Avishraa Reloaded

The room has not been occupied for… a long time. It still smells musty, in the way of old, unused rooms - not bad, exactly, but strange. At long last, however, it has an occupant. Whatever her reaction to the smell had been upon entering, it doesn't seem to have deterred her from sleep.

The green-and-yellow dragoness lies on the blankets as if she'd dropped there, which indeed she had. Before leaving Tarrabor, she'd had time for a small bit of food and a drink, but that was after sitting in a sandstorm for days, with no food and muddy water, and a fight with a physically stronger and much better-fed opponent. She'd been weak and exhausted when she arrived, and when introduced to a room with blankets, her brain had demanded lights-out.

She hasn't been lying still, however. Unlike many deserts, which are cold at night, Tarrabor's temperatures never went below 'pleasantly warm' at their coolest. To her, the room is unfamiliarly chilly and humid, and she shivers in her sleep. And her antennae and limbs twitch fitfully; perhaps the cold has brought on some unpleasant dream. A tiny whine of terror issues from her throat; several seconds later, a longer, more pained sound follows. Then, with a sudden hiss of anger, Ilirith's eyes snap open, and she rolls onto her hind legs with surprising speed, snarling, slashing viciously at her own blankets with her claws. She forces herself to stop, panting raggedly, her gaze darting around the unfamiliar room.

Long minutes ago, Shahrivrath found himself gazing upon the newcomer with a silent scepticism.

His protégé's hunting methods were a little more… liberal than his own, in that she wasn't bound at all, either physically or metaphysically, and the notion of having an animal so free to move did not wholly sit right with him, but that had been Demarath's problem - and one of those traits was certainly about to change. Either way, Shahrivrath was certainly well enough equipped to defend himself, he simply eschewed battle - a cunning disarming was infinitely preferable as the basis for a civilised discussion as far as he was concerned and he had yet to understand why Demarath could bring himself to spend so much time with new recruits without… binding them in some way.

Her antics while slumbering have him curious and he spends a time in his soundless sit beside her simply observing them. After a while, he decides they're noise - if the twitching persisted after they fixed her body, they could be looked into, but for now they could stem from her physiological damage. The shivering he deemed unfortunate, but at least he didn't slot it into the same category and dismiss it.

He rises from that passive sit a moment later, exaggeratedly careful not to make a noise to rouse her, fixing his attention on the distressed sleeper, and in silence brings his forepaws down to hover the digits across the base of her neck as close to the scales as he's comfortable holding them. It would serve everyone well if she held still or he could allow himself to grab a hold of her, but the request had specifically been to take care of it while she slept. It was an unreasonable request - but it could be heeded and just this once, Shahrivrath was willing to field it simply as a personal challenge. The fingers knit slowly at air, a cautious stare anchored on her scales, watching a sliver of subdermal displacement thicken at his urging.

Just as the whole thing begins to look like a finger trapped beneath taut skin, a sudden motion lurches through her, prompting him to jerk back in similar reflex, mouth lightly ajar and his antennae curve into the vaguest hint of a helix. So much for finishing that while she slept. Even as she battles her covers, he takes two slow, cautious steps back, alert.

And then, from Ilirith's perception, there is a stranger in the room. Not just any stranger - some abhorrent impossibility, a medley of two colours patterning his scales… and flawless in physiology, sign of danger as that was to her subconscious mind, blaring a warning at her within her skull. Hzataal. And it's very clearly not Demarath.

Several rooms away, in the Library, Demarath has resumed his task of examining the shelves upon shelves of linking books, noting down worlds likely to hold Srian refugees. Tarrabor was a success, but they still had so many worlds they hadn't even touched yet, and so very far to go before the Hzataalar Sria could become a true force to be reckoned with. He's partway through examining another book when a mental ping crosses his perception. The newcomer is awake, the Citadel informs him. Splendid.

Demarath makes a mental note of the name of the book he's examining, and gently slides it back onto its shelf, nudging it into perfect alignment before turning and walking down the rotor towards the central staircase, making his way towards Ilirith's temporary quarters with neither haste nor lethargy.

