Avishraa Reloaded

It wasn't something Ashernath wanted to have experience with, but it was growing increasingly easy to ignore Shiarath's hollow existence looped into his synapses by biological decree. He could, given time, gently prise its hold out of his mind and discard it to the wind, but he had neither heart nor strength at the moment to attempt it. A superstituous, primal part of his psyche regarded his mother's state like a disease prone to creep into him if he touched the tight coils of bleached thought inhabiting his skull. The whole thing is clustered together very clearly, like a painless wound that had taken a chunk out of his ethereal sense of self. It felt like a hole carved into his mind, healed but no less empty for it.

He wasn't sure why there were taking her along. The blue-silver one had spoken to his brother about it, but words had a certain cryptic edge to them at current. He had a full grasp on verbal discourse, but his hearing had, it felt, taken a hit, and sounds filtered through to his conscious perception only in agitated fragments.

He no longer felt as a captive to the Hzataalara alone. A thin, crusted wound at his collarbone marked the intrusion of a parasite that kept him nearby, but it was clear he was of no importance here. He was to follow along to aid Shiarath's near-catatonic body in not expiring. He was to feed her, to bring her water, to keep her from blundering off edges or against sharp slivers of rock. His brother, meanwhile, was an apprentice, and Ashernath hovered between a pitiful but passive pleading for his attention, overwhelmingly lonely, and the shock and revulsion of still possessing a link to a traitor. The bigger traitor was still Tanith, of course, and he felt impossibly relieved that the third link he'd grown up with was still strong, whimpers drawn from him each time he as much as contemplated its severance, but his brother had willingly sentenced them to this deathmarch.

That he couldn't have known didn't factor in. That it wasn't a deathmarch refused to register to the animal part of Ashernath's mind, as well; he merely numbly took in their downward travel, following that ubiquitous helix structure down. They were heading down. Down, where the rocks turned darker, escaping the dusted blue strata of Spore and the near-azure caverns of Seed, reaching the early dusk of Dust, where they were now, aching, exhausted and lost to the world.

There was nothing here, not in these far outskirts, before they breached into civilisation. A series of stone flakes formed a giant's hollow staircase, pillars grown from stalagtites and stalagmites meeting, and the opaque shadows under one of these massive plates now hid their mass, huddled in spirit. The nearest sunstone hung up against the overarching cavern's wall far above them, kept safe from all wingless thieves by its very design.

Chandarmaneth had left them, promising with her warrior's charm of a gruff air to return with nourishment, herself worn out from the day's worth of travel through Seed and Spore, but driven by the desire to please her mate - perhaps secretly hoping to steal his attention away from the project he'd taken upon himself.

Said project is bundled in a corner, parts blind to each other. Ashernath for now was still gagged, as was the other Chosen, but no one had ever robbed Demarath of his speech, nor the command of his hands - if he sought conversation with the stranger, he could free him of the resin with some patience, and he could always try to speak to Ashernath telepathically.

The stranger's left wing had revealed itself during their travels to be a stunted, broken mess, moreso than the natural crippling effect of magic would have accounted for. The membrance was torn, and the innermost wing-digit was two whole segments short of complete, ending in a bony stump thankfully concealed by scales. Whatever wound had caused this had healed long ago. A black pattern of artificial design provided unusual detail to his left antenna.

Of course, in the darkness of their current place of rest, none of these features are apparent.

Despite several attempts to reach out to his brother on their journey, whether to commiserate or to explain himself, or just to see how he was doing, Demarath's received no reply. Either Ashernath's too emotionally worn down to talk, or he simply has no desire to talk to him. Demarath considers making another attempt now that they're resting, but eventually he decides that he'd rather let Ashernath initiate the conversation when he's ready. ~I just want you to know that I'm here if you want to talk,~ he offers.

That said, there's still one thing that's been nagging at his curiosity, begging him to look at it: The other Chosen. He wasn't a Hzataalar of either variety, that much had been obvious just by looking at him. And the only other Davir Sria he'd ever known was his father; he'd never met another even close to his own age before. He's curious as to why he's here - is he another one of Shahrivrath's 'students'? How did his wing get broken? Even if those questions don't get answered, it would be nice to have someone else to talk to who understands him. Some way to dispel the sheer loneliness resulting from the loss of his parents.

