. It's only at this point that Demarath realizes what's happening and stops moving, holding himself as still as he can. Eyes survey his surroundings carefully - barely making out thin, transparent wires stretching from above. A trap.

Okay. This is bad. It's bad, but maybe it's not so bad that he can't handle it. There's still hope that there's some trick to getting out of this, like there was with the one in Udunshraa. There's still hope that this is just some strange thing that happens in Spore that he never knew about before now, and not what he's afraid of. Right? He just… needs to think clearly, and not panic, and he can find a way out of this.

…it's stopped struggling. It's not nearly tangled enough for the tangle itself to be prohibitive to the same, so… it's stopped by its own volition? The blue dragon drags the digits of his free hand against his jaw, mulling the situation, even as his other hand disentangles itself from the now unnecessary vertical guide. He's careful, of course, in laying too much hope into a single gesture. It could mean that it's smarter than average, which would make his job so much more rewarding and worthwhile - but it could also mean it's too stupid to comprehend its situation in full, stopping to take it in numbly and disorientedly.

Either way, he'd have to join his hapless catch and have a little chat, wouldn't he? Slowly, he begins to climb down the side of the mushroom, claws stabbing themselves into the stalk's firm flesh in rhythmic descent, wings unfurling to both steady his balance and allow him to more easily catch himself should his grip slip, however unlikely.

From his prey's perspective, he would be readily apparent now, mostly in the form of his wings, criss-crossed blue and silver as they were, membrane a paler hue than the rest of his body, patterns of silver labyrinthine on the deep, brilliant blue base.

Okay. Think. What are the properties of this trap? Transparent, nearly to the point of being invisible. Extremely sticky, due to some sort of liquid resin-like substance. Sturdy enough that applying force won't break it, despite how thin the strands are. But so far it doesn't seem to be moving much, if at all, of its own volition - just hanging there, swaying slightly in the faint breeze. Maybe if he had magic he could use, he could freeze it and turn either the tendrils or the resin brittle? But that's a moot point at best; given both his lack of magic and his crippled body there's no way he can get himself out.

Father could probably get him out, though.

Just as he's about to contact Tanith through the mind-link, though, something happens - one of the nearby mushrooms starts moving, and a pair of wings, complex mixture of silver and blue in color. Strong, healthy, Avishraan wings, clearly belonging to someone he's never met before. Given the context, that doesn't bode well.

Demarath panics, tugging down and backwards as hard as he can on the tendrils, hoping perhaps that he'll break them, or the resin will slip, or something that will get him away from whoever that is climbing down the mushroom stalk.

Before he can fully descend into his panic, before he can dent the spiderweb like structure into a noticeable funnel, a few fearful steps back into the motion something impacts with his skull. It's not a physical force - nothing but sticky strands is near his head - but it feels like someone's trying to rake a fork through his synapses. It has an unmistakable signature: Ashernath. Something's struck into Ashernath and plucked him from Demarath's psyche, burning his essence into unconsciousness not quite in an instant and not quite painlessly. His name spikes through Demarath's head like a needle, full of distress.

Then, chillingly, an instruction filters through to him, unmistakably addressed to him, gut-wrenching in its delay: ~Run.~

“Ashernath!” he cries out, renewing his struggles against the trap that binds him. Even in an adrenalin-fueled panic, though, he simply can't supply enough force to pull himself free. The strands are too elastic to simply snap under force, bending and distorting instead. Moments later, the downside of this method of attempting to break free is made clear: For every unit of force he's exerting on the web, it's pulling back with the same strength.

There's a gut-wrenching lurch as his hind talons drag an inch through the soft earth. Demarath tries to stabilize himself, but the damage is already done. A moment later, the web springs back towards its natural shape, pulling his legs and tail with it. He frantically, instinctively twists, trying to get his legs free and back on the ground, but it soon becomes clear he's doing more harm than good. His panic turns inward for lack of anywhere else to go, and he utters a soft whimper of fear. ~It's too late,~ he tells his parents over the mind-link. ~I… - I'm trapped, and- and they're already here.~

He's barely finished his psychic speech when another fire rakes itself across his mental landscape, slower this time, enough to feel out the details of what's happening - something's stuck at Shiarath's face, breaking the scaled skin, fracturing the bone of her jaw, and now she's struggling to breathe. Beyond that immediate sensation, a sense of worry and fear saturates the remnants of his psychic link, dripping thickly from Tanith, paralysed for a subjective eternity.

