Avishraa Reloaded

Demarath's uneasy sleep within the slab of darkness they inhabited was disturbed by a rather uncomfortable nudge against the nook of his shoulder, between wing and arm joint. “Get up,” his supposed mentor instructs, tone of his command not quite gruff and not quite encouraging, his silhouette, insomuch as its blurry outlines take focus to the waking Srian, possessing a posture lined with determination and purpose.

The three Tenneth captives had been fed well before slumber and then granted a solid sleep, but in this inky darkness, waking at any time seemed like the middle of the night. Of course, the light from the distant edge of the large flake of rock forming their roof proved, yet again, that this world was wholly unaware of the motions of any celestial bodies, but that made the time he'd slept all the harder to grasp. Ashernath is stirring not far away, himself, rolling reluctantly from a miserable sprawl on his side onto a miserable sprawl on his belly.

Somewhere in the back of the young Srian's mind, there had been a tiny sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, this would turn out to be nothing more than a long, dreadful nightmare. That he'd wake up in his home back in Spore, that his parents would still be alive, and everything would be fine. Shahrivrath's order drags him out of his slumber and back into the harsh reality. Not a dream. Father is still dead, Mother is still… gone. There's still a magical serpent coiled around his throat, tethering him to the Hzataalar.

Demarath's eyes lazily pry themselves open, groggily trying to find focus on something in the gloom. For a few seconds, it looks as if he's intent on just lying there, half-awake. Then he blinks and shakes his head lightly, trying to spur himself into motion despite still being barely awake. With concerted effort, he shifts and pushes himself up into a sit, hint of a sway in his neck as he does so. He yawns widely, then turns his gaze towards Shahrivrath's shape, eyes still not quite focused.

“Come,” the Hzataalar instructs, turning to face the light and walking toward it, evidently expecting him to come creeping out of the shadows with him. Apparently, they no longer sought to hide themselves. Apparently, priorities had shifted. It stands to reason it's something pertaining to Demarath's 'apprenticeship' - Shahrivrath hasn't given much of an impression of being someone to loiter around for any stretch of time.

Demarath glances briefly to his side, where Ashernath is slowly stirring back into consciousness, momentarily concerned about leaving him behind. But he doubts they're going to travel far, and even if they do, he's still connected via the mind-link. He can always give Ashernath directions to follow if it comes down to it. Eyes turn back to Shahrivrath's outline, tracking its movements, and a moment of hesitation later, Demarath follows his new 'mentor' into the light.

As Shahrivrath crosses the sharply delineated threshold from darkness to the dim light of Dust's outskirts, his muzzle swerves and rises as if to test the area of the massive cavern. The trace pensive look resolves a moment later as he glances back at his involuntary student. “Do you know your precise age in Avishraan years?” the Hzataalar asks, taking three further, slower steps out into the light, only to slowly transition into a sit on the stone, the drop of the thick flake making their floor almost within reach of the tip of his tail.

It takes Demarath a brief struggle with mental subtraction - not the easiest task first thing in the morning - before he can give an answer. “Five-hundred-seventy-six,” he replies, moving to sit across from Shahrivrath, keeping a good distance out of his reach without impairing their ability to converse. A moment later, with a hesitant tone: “…why do you ask?”

Ashernath, in part drawn by a dull, morbid curiosity, in part drawn by the collar around his neck, is dragging himself listlessly after the odd couple, crouching down at the edge of the shadows as if staying in them provided some sort of notable cover or made for a soothing balm. The lead-up worried him and the fragment of him that was oblivious to context wanted to speak up and advise Demarath not to speak to strangers or something equally inane but ironically meaningful, but of course none of that surfaced. He wasn't sure he wanted to witness wherever this was going, but right now, he couldn't quite bring himself to abandon the budding scene.

Shahrivrath seems to consider the number, running the claws of his right forepaw against his jaw for a moment, then dropping it and smiling at Demarath. “Physiological subtleties,” he explains, foregoing the courtesy of details altogether. “I strongly presume you've yet to experience your Second Manifestation?” he asks. It's more rhetorical than not, seeing that not only would the boy have put up much more of a fight if he had undergone the process, but there were ways for a Chosen to detect that particular flavour of another's maturity and Shahrivrath had picked up on none of the symptoms - though, as statistically improbable as it is, it could have occurred without fulfilling its intended purpose, thus remaining indetectable, and he had to rule that out before proceeding.

Demarath twitches slightly, increasingly nervous around the Hzataalar. Probably a healthy dose of skepticism, all things considered. Still, even if it hadn't been painfully obvious, he'd already implied earlier, in response to one of Shahrivrath's questions, that he hadn't had his Second Manifestation yet. “That… would be correct,” he replies, lowering his muzzle.