Demarath approaches the young Azratha with caution, peering at his outline in the dim light. There's a very definite nervousness in the Srian's demeanor, the process of meeting new people one he's never quite been an expert at. 'He's a Davir Sria just like you,' he tells himself. 'He's not going to bite your head off.' “Hi,” he offers in greeting, quietly enough to be heard without alerting Shahrivrath.

The antennae of the Chosen twitch upwards as if alerted by the sound. His muzzle works in silence for a moment, the motion invisible against the vague hint of a silhouette he forms in the deep shadows. Then his head lifts and his muzzle opens insomuch as the resin permits, gaze finding Demarath, his fleshen horns curving back down. A moment later, he brings his forepaws up, trying to pick at the sticky gag with a resin-clad claw extended from the tangle of digits his forepaws were caught in. It manages to hook against the substance shallowly, but pops out with a soft sound almost immediately, the small, temporary indentation providing no actual purchase.

A soft, frustrated snort escapes him through his nostrils. Presumably, that can class as a 'hello'. It's certainly an acknowledgement. His undamaged wing cautiously shifts, bringing around the membrane-free wingclaw to his muzzle, pushing itself in between the rows of his teeth to prise at the gag.

He can probably get it out if he puts enough effort into it, given that in its current state it isn't sticking to anything new, more like a presently rather precisely shaped globule of putty, but it'd still be easier to remove with some help. The 'natural' way for it to go is by gradually dissolving in saliva - it was neutral in taste and not in any way toxic, so Shahrivrath had assured, and its actual purpose, which was ensuring silence from the two dragons during the first few hours, had been outlived.

Right. The resin gag, of course. “Here, let me help you with that,” Demarath offers, approaching closer and sitting on his haunches, peering carefully at the mystery Chosen's maw. The lack of light makes things difficult, as does the fact that he's not completely sure exactly where the majority of the resin is, so he has to go primarily by feel. Cautiously, his forepaws probe at the Chosen's mouth, prying at what bits of resin he can get to.

It's not entirely clear, especially with out light, where saliva ends and resin begins, but there's nothing uncomfortable about handling it - it's slightly sticky, but easy enough to disabuse his scaled fingers of. The biggest hurdle to the resin's removal is the way its fused against teeth, reluctant to let go of them but not altogether unable to be convinced. The lower row of them is easy to push free, bottom of the transparent gag already partly dissolved and absorbed. The upper row is a little more stubborn, but under cautious and persistent guidance eventually slips free, leaving only phantom sensations in the Chosen's gums.

As the vile gunk escapes his maw and the strands of it wrapped about his muzzle peel off the scales, he grimaces anyway. For a moment, that's all there is - the grimace, deep, unsettled, displeased by the fact it needed to be removed in the first place. Then he pauses for a moment of a neutral, borderline numb expression, before exhaling calmly, working his tongue about in his closed muzzle, easing the dryness out of it.

“Thank you,” he comments, a bit coolly but not insincere about his appreciation - perhaps unsure what to make of Demarath, this student of Shahrivrath's, and how much he could trust him.

Demarath smiles a tiny bit at that verbal gesture. 'Thank you.' With all that's happened, it's hard to recall the last time he heard that phrase being spoken in earnest. It's hard to even recall the last time he felt genuinely helpful, though on some level he's sure it must have happened at least once recently. A tiny spark of compassion in the bleak wasteland his life seems to have become.

“Do you want me to help with your forepaws too?” he offers. It's a surprisingly genuine, unassuming question - he'd be perfectly happy helping, and perfectly happy letting his fellow Chosen help himself, if he so chose to. “…my name's Demarath, by the way,” he adds, somewhat awkwardly. It's entirely possible that the dragon already knew that, but it couldn't hurt to state. At the very least it's a polite invitation for him to introduce himself.

“Davinath,” the Chosen introduces himself, for the moment minimalistically, evidently still gauging the copper dragon's personality from the shreds of it revealed by their interaction so far. Of course, colours were invisible in this inky darkness, even to their predatory eyes. Here, they were all the same - even the Chosen and the flawless until a physical struggle broke out between them.