The reality immediately around the trapped Tenneth dragon snaps back into a tangible existence as something grabs a hold of his own jaw. Something digs like a sharp, long thorn against him just beyond the back of his muzzle, stinging like a vicious flame. Even as the head of the patchwork dragon is hammered into perception before him by a shifting instinctual focus, revealing irides of a light teal set into clear eyes, in turn part of a face of mesmerising, tight patterns of colours, as if his scales had decided to be either silver or blue not quite at random, but following a strict ruleset, the pain against the underside of his jaw becomes intolerable.

Shiarath's signature blinks out first. A moment later, his own body shuts down, tearing him down into the thick tangles of unconsciousness.

Tanith cringes in second-hand pain as Demarath vanishes from the mind-link in a scream. Fear, for both his own life and the lives of his family, competes tooth and nail with crushing loneliness for dominance of his emotional landscape, and he's fighting them both off as well as he can, holding logic more crucial than either.

He needs a plan. He needs to come up with a plan, right now. He can't say he was prepared for this - it's impossible to prepare for the Hzataalar Kaea showing up on one's doorstep, literally in this case - but it's a possibility that had always rested in the back of his mind. He's as well-prepared for this as he can get. But still, he needs a plan.

There are two Hzataalar Kaea, at the minimum. One has captured Demarath; the other, a female Sanguith, has just choked Shiarath with a heavy chain of some sort, and looks to be moving to do the same to him. Fragments of a plan start to form in his mind - but there's no time to wait for them to solidify into something coherent, much as he'd want to in an ideal situation. Fingers of his left forepaw tense, energy begins to flow. The Kaean turns her eyes to him, and as fast as he can muster, he raises that paw while twisting his head away, shutting his eyes tight. An instant later, a blinding flash of blue-white light sparks from his claws, enveloping the room. It won't buy him much time, but it'll buy him some, at least.

She's brought two of them down already, swift and graceful in motion, efficient in execution. Synchronised with her mate, she'd danced her way along the bodies; she'd caught the youngest of the copper dragons as he leapt from the home, catching a wing and slinging the cool metal around its throat like a noose, cutting off the blood to its head until it passed out, only to drop its limp body to the ground; she'd intercepted the mother dragon as it ran toward her, lashed at it to force it to stop its charge, wrapped the chain about its neck once and pulled on both ends, dragging the body toward the frame of the door in the process, forcing its limbs to remain active to balance it in instinct as long as it still had motor control; and she'd stepped across the limp creature, unravelling the chain from its neck, whipping it lazily through the air to focus on her next target.

Chandarmaneth had brought down two Avishraans and the prize trembled in the corner like the frightened animal it was. If it were wholly up to her, she'd purge the lot of them, but if her mate deemed it necessary to leave the basic creatures alive and only prevent their meddling so that the prototypical Srians had a chance to consider his offer in earnest rather than be uselessly soaked in grief, then she was going to grant him his wish. The traditional Kaean way of dealing with these animals was something she personally deemed more efficient, but it was Shahrivrath's right to waste his time if he pleased.

It's as she takes a step toward the dragon that a forepaw rises and her antennae flatten against her neck instinctively, venomous, threatening hiss spilling from within her, eyes narrowing - then a sudden sharp flash of light drowns out the world. Claws rake at the wooden floor, splintering the edges of some planks with the force of the motion, hiss mixing with a growl and wavering in frustration. For an instant, she considers retreating to the doorway simply to block his most immediate exit - then two objections come to mind.

For one, there could easily be another exit she'd not intimately aware of that it could flee to.

For two, the longer she let it breathe, the longer time it possessed to notice her magically crippled state. For now it no doubt believed - if it had the capacity to reason at all - that she was in her natural state, a Hzataalar Kaea with the full capabilities of one, thus on its guard.

To be fair, it had nowhere to flee to in this underground world, even if they didn't have control of its family. If she missed it, if it escaped, it was only a matter of time before they found it. It was only a matter of time before it came back, trying to catch them off guard and failing. They could hasten the inevitable by punishing the unblemished ones, carving into them until they were as frail as the rest of the family, drawing it back with pain. It was already over; this one was just slow to notice.