His antennae twitch slightly; Ashernath's awake. Subconsciously, his gaze starts to drift to the side, muzzle tugged in his brother's direction; a moment later, he stops the motion and refocuses on Shahrivrath. No need to let him know that, yet.

Shahrivrath gives a single, somewhat idle nod - any other answer would have come as a deep surprise at this point, but it removed the last traces of doubt. If it was some kind of elaborate lie, the boy had only himself to blame, and he didn't seem stupid or desperate enough to resort to mutilating the truth just yet. In a disquieteningly fluid motion, he raises his left forepaw to grasp at Demarath's jaw, compensating for any instinctive jerk back, then twists his head forward and down gently but with stubborn persistence, until the tip of the young Chosen's muzzle is pointing at the floor with admirable but no less coincidental precision, slightly uncomfortable for the neck having to accommodate for this unnatural posture. “Hold still,” he instructs calmly, if perhaps a bit belatedly, bringing up his right forepaw, left still holding the boy's jaw for a moment, right rising to rest the tip of that central claw against the skull just behind the eyes. His left finally relents, mirroring the motion, and - without any further warning imparted - both claws pierce inward with surprising and abrupt force.

Demarath briefly tries to resist the Hzataalar's motions to twist his head into an awkward position, but obviously the attempt is doomed to failure - he's simply not strong enough. He shifts his posture to try and direct the tension out of his neck. 'Hold still,' he's told, and he fearfully complies. His heart pounds in his chest, his breathing becomes quicker and more audible. If he wasn't fully awake before, he certainly is now.

There's no warning for what comes next. Demarath cries out in pain as the claws press inwards like an enormous pincer, terrifyingly forceful, almost vicelike. Instinctively, his forepaws shoot up to Shahrivrath's forearms, frantically tugging at them in a vain attempt to get him to relinquish his grip.

The setup dissolves an instant later, right arm of the Hzataalar's wrenching out of Demarath's frantic grip only to lash forward and rake claws punishingly across his neck and face in something best described as the draconic equivalent of a backhand. A venomous, deep, utterly disconcerting snarl spills from him, briefly stripping that otherwise so meticulously maintained civil exterior from the Hzataalar. “Next time I tell you to hold still, your life may depend on it!” he hisses loudly. “Have you forgotten the conditions of this relationship already? Do you think I ask them lightly? Do you think they're optional?” he growls. Eyes narrowed, volume of his voice risen, strength of the creature wholly apparent, he bears much more semblance to the monster of Demarath's dream than any fleeting glimpse of Shahrivrath had, thus far.

Demarath cries out again as the Hzataalar's claws rake against his scales, just barely deep enough to draw blood. Antennae droop back and to the sides in submissive fear as Shahrivrath berates him. It had been an instinctive reaction, frantic and panicked - but, of course, that wouldn't matter, would it? He'd disobeyed, and that was enough. “I'msorry!” he blurts out, still frantic. “I'm sorry I won't do it again I promise please don't kill me,” he adds in desperation.

Ashernath's left forepaw is clutching at the ground in partial desperation, but the rock is, of course, not giving way, providing nothing but an unyielding, smooth surface for his claws to scratch against, nothing to hold onto for dear life. The whole ordeal pushes into the back of his head like a dull nail, chiefly born from the broadcast of the pain from those branching conduits, filaments of his nature as a magical being, but also from the empathic discomfort of seeing his brother threatened. His antennae are curved down as far as they will go and he's shrunk in on himself in the shadows, paralysed and mortified.

The Hzataalar snorts once, abruptly, then seems to settle back into his trademark state of calm. “Perhaps you don't understand what's at stake here,” he remarks, flatly but matter-of-factly. “So I intend to give you a little psychological aid, in hope that in the middle- or long-term you instinctively grasp these things.” That supposed patient demeanour is creeping back into prominence, although not quite in time for the chilling punchline: “Disobey a direct order again and I assure you, I will find a bone in your body to break. Each time.”

At least that leaves no mistake about the nature of his 'mentor' - they are not friends. They are very clearly not friends and there probably isn't even moral common ground to salvage.

The young Srian's eyes widen in terror. He- He's completely serious about that. There's no room for doubt that he would follow through on that assurance. It's ludicrous - how or why such a thing could possibly be considered any form of necessary is utterly beyond him. It's beyond any definition of sanity.