“Are you… still aware of your collar or is it already fading into familiarity?” There's no venom in the words, despite the bypass of all conventional social protocol; although arguably it could be translated to a form of 'How are you holding up?' and thus pass scrutiny. Presumably, this Chosen is afflicted with the same contraption as Demarath, given the way he seems to be alluding to the knowledge of experience.

Demarath takes a moment to consider the lack of response to his question, then decides to take it as a 'no' - if this Davinath wants help with his trapped forepaws, he has the capacity to ask for it. “Good to meet you, Davinath,” he replies.

Then the conversation skips over a few pleasantries and cuts straight to the topic of his collar. Unease grips the Davir Srian - if he wasn't viscerally aware of it a moment ago, he certainly is now. “I've… been trying to ignore it,” he says, muzzle canting off to the side. “With limited success.” He turns his attention back to Davinath's silhouette. “Does he do this to all of his… students?” he asks, clearly hesitant with that choice of word, euphemism for something with a much more sinister feel as it is.

Davinath seems to regard Demarath with scepticism, judging from the way his silhouette draws his antennae, one held straight, the other bent down. His tongue drags itself through his teeth, working at the trace remnants of the gag. Then the awkward pause dissolves. “I wouldn't know,” he remarks, tone somewhere between cautious and bitter. “You're the first I've witnessed.”

Demarath tilts his head, antennae standing alert in mixed curiosity and surprise. “So you're not…” A trace of confusion enters the young Srian's expression; this raises all sorts of questions. For one, how long has he been with these Hzataalara? And for two… “If you're not one of Shahrivrath's students, then…” There's a brief pause. What's he going to ask, 'how are you still alive?' “Why are you here?” Perhaps the broken wing had something to do with it? But why would they leave him alive?

There's a short, bitter chuckle, and the shake of his muzzle. “That's… a longer story,” he begins, in part dismissing the enquiry, voice thick with hate for a moment, albeit not directed at Demarath. “As briefly as it can be said: She's crippled and I serve as her reservoir of mana.”

Demarath 's eyes widen, and his head instinctively pulls back a few inches. That's even possible? No, that's not terribly surprising in itself - he's seen, at least to a limited extent, what Chosen are capable of - but the thought that anyone would use someone for such a purpose is deeply unsettling. Especially given that the same could conceivably be done to him. “…how long has this been happening for?” he asks, tone suitably horrified.

The silence is hard to read in this darkness, but the subtly dipped muzzle suggests the Chosen feels at least slightly responsible for the pang of horror in Demarath's tone. “…I'm not sure,” he admits. “They've been hunting the Survivors for a long time - it's easy to lose track of how often I've slept with the collar.” Absent-mindedly, one forepaw rises to touch delicate fingers against his neck.

Demarath shuts his eyes, falling into an awkward silence for a long moment. “That's terrible,” he finally whispers, glancing briefly over his shoulder as if to ensure Shahrivrath isn't listening in. “…I wish there were some way I could help,” he admits, eyes cast down to his forepaws resting on the ground. “But even if I knew how and had the capability… they'd probably kill me if I tried. Or do something worse.” Use him as a replacement, perhaps. “I'm sorry.”

“I don't expect you to rescue a stranger,” Davinath scoffs, a dark sort of humour in his voice. “Especially since your life is much more valuable than mine,” he comments, matter-of-factly, if a bit cryptically. It doesn't sound very self-deprecating. Maybe there's a hidden sliver of bitterness somewhere in there if one analyses it to death, but other than that, he seems quite convinced it's an actual, uncontestable fact.

That statement gives him pause; his posture shifts drastically, pulling his head up and back, muzzle tilted down to face Davinath as directly as possible, a slight tilt in his head together with the angle of his antennae signifying mixed curiosity and concern. “What makes you say that?” he asks with a tone of patient concern almost bordering on condescension. A very Srian demeanor, indeed; a keen and knowledgeable observer might even catch a hint of the father's behavior patterns in the son.