The instant passes and the chain whips forward and upwards diagonally, lashing at the air, imbued with the beginnings of a methodical sweep as she lunges forward toward where her sense of direction insisted the dragon was, or at least had been when the flash had blinded her. The world consists of deep shadows and stark white glares framing no useful outlines, washed uselessly into the retinal burn of the brief glare itself.

She'd indulge in the murderous urge she felt, unapologetically. She knew she could stop herself before striking a lethal blow, but for now, it was wholly cathartic to channel her focus through a frame of rage. It would suffer for this. She'd make sure of it.

Tanith opens his eyes, afterburn of the light he conjured still leaving traces on his retinas, like an artificial glow - but given the Kaean's reaction, he doesn't have it nearly as bad as she does. She shows a moment of hesitation, which he uses to try and get away from where she thinks he is. Now all he needs to do is come up with the rest of his plan.

He's not quite fast enough - the chain whips through the air, catching on the tip of his wing with enough momentum to snap the delicate bone, though thankfully it otherwise passes overhead, not quite finding the purchase to wrap around the newly-crippled wing. He tries, unsuccessfully, to suppress a cry of pain. She'll know where he is now. He's out of borrowed time. He lunges forward, forepaws grasping for the chain before it has time to build up momentum again, hoping he can find the strength to channel enough current through the metal to knock the Hzataalar Kaean out, or at the very least do some damage.

The grasp of foreign claws on the chain is immediately apparent and through the visual haze she can make out the vague outlines of the Srian before her. One instinct is to jerk at the chain and knock it off balance. The other considers a far less wasteful action - this creature would be expecting a taut chain. She'd give it an infinitely slack one. Her grip disperses, leaving it to grapple with air, and in a half-blind, half-judged motion she grabs for his antennae with one forepaw - intending to jerk its head around in the most painful possible way, delicate fleshy horns hardly made to be used as handles - and slinging her free arm around its neck in the chain's stead, muzzle coming down between the two points to bite at its neck from the side, aiming to get at as much of its throat and as little of its spine as possible. Her left wing meanwhile stabs its arm up through the air between them before the brunt of the membrane tries to come down across the other dragon's right wing and back to smother its potential motions; her right wing brings itself up as another arm, membrane twisted upward and outward, the parts that are flesh and bone serving as a loose shield should it be lucid enough to use the chain as a weapon of its own.

For a moment, it almost looks like things are going to go according to plan. Then the tension in the chain drops, and he misses his mark on where he expects the chain to be. There's a moment of a flailing attempt to grab at the chain, to put this hitch in the plan behind him, but just as he manages to get a hold of it, the Kaean's hand grabs his antennae and twists, and it's just enough of a distraction that he loses his focus on generating current.

A moment later, he screams - or tries to, at least, it coming out as more of a sputter with the Kaean's teeth digging into his throat. It's over, the logical part of his mind concedes, now losing fast ground to fear, pain and panic. Survival. He has to survive, that's all that matters now. He's lost his grip on the chain, instead trying to use his claws to scratch at the Kaean's face in hopes of getting it to release him.

Her eyes are squeezed shut and her jaws crush against the delicate neck, applying a pressure guided with focus and concentration, almost cautious not to rip and shred with her teeth, twisting the dragon's head around on its handle to serve as an added shield, giving it as little leverage for its arms and fingers as possible, even as claws drag against her crimson scales, burning and barbing at the skin, one hooked claw plucking at her left eye's lower eyelid dangerously in its descent for an instant before losing the unintentional - or, rather, uncoordinated - battle with its elasticity, eye snapping shut again. In an abrupt motion, her left leg snaps forward to kick at the trapped dragon's own feet, hoping to give it something more to occupy itself with - to keep its balance, or better yet, to fall to the ground without breaking any of the fragile bones of its body on impact.

Tanith's feeble attempts at getting the Hzataalar to dislodge her jaws from his throat prove unsuccessful. When she sweeps his legs out from under him, he indeed falls, claws grasping at her muzzle and dragging along it, but it's in no way strong enough to pierce scales or skin. Pain is consuming him, his consciousness is fading fast. Thinking he's near death, he begins to mentally recite a prayer to Avikael that his mother taught him milennia ago, when he was even younger than Demarath is now. Partway through, it's a struggle to find the right words; a moment later the world turns to black.