He's still a Hzataalar, that much is clear. He may have a Srian's patience, but it's clear now that that should never be mistaken for a sign of kindness or capacity to forgive. This is Demarath's one and only warning, apparently. Disobedience is not an option. He may not be able to internalize the specific threat, but at the very least he can internalize the fact that the threat is looming over him. That there are very real, and very painful, consequences for disobedience, and that he definitely doesn't want to face them.

Demarath nods briefly, terrified eyes still locked on those of his 'mentor'. “I understand,” he says, more just to acknowledge the threat than anything else. He doesn't understand. He might not ever understand. But it's the closest thing he has to the honest truth.

Shahrivrath considers his apprentice's answer for a long moment of vividly obvious scepticism, before discarding the air and gaze like nothing of consequence and glancing instead at his arms, inspecting whether damage has been done by Demarath's struggle. There are no claw marks, though, which is as he expected, as he didn't remember the sapient animal clawing at him, just frantically tugging. Then he sits himself back down from his instinctively risen posture of before, manifestation of a very practised calm being consciously reapplied in full. “Congratulations, you really are Davir Sria,” he comments, voice still a little flat from the tension moments ago, but much closer to normal, and, most importantly, without resentment. “You're close enough to your Second Manifestation that you body's decided what to fashion itself as. That should make a few things less difficult for us.” The implication is interesting, of course - he wasn't born Davir Sria, despite his father's magical allegiance?

The terror of the moment having passed, it takes Demarath many more breaths before he's able to convince himself that he's not in any immediate peril. Shahrivrath's wording is confusing - of course he's Davir Sria. How could he be anything else? If nothing else, the fact that he's Chosen combined with the fact he was allowed inside the Citadel of Life should have been enough to determine that. “What- what do you mean, my body's 'decided what to fashion itself as'?” he asks, his natural curiosity peeking through his fear of the Hzataalar.

“When Chosen are born, they can be either Srian or Kaean. It is conviction that ultimately decides how their physiology adopts itself,” Shahrivrath explains. “Naturally, those born to Srians tend to become Srian, themselves, due to a variety of factors, including, in later generations such as your own, physiological hormonal predispositions, but moreso due to cultural influence. Ultimately, it isn't set in stone.” It begs the question what precisely makes the Citadels decide what pre-Second-Manifestation dragons count as - perhaps that's a question worth asking.

So the fact that he's Srian isn't because he'd inherited his 'Srian-ness' from his father - at least, not entirely. Does that mean he could potentially have become Davir Kaea, like Davinath, had his upbringing been substantially different? The notion is strange and a little bit frightening to consider. Part of him wants to ask how Shahrivrath can tell, but he mentally pushes the question aside. The answer would probably ultimately reduce to 'because magic', anyway.

Demarath nods at Shahrivrath's explanation, but there's clearly something about it that he's still not quite buying yet. He runs his tongue between the rows of teeth thoughtfully, then asks: “In that case, how do the Citadels determine whether someone counts as Srian or Kaean when they're still young, before their second manifestation?” Evidently, once Demarath enters curious-mode, it's hard to get him out.

That prompts an almost fatherly chuckle from his self-proclaimed mentor. “Because the Citadels are much more powerful than you and I, and much the same way they can get into your head…” - he snaps a hand up to tap a knuckle against Demarath's skull without warning, although the gesture is light - “…it knows what you think you are. It certainly helps that Avishraan culture at large was and in its remaining fragments is utterly oblivious to the physiological processes, making those uncertain of their path practically unheard of.”

Demarath instinctively flinches back at Shahrivrath's sudden motion, fear and panic rising before he's able to combat them. Even at his most curious, he's still completely terrified of his 'mentor'. 'Calm down, Demarath', he tells himself repeatedly. 'He's not attacking you.' Even though he could. Even though he easily could, and would, if he had reason to.

Demarath tries to focus instead on what Shahrivrath is saying, and processing the implications. So the distinction between Davir Sria and Davir Kaea is really more of a philosophical one than anything else? And yet, it gives rise to physiological differences. Or enough that a Chosen can distinguish between the two easily. “So… what exactly is the physiological difference between a Srian and a Kaean? What actually changes during Second Manifestation?” he asks.

“The alignment of your mana,” Shahrivrath comments, antennae adopting a subtle upward curve hinting at a content state of mind, as if perhaps there were something profound hidden in those words. His muzzle inclines to one side subtly. “If you know how magnets work, you might consider mana much the same - one alignment might have one of the substance's poles constantly pointed downward, whereas in the other alignment, the same pole would point upward. When you're born, your mana is a random mixture of both states.”