That prompts an almost venomous, twisted chuckle, eyes narrowing in the darkness, gesture almost invisible, and Davinath's antennae flatten against his neck for an instant, then, held straight, keep low as his lips draw back from his teeth in a silent snarl. “Because I don't think the universe is going to run out of Kaeans any time soon,” he responds. There's something triumphant about that, as if he's happy to take his victories when he can - no doubt he's been extremely low on them for quite a while - and he's just enjoyed popping Demarath's morally superior 'there couldn't possibly be a reason my life is more valuable than yours' notion as much as that bitter truth can in any way be enjoyed. Predictably, it doesn't last long, and his antennae droop as he glances down at the ground, exhaling tiredly.

For a long moment, that statement of pyrrhic victory is met only by confusion. Why would the distribution of Kaeans have any relevance at all to the relative value of their lives? The only way that could possibly matter is if one of them were Kaean.

And then the possibility he hadn't considered strikes him. No, he couldn't be. He couldn't! Except it would explain so much. Little bits and pieces of his attitude - that trace of viciousness in his voice, notes of hatred he's never heard out of his father even when he was at his angriest. However unlikely, it's the only theory that suits all the facts. “You… - you're Davir Kaea?” he asks, respectful tone only barely masking a deeper, almost gleeful fascination. A living Davir Kaean. Something he never thought he'd see.

He bites down the urge to respond with 'Imagine that, a Davir Kaean, serving as a mana reservoir for a Hzataalar Kaean,' but reasons that Chandarmaneth's Kaean nature hasn't been expressly stated, either, so the logical break could be forgiven on that basis. There's a wry, curt chuckle as mulling that makes him aware of the absurdity of his own situation again - a Davir Kaean, possibly the very last of his cult, rarer in this flawed incarnation than the Davir Sria, caught by a Hzataalar Sria and his Kaean wife. There was something decidedly backwards about that, as if some uncharted deity had decided to reenact some kind of historical dichotomy and accidentally swapped the terms in his haste.

“Yes,” he says, finally, solemnly, softly, the transition to the calm, subdued demeanour abrupt. “Yeah, I thought we were extinct, too,” he adds, then twitches his left wing demonstratively, showing just what kind of personal extinction he means.

Demarath is practically glowing with curiosity, bursting with questions he wants to ask. 'How did you survive?' is the most obvious one. Is it really appropriate to ask, though? After all, he has only just met Davinath, and that question would be tantamount to asking for the Davir Kaean's life story. Another question takes hold instead, though, as Davinath twitches his left wing. “Did they do that to you too?” he asks, gesturing to the torn wing.

Again, there's a certain urge to kneejerk sarcastically with 'No, I chewed through my own wing in boredom', but as much as he'd like to make light of the situation by distracting from it, there were countless ways the wing could have gotten damaged. He doesn't actually have anything on Demarath there. For a moment of silence, his gaze lingers on the vague silhouette of the wing, and his tongue laps at the edge of the top row of his teeth idly, only to vanish back into his maw. “Sort of,” he says. “The short, probably-correct answer is 'yes'. The longer story can be summarised with that if I'd been less foolishly hellbent on heroics, I'd be much better off now. I chalk it up as at least thirty percent self-inflicted.”

A light grimace of sympathy crosses Demarath's face, and he lowers his muzzle, nodding a moment later. “We're really not well-suited for heroics, are we?” he replies, glaring at the ground. “Seems like whenever we try, we just end up hurting ourselves and the people we care about.” There's a very clear undertone of loathing in that statement, though it's not directed at Davinath in the slightest. Then he blinks slowly, twitches his antennae, and turns his attention back to the Davir Kaean. “What were you trying to do?” he asks, tone back to the curiosity he exhibited before. “…if you don't mind talking about it, that is,” he adds a moment later, almost as an afterthought. “If not, I understand.”