Ilirith backs away from the unfamiliar visage, her antennae at first drooping with fear, but rising to alertness, her lips drawing back from her teeth. Hzataal! Here! Within touching distance! “What are…” she rasps, struggling to find her voice. The events on Tarrabor flash through her mind. Hzataal Sria. Her captor had been Srian, but… where is he? Where is she?

“…Are you Srian,” she manages, “or Kaean? What are you doing here?” She becomes vaguely aware of an unpleasant sensation in her neck, but she ignores it. There are, after all, more important things than stiffness from an awkward sleeping position.

Idiocy. The scales on the back of his neck bristle, but he brings up the self-control not to accuse her of such and scold her - as much as it was appropriate, they would collectively get nowhere if he didn't let Demarath deal with his own protégés as he wished, so the burning urge to claim her instead and teach her to put her grey matter to proper user found itself bound and gagged in a corner. “A Kaean would hardly survive in these halls,” he points out, tone predominantly calm, but with the faintest whiff of irritation to it. “My name is Shahrivrath,” he introduces himself, settling himself into a sit as if perhaps that gesture alone had the power to imbue the situation with a civilised air. Not in the least considering himself and Demarath anything but entitled to her metaphysical binding, he's not concerned about her noticing the unfinished device, though a part of him is at least distantly aware she'll probably raise the biggest fuss about it once she realises.

Ilirith remains alert, but her mouth claps shut. A few weak memories from a happier childhood bubble up from the depths of her mind. Her eyes dart around, taking in the look of the walls; she reaches out carefully with her mind, sensing (aside from Demarath's approach) the omnipresence of some great entity… yes. The dragoness shivers in a way that has nothing to do with cold.

“Udunshraa. Yes. I… remember now.” Though the set of her antennae remains unchanged, the tension begins to unwind from her muscles, except for the persistent knot in her neck. So, she is in the presence of… well, not a friend. Given how her captor had been behaving, she isn't willing to classify any Hzataalar Sria as friend. But at least, she supposes, he is not an active enemy. “My name is Ilirith,” she says, in a wary tone of voice. “I'm sorry; I am still… disoriented.” She rubs absently at her neck. It really is very stiff, like something is… lodged there?…

The fingers of her paw pass over a long, narrow lump at the base of the neck, and look of horror begins to filter into her expression. “What is… Pardon, there is something… under the skin?…”

“Nothing to be concerned about,” Shahrivrath comments at her alarmed probing of skin and the flesh of her neck, tone suspended somewhere between matter-of-fact and soothing, devoid of irritation, owing to the appeasing effect of the apology of hers, though he's still visibly alert. “A subdermal collar; just a security measure,” he assures, as if there were anything remotely reassuring about the notion that her captors were putting a security measure on her in her sleep. At… least he doesn't seem aggressive about it?

It's at about this time that the door to the room opens, and a familiar-looking copper-scaled dragon steps into the room. “Oh good, you're finally awake,” he comments, a pleased grin spreading across his muzzle, tongue tracing the roof of his mouth. “And I see you've met my mentor as well,” he adds, turning his attention to Shahrivrath. “I sincerely hope she hasn't caused you any trouble,” he adds, lowering his head in respect.

Ilirith's hind legs, already trembling, slowly fold up underneath her into a sitting position; she stares wordlessly at Shahrivrath, and then at the incoming Demarath, with an expression of shock, her mouth gaping again. She remains silent, at least through the copper dragon's words to his mentor. After all, what can she say to this? Her books had been taken from her, and that's bad enough. But having a… 'security measure' implanted in her flesh? What do they fear from another Srian, that they feel the need to do this kind of thing? What purpose does it serve?

The green dragoness sinks to the floor again, looking ill; her fingers keep returning to the unpleasant-feeling lump on her neck. When Demarath stops speaking, she mutters, “I am endeavoring not to.”