The young Srian's antennae curve upward in delight - imagining his mana as being made up of a bunch of tiny magnets all trying to figure out which way they're supposed to point. “…and so the Second Manifestation is what happens once the 'magnets' are all pointing the same way?” he asks, excitedly, grin of excitement barely contained. An onlooker seeing him as he is now would be hard-pressed to say that just a minute ago he'd been quivering in fear.

That prompts the hint of something that might be interpreted as a sneer, though it's gone too quickly for any arbitrary observer to be sure, replaced instead with that ever-patient guise. “Not quite,” he comments. “The Second Manifestation is simply the point where the process begins to feed itself, where you could become agnostic and it would still relentlessly push itself forward at an accelerated pace.”

“Ahh,” Demarath replies, nodding. “Like a chain reaction. I see.” There's still a subtle, thoughtful undercurrent to his expression, as some part of him continues to mull over the explanation, tugging at it, working through the consequences, searching for gaps in his understanding of it. Obviously a few of the lower-level details are still foreign to him - the 'magnets' are just an analogy, after all, and so he perhaps can't fully grasp what the mana alignments are, precisely. But it's at least solid scaffolding that he can use to build a stronger understanding over time. “So… just one more question,” he says, running his tongue briefly against his inner lips, trying to find a good wording. “How far does the 'magnet' metaphor reach? Where does it break down?”

One of Shahrivrath's antennae dips subtly, manifestation of the Hzataalar's uncertainty - he's not sure how to feel about the question. On the one hand, it's certainly commendable that Demarath, given all his physiological handicaps, is driven by a probing curiosity. On the other, the more Shahrivrath shares with him pre-transformation, the less control he has about what the information will be used for, not to mention that further conversation was simply stalling these preliminaries.

Unfortunately, he's never been good at keeping information to himself, regardless in what context, the notion of secrets wholly foreign to his personality, and so he finds himself answering almost in reflex, even after consciously assessing it unnecessary: “Strictly speaking, the alignment of mana itself is stable within other mana - in other words, it's not the mana itself that primes other mana, but the mana organ holding and creating it simply produces the mana the one or other way, and as the organ matures, it leans more and more toward one alignment.” A pause. “Give me your forepaw,” he instructs, extending his own left hand palm-up in prompt.

The tips of Demarath's antennae tilt back and stiffen slightly, eyes narrowing slightly in a focused, pensive expression as he considers Shahrivrath's explanation, mulling over the implications. So does that mean he has both Order- and Chaos-aligned mana in his body, just more of the former than the latter as his body produces more? Does that mean even after he's a full Davir Sria, he'll still have Chaos-aligned mana in his system? Or will it go somewhere else (or be converted)? If it goes somewhere else, where does it go? If it gets converted, how does that happen? (Does the mana organ 'turn the magnet around'?)

Demarath looks down at Shahrivrath's forepaw, a twinge of fear and hesitation gripping him. He regrets that he said he only had one more question, since now he has so many more, and he's hungry for understanding. But it's too late to take it back now. Maybe he'll find out some of the answers later. Right now, he's been given an order, which means he has to follow it or something terrible's going to befall him. He very nearly asks why Shahrivrath wants his forepaw, only barely stopping himself with the memory of the terms he agreed to. He takes a deep breath, and places his trembling left forepaw in Shahrivrath's.

The grip that settles around Demarath's hesitantly offered paw is firm, reminder of the strength the creature he's speaking to possesses - and a worrying precursor to something no doubt unpleasant enough to need such a rigid frame. There's no verbal warning of what follows - perhaps his captor-slash-mentor believes the grip is warning enough - though the motion becomes obvious before it's damaging, not excessively rapid at all, and two of Shahrivrath's claws pierce against the scales just below the knuckle of Demarath's central finger. The familiarity of the gesture in sensation and intent is unnerving, and a strong sense of near-nauseating déjà vu comes with the barb of pain.

Demarath gives a sharp yelp of pain, shortly followed by a high-pitched whine as the sensation slots firmly into terrible familiarity. He twists his head away, eyes squeezing shut and antennae flattening against his neck in deep distress. The paw in Shahrivrath's grasp tenses and tugs slightly in some instinctive, futile attempt to slip out, but it doesn't budge. His worst nightmares begin to play out in his mind: Claws raking along his flesh, blood and mana intertwining in an unsettling sensation, the bluish conduit being yanked straight out of his arm…. “Oh Avikael, pleasedon'thurtme,” he blurts out, tone little more than a pitiful whine.

At the whimper, Shahrivrath inclines his muzzle, a tinge of confusion entering his demeanour. 'Pleasedon'thurtme' didn't quite suit when he was already in the process of it - something worse is evidently on his protégé's mind. “You have already suffered the worst of it,” Shahrivrath observes, flatly, even as his claws withdraw to show a rather precise looking wound, carved into scales and flesh to form a small well-like wound toward the branching conduit.