A pensive silence descends. For a moment, it seems like he might not answer after all, muzzle swerving subtly into new directions every now and then, breath even but deep, as if he'd been short of breath a while ago. “I saw her in the Citadel,” Davinath comments, voice soft. “Which… I'd always contested its designation as the Citadel of Death, but… perhaps you don't realise it, because it hasn't crossed your mind, because you never thought about it, but the place is… full of bones and rotted flesh and empty eye-sockets,” Davinath narrates, revulsion creeping into his voice like an unbidden parasite. A light shake of his muzzle, more tremble than any other gesture, dismisses the morbid line of thought. “She was… flawless, unbothered, walking past them without a shred of empathy of respect and so… her nature was plainly apparent. I knew what she was. I knew and she wasn't expecting anyone, so I thought… I know how I can hurt her. I know how her body works, so much like the discarded corpses. I know how I can take her stupid megalomanic fantasy and shatter it against the rocks. I can make her responsible for the deaths of my brothers and sisters, I can make her hurt.” The next drawn breath is audible, like corporeal punctuation. “Well, I… took her precious magic from her, but as you see, the…” A pause, strung across a silent flick of the tongue. “The rest of the plan didn't work out so well.”

Demarath is about to simply nod and try a different question when Davinath finally speaks. The Citadel. The Kaeans' Citadel, of course - not the one he'd explored with Ashernath, the one he'd gotten them both trapped in. Davinath's description chills Demarath to the bone, a shiver of revulsion. For a moment he's picturing something completely different, a structure literally made of bone and rotten flesh, but as he continues the story his mental image corrects itself - imagining a Citadel not entirely unlike Udunshraa, filled with the corpses of dead Chosen… - suddenly the vast silence and emptiness he saw, saddening as it was, seems infinitely preferable.

The remainder of the story grips him, eliciting a noticeable shiver in Demarath as it reaches its conclusion. An attempt to avenge his brethren, ultimately successful, but at great cost. Even the fact that he was able to harm her, a Hzataalar Kaea, to cripple one of her greatest strengths, is astounding - and carries with it just a little bit of hope, that these creatures, while powerful, are far from invincible.

But most of all, it gives a sense of commonality. Here's a Davir Kaean who had an encounter with a Hzataalar Kaea in his Citadel that ultimately backfired, bringing him eventually to where he is now. Not entirely unlike the Davir Srian who encountered a Hzataalar's trap in his Citadel, the root of all the terrible things that happened today. Certainly, their tales are substantially different, but they have enough in common that he can empathize.

Demarath inhales shakily, followed by an equally shaky exhale. “I…” He lowers his posture, sinking to lie down with practiced care not to put too much pressure on his forearms. “I had a bad experience in the Citadel of Life,” he offers. “Different from yours, much different, but… - but it's what ultimately led to this happening.” More shaky breaths. “I… - I don't think I can talk about it right now, sorry. I've already relived all the worst parts of it today, I don't particularly want to recount it again. Another time, perhaps.” His left forepaw reaches out, finding Davinath's left forearm and giving it a firm, if somewhat weak, grip. “But… thank you for sharing that.”

Davinath mouthes 'the trap', but it's fortunately an unintelligible gesture in the darkness, and he's managed to strangle any potential sound that might make it tangible. The boy doesn't want to talk about it, so he wouldn't, but of course he's heard. There's been no end of it lately. The promise of a Srian capture based on the trap sprung, for one, that's been the cause of their eternal-seeming trek from world to world, each an arduous, maddening beacon of freedom dangled in Davinath's face. The multitudes of worlds, rich with varied life and culture, unappreciated by the Srian Hzataalar for their noise and filtered out, always just out of reach by completely invisible circumstance. And then, for two, the boy's tale earlier, under duress to speak of it, revealing himself wholly unmistakably as the one they'd been looking for.

His left forepaw mirrors the gesture, withered thumb providing an alien, bony feel, almost impossibly weak but not wholly dead to his motor control, simply unable to provide more than a sliver of pressure. “Thank you for listening,” he says, sincerely. There are parts of the story he'd rather not tell, much the same - the precise way he was overpowered, the way he'd narrowly missed death before she realised he might be useful, the way he was dragged through the corridors limply but consciously, the way he'd come to meet Shahrivrath's twisted grin… and the way he'd lost most of his left wing. Punishment, not combat. It's not humiliating as much as it's painful to think back on, given far less adrenalin to serve him during those moments than combat would have provided.