It's fainter amongst the wash of crimson than it'd been in his dream and much more fragile in appearance. Then his claw pushes back into the wound, bringing with it a burning sensation at the edges, and a moment later, a hint of unease crawls up along the conduit as its severed, too thin to be punctured. An awkward feeling bleeds from the point of the de-facto incision up along his finger, prompting a strong instinctual urge to nurse the wound. Of course, that was doubly stupid - not only was Shahrivrath still holding the hand, demanding implied obedience, but mana was still toxic, and licking at it wasn't going to do him any good.

At least former dissolves a moment later as Shahrivrath lets go, using his right hand's claws to pick at the back of his left hand in much the same way, stubborn attention latched down on the same, an expression of pain barbing through his subtler features in irregular intervals. Then he's reaching for Demarath's paw again, intending to seize a hold of it and crush the two wounds against each other, trapping the combination in a tight hold within his free forepaw.

As the pain briefly fades, perhaps in response to Shahrivrath's comment, Demarath forces his eyes open and turns to glance at the wound. Well, it's certainly not nearly as bad as what he'd imagined, but it doesn't make it stop hurting. When his 'mentor' pushes his claw back into the wound, he twists his head away again, having zero desire to watch this process. There's another whine of discomfort, central digit of the trapped paw pressing against Shahrivrath's scales out of some instinctive urge to curl up.

Then his hand is free again, and he clutches at it, trying to stop the bleeding as best he can, resisting the urge to lick at the wound. At least Father taught him that much, or he'd likely have just poisoned himself out of instinct. Moments later, Shahrivrath is grasping at his hand once more; Demarath utters a note of protest, refusing to relinquish his right forepaw's grip short of having it pried off.

Shahrivrath's antennae straighten and his eyes narrow, opening his muzzle lightly to show his teeth, his free hand yanking at Demarath's forepaw with disregard for the integrity of his joints, putting much of his superior strength to use to get his way. It's not so much prying as simply repositioning the entire Srian to get what he wants. “Obedience,” he snarls as the wrestle proves an ordeal, lips drawing back from his teeth and maw opening in a broader snarl. His own damaged forepaw swaps in for the grip of his right, near Demarath's damaged forepaw's wrist, and his free hand grabs a hold of the smallest digit beside the wounded finger in a rough, careless motion, only to at first twist it upward and outward in its socket, then shift fingers to grab at the central, frail segment of it to with near-frightening ease snap the bone. The pain takes a moment to register to Demarath, conscious realisation of what's happened predating the vicious complaint of nerves.

There's a soft whimper at that command, the verbalization enough to prompt Demarath's struggles to subside. It's evidently too little, too late, though; the Hzataalar's grip on his wrist and finger rough enough to suggest punishment. Silver eyes stare blankly at the trapped paw for a subjectively long moment before he realizes exactly what's happening and how to interpret the signals of discomfort his finger is complaining about. He hears the snap of bone before he feels the worst of the pain, and then he's screaming in agony. Nonetheless, there's still some part of his mind that still finds the whole thing strangely absurd. Shahrivrath was completely serious when he said that the punishment for disobedience was broken bones.

A bit further away, Ashernath utters a few pitiful retching sounds, shoulders quivering as he closes his eyes and presses himself down against the smooth rock ground, forehead pushed against his arm, willing this to be over. The surreality of it is helping him cope, some part of him rather uncertain if he really did wake up this morning. Then a frantic thought makes itself heard in his head: What if Shahrivrath is going to kill Demarath? What then? He's really not sure he'd be able to deal with the consequences of that. Accordingly, he gives a single syllable of a wretched sob, somewhat unaware he's even uttered it.

Fortunately, Shahrivrath doesn't care about Ashernath's state - why would he, after all, if the young dragon is only a neutral tag-along to be left behind once they left Nalamanagiji? Instead, he continues the motion he'd begun with a methodical stubbornness, pulling at the forepaw he's damaged in two places to finally act on what he'd been planning to do. The brief sting of wound against wound goes under in the pain from the broken digit, but then something gallops up his arm like a strange variant of pins and needles, feeling roughly like crumpled paper against soft skin would, except it's very distinctly inside him and very distinctly along that conduit.

Shahrivrath lets go before it's even travelled halfway up Demarath's arm, hissing lightly, antennae twitching. “I suppose compatibility would have been too much to ask,” he sneers at air, casting a glare up to the cavern ceiling as if to blame some deity - perhaps Avikael - for the failing. The way he's giving his own arm a shake suggests he's feeling the same alien sensation, though it would, like Demarath's counterpart, be rapidly fading.

Demarath collapses onto his right side, pain and nausea and terror all mixing together into a slurry of awfulness - doubtlessly compounded by Ashernath's own emotions. Maybe if he closes his eyes and wishes really hard, he'll wake up back in Spore, and this will have all been an awful nightmare. He's barely even processing Shahrivrath's words, only enough to tell he's probably not addressing the young Srian with another command. Please let this be over soon. Please let this all be over soon.

The motions of Shahrivrath's arm dwindle into idleness and he glances down at the collapsed Chosen with mild scorn. He was not proving very malleable and the different mana type meant heading back to Udunshraa with him to research precisely how the process of conversion would have to be adjusted for his case, suggesting much more work that he'd initially hoped for. The part of him most deeply entrenched in Srian thoughts resented the effort. The part of him anchored to the thought of improving Demarath assessed that despite the words the boy had spoken, he didn't want the gift after all. The combination morphed into a dangerous spike of emotion in his gut and for a moment, he flirted with the idea of simply putting him out of his misery, chalking the experiment up as a failure, and searching for others.

Fortunately, there are parts of him possessing a semblance of sanity, imploring him that if he throws away this chance, he'll have to start from scratch the next time, not to mention it might still turn out promising, and then he'd just be cheating himself out of a triumph in the long-term. They were in no rush to do this. He should give the boy a few chances to understand the importance of the conditions he'd laid down for their relationship.

“Have I made myself clear?” he asks after a long moment of watching Demarath, hoping him lucid enough to pick up on those words. “I have no inherent desire to turn you into more of a cripple than you unfortunately already are, but I want you to understand that I do not speak empty threats.”

Demarath's antennae perk up alertly when Shahrivrath addresses him again. There's a long pause before he nods silently; antennae flattening against his neck submissively. “Yes,” he whimpers a moment later. “…yes. Yes you have. I- I'm sorry; I won't disobey again.” Well that certainly sounds like something he's said before, but there's something different about it this time. A trace of honesty that wasn't there before, that he really does understand his situation now, certainly better than he did before. He truly does intend to follow through on that promise, as much as he can help it - even though that very thought sends a shiver of revulsion through his gut.

Shahrivrath's muzzle twitches subtly, as if a different scornful expression sought to surface upon it. For a moment, he simply peers sideways at the crumpled Chosen, silently questioning his own judgement in letting him live, before concluding the inner wrestle with a venomous 'I hope so,' only to snap his gaze toward the slab of shadows, eyes narrowing, antennae tensing into straight, vicious arrows. “Davinath,” he barks into the darkness.

There's no response.

A curt but guttural growl surfaces from the peeved Hzataalar Sria as he peels himself from his restless sit into motion, stalking back into the darkness. For long seconds, there's no feedback for the recovering Demarath - then a yelp ricochets off the rock walls and the sounds of scales dragging across stone and claws scrambling for desperate purchase can be heard. The Hzataalar and his mate's Kaean mana slave form out of the shadows, Shahrivrath's right forepaw wrapped around the other dragon's antennae, left forepaw mercifully caught on his upper arm, most of the Kaean's weight pulled through latter grip.

A moment later, Davinath's jaw grinds down against the floor and Shahrivrath looms over him like a gargoyle, posture threatening. “I have a chore for you,” Shahrivrath comments, resentfully - the tone is vastly different to the one he's wielded against Demarath so far even when he's spoken in anger, making it unmistakably clear that there is much room for the Hzataalar's respect to dwindle to. “My protégé is hurt,” he hisses. “Heal him.”

Davinath's gaze swerves up to Demarath, fear, confusion and incredulousness in his expression - his antennae would lower against his neck but be restless in their curve if they were free to move. Arms largely folded under his torso, trapped uncomfortably against the rock, he pants through parted teeth, trying to assess the situation. A moment later, the source of the hurt becomes apparent, and he snarls weakly, pitching his meagre strength into an attempt to twist his head out of Shahrivrath's grip. “Do it yourself,” he snaps, venomously.

The Hzataalar's left forepaw lets go of its hold, eyes narrowing, and fingers close around air in an empty fist. Davinath howls, the sound tapering off into a hollow, laboured, strangled sound, and his right arm writhes out from under him in a desperate motion, guided by useless instinct to push fingers against his neck, seeking purchase against the choking, subdermal collar. His tail lashes, eyes wide open but gaze anchored on nothing in particular, and his right wing beats uselessly against the stone ground. A few arduous seconds later, Shahrivrath relents - and Davinath gasps for breath pitifully, blinking, gaze having lost its focus. “I won't repeat myself,” Shahrivrath growls.

“Okay! Okay,” Davinath comments, words flimsy still. “Let me go, I'll do it,” he states, tone one of incredulous resignation.

There's a pregnant pause - then Shahrivrath snorts, letting go and stepping back from the Davir Kaean. Davinath twitches away from the Hzataalar, hunched as if a part of him thought to curl up in instinct, still, and with his antennae curved down almost to point of touching his neck, but rest of his demeanour lucid, he glances back across at Demarath, at first as if pleading for a comment, but then inspecting his body in earnest, finally lingering nervously on that tortured forepaw.

Demarath remains silent, watching wide-eyed in mute horror as the scene unfolds in front of him. It's a very odd sensation, watching a fellow Avishraan - a fellow Chosen, no less - suffer without any mind-link to communicate what the other is feeling. There's empathy there, but it's not nearly strong enough for him to risk his life or well-being in protest. Like he's only attached to Davinath by some abstract notion, and otherwise strangely disconnected from the whole thing.

But as unsettling as the scene is, it illustrates an important point to the young Srian: As bad as his life is right now, under Shahrivrath's control, it could certainly, easily be much, much worse. Shahrivrath has something like respect for him, or at least hasn't treated him nearly as badly as he's treating Davinath right now.

As Davinath is released and begins to look over Demarath's body, the young Srian begins to thaw out of his terrified paralysis. “My paw,” he indicates softly, dragging the attached limb a few paw-lengths to where Davinath could easily see it. There's a hint of discomfort in his demeanor with that request - if Shahrivrath weren't forcing him into it, it would be fine, but Davinath hardly has a choice in the matter.

The Davir Kaean is clearly still recovering from the rough handling, antennae moving in ways denoting no particular emotional expression, testing their range of motion after the Hzataalar Srian's grasp of them. “Right,” he mutters, tone in part submissive and in part frustrated, albeit not at Demarath directly. He brings up his left forepaw, making it apparent how withered his fingers on it really are, but scooping his palm up under the damaged hand regardless, central digit folding around it in a gentle hint of a grasp, providing stark contrast to Shahrivrath's earlier handling.

“Okay,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, attention now anchored firmly on the wounds, expression twisting slowly into a light grimace. “I think I can fix your fingers,” he comments, albeit a bit hesitantly, swallowing dryly. His good hand rises to gently touch against the throbbing digit with its splintered, broken bone, excerting no pressure but still uncomfortable bordering pain from the light touch alone. He closes his eyes, lowering his muzzle, and something of a hum escapes him, low, near-monotone, like a distant cousin to a keen. Abruptly, a tension seems to grip him, and with the subtle change in his posture comes a gentle tingle of the broken finger, morphing gradually into an intense itch. The swelling that's already begun in it begins to recede and the awkward sensation of fragments of bone snapping back into place against the two shattered stumps to bridge them and form a whole bone once more travels up Demarath's arm.

Demarath winces slightly as Davinath rests his hand on his. He can fix his fingers? That's good to hear. He'd really like to have fixed fingers. Broken fingers are unpleasant. “Great,” he replies, much less enthusiastically than he probably ought to. “Just… tell me if you need me to do anything.”

A few moments later, Davinath's humming lowly, and an awkward but not entirely unpleasant sensation starts flooding in from his finger. A Kaean with healing magic, some part of him not utterly preoccupied by the pain in his paw notes. He never thought he'd see the day. Then again, up until yesterday, he never thought he'd see a living Davir Kaea at all, so this is just one more new thing on top of everything else.

A thin, jittery exhale escapes Davinath a long, arduous moment later and he opens his eyes, shoulders losing some of his tension. For a moment, he stares dully past Demarath, perhaps searching for some abstract composure - and then he's back to lucidity, muzzle swerving in hint of a shake, before he glances up at Demarath and lets his right forepaw drop from the finger. “Could you move your affected finger for me, carefully?” he asks, tone one of matter-of-fact enquiry. “Immediately stop if it still hurts, of course - and tell me how it feels.”

Demarath nods, then glances down to his paw, lifting it slightly and slowly bending and unbending his finger. For a few moments, it feels fine, and Demarath's antennae adopt a light smile - and then he cringes and utters a cry of pain as he sets his paw back down, even the small amount of pressure causing a burning pain nestled into the bone. He lifts the paw up again, wincing, catching his breath. “S-s-something's wrong,” he replies, a useless observation. “Hurts when I put pressure on it. A lot,” he adds, in case it wasn't already obvious to the Kaean healer.

Shahrivrath growls, his usual patience evidently evaporated. A swipe of a forepaw finds itself accompanied by a hiss and a venomous expression, though Davinath manages to twitch back from the brunt of the clawing, nails only grazing the skin of his neck. “I'm trying,” he half pleads, half hisses, before his tongue lashes nervously at the ridge of his teeth, antennae wholly undecided whether to convey fear or anger.

“Try harder,” Shahrivrath snarls, but refrains from any further assault.

Davinath, hunched in on himself in semblance of some protective instinct, is only reluctant to peel his gaze off of the Hzataalar and back onto his patient. His gaze doesn't linger on Demarath, though, jerking back to give Shahrivrath another nervous glance once more before finally settling on that hand again, his breath audibly pressed into some semblance of calm normality.

“…okay,” he says, as if that phrase would somehow magic him back into control. “Can you tell me what kind of pain it is? Does it feel like it's pulling at the finger, or is it a sharp pain, or a burning pain, or did it feel like any particular sort of temperature?”

Demarath's lips curl back in discomfort, antennae held low as he tries to find the words to describe the pain that had just lanced through him. “Sharp,” he finally decides on. “And burning. It's like… like there's a knife digging into my bones.” It's almost as painful to describe as it is to feel.

Davinath finds himself sinking into contemplation - no amount of fear was going to make him rush a diagnosis, less out of emotional impossibility and more because he'd always treated diagnoses as undivisible entities in his psyche, blocking out everything else in the meanwhile, a habit difficult to kick even under duress. Then his attention is back on Demarath and he opens his muzzle to speak - then closes his muzzle and shakes it. “Fair warning - without medication, that may be all I can do,” he informs hesitantly, then cautiously and gently grasps a hold Demarath's paw for a second attempt, eyes drifting closed slowly, another low hum rolling from him. His antennae twitch, muzzle held low as before, a sense of pressure knotting itself into Demarath's finger, alien but not unpleasant. A moment later, he's inhaled sharply, escaping that partial trance and carefully lets go, posture and expression one of light submission. “…now?”

Demarath whimpers quietly at Davinath's comment – in part because he doesn't want another spike of pain every time he puts pressure on his finger, but more because he doesn't want Shahrivrath to punish Davinath for failing to heal him. And he probably would, too, given what little he's seen of the Hzataalar Srian.

There's a light grimace as another odd sensation knots itself into his finger, and he instinctively turns his head away, staring down at the rocky ground while Davinath works his healing magic. He tests his finger once more when it's done – it's sore and still kind of hurts if he puts too much pressure on it, but nowhere near as bad as before. He nods, hint of a smile working its way into his expression. “Much better now,” he replies, tone deeply respectful. “Thank you.”

“Good,” Davinath comments with a calm tone that doesn't really befit his agitated mental state. His good hand's fingers knead against his other forepaw almost absent-mindedly, their attention focussed on the whereabouts of the mana conduit - is it aching?

“Try not to break it a second time,” he comments, gaze deliberately cast upward and sideward, not quite able to stop himself from the commentary, pitch suggesting he probably means Shahrivrath. It nets him a light but nonetheless venomous smack against his neck, prompting him to shrink to the side a little, only to glare at his captor sourly. He allows himself a hollow, curt hiss, only to creep aside in a posture of displeasure and light submission, attention anchored on the two Srians.

For a moment, the Hzataalar considers dragging Davinath back by the scruff of his neck to remind him of the other wound on Demarath's paw, but given how negligible it is in comparison - and already crusting on its own - it doesn't seem worth the effort of another shouting match, even if it was unmistakable who was going to win it.

“Since our mana flavours aren't compatible,” Shahrivrath comments. “That concludes the preliminaries.” He sounds calmer now, despite the venomous squabble with his Kaean captive, if not quite back to mild-mannered, still tenser in tone and posture than he'd been on average so far. “Before anything else can be done with you, I'm afraid I'm going to have to consult some books.” …is that a code phrase for 'we're heading to Udunshraa'? Because it sure sounds like travel, given that they're not exactly drowning in books here.

Consult some books. For a moment, the response is confusing; he hasn't seen any books in Shahrivrath's possession – and then it clicks, thought perhaps delayed by the recent pain he's been through. Udunshraa. He's going back to the Udunshraa library, of course, there are plenty of books there – and he could certainly have brought a linking book with him that Demarath hadn't noticed yet. “…When are you going?” he asks timidly, still cowed into submission by his recent punishment. “…And… will you want me to come with you?” He's not entirely sure which answer he'd prefer – on the one hand, Udunshraa was an incredible place, and part of him yearns to go back there; on the other, most of his memories of that place are awful and he's not sure he really wants to go back.