“No trouble,” Shahrivrath informs Demarath, smiling at him pleasantly as he enters, a little more at natural ease now that Ilirith's assigned mentor was in the room and he didn't have to deal with the nagging sense of insubordination she presented. In a phrase, it was Demarath's problem now. Except for one thing, of course… “If you'd let me finish it, it should stop being quite so unpleasant,” Shahrivrath gestures to her neck, the motion light, borderline minimal. It's… not complete? Not functional? And now he's practically asking her to let him continue installing it in some perverse quasi-voluntary fashion.

Demarath's gaze follows Shahrivrath's gesture, a small hint of disappointment winding its way into his expression. He didn't finish the collar. Perhaps he'd started to, and the process had woken her up? Or he'd been interrupted by something else partway through? Well, whatever the reason, he's right, best get this over with as quickly as possible to move on to other things. “Ilirith, hold still and let him finish,” he says, tone calmly demanding.

Ilirith's mouth is already open as wide as it will go; only this prevents her from looking more horrified than she already is. There's more to it than this? “But… why must…?” She stops, and her mouth snaps shut again. Not prudent. She remembers what a simple request for due personal space had got her. Neither of the Hzataalar in the room, she suspected, would look kindly on her merely for starting the question, much less finishing it. She is… trapped.

Her eyes narrowing, her antennae quivering with rising anger, she raises herself up into a sitting position and exposes her neck; only the faint trembling of her voice hints at her fear. “I am ready.”

Rather than try and soothe her with 'It'll only take an instant' - not that it would do anything but to further aggravate her, no doubt - Shahrivrath steps forward, muzzle dipping in… respectful appreciation? Really? Maybe they're not used to fearful obedience. Either way, his right forepaw rises and the back of his central digit merely rests lightly against that knot of tight flesh - and only a little more than a moment later, it comes alive without warning, wiggling under her skin like a trapped serpent, slipping from her all too conscious perception as it passes to a significantly less uncomfortable nook. It's quite clear where it is, curled against her neck, all too ready to choke the life out of her, but she can no longer feel it. Of course, that's hardly reassuring… not to mention bound to change whenever its invoked as a 'security measurement'.

There's a spark of something in Demarath's eyes at her obedience – respect, maybe? That's certainly part of it. She's doing well, so far; better than he had at that point. Questions are perfectly understandable, apparently; perhaps even forgivable. There's also curiosity there; this is a good chance to observe her reactions and hopefully learn more about her personality. He watches her with a calm, pleasant smile, antennae curled very slightly upwards.

She can see his smile. While this… thing curls itself snugly around her neck, however unobtrusive it may be, the idea of someone smiling about it is maddening, and she fights the urge to snarl at the both of them… a useless reaction, though she is unable to suppress a brief baring of teeth. When in a trap, she thinks, watch and wait. They want her to live. She will have time to watch, and wait. There will be a way out, sooner or later. Perhaps if they are pleased enough with her - and it is odd, she notes, the way they respond to her relative cooperation - the collar will be removed; perhaps there is a way to kill the thing.

Ilirith looks from one to the other, and then asks curtly, “What happens now? Is there something I am expected to do?”

There is, of course, a way to 'kill the thing', but that wouldn't be for her to access. It's a part of her now - excising it would take much care… and some outside intervention. Shahrivrath steps back, the motion oddly respectful - it seems her obedience is definitely netting her at least some positive treatment, even if 'trust' does not seem to be amongst it, something that seems ludicrous given that her captor and his mentor are probably quite equipped to kill her with relatively little effort even without such a contraption. Shahrivrath's attention sweeps from its rest on her across to Demarath. The girl was his new protégé - it'd be more fitting if he answered the question. As such, he leaves it to him.

The copper Hzataal's expression turns pensive at that question, antennae lowering to a more neutral state. What _are_ they going to do with her, while she considers the question of conversion? “I suppose at some point we should perform a mana test, though there's hardly any rush given the circumstances,” he mutters, one foreclaw idly scratching at his neck. But there must be something else they could use her for. Ideally she had some skill with….

And then, an idea clicks, brightening his expression in an instant. She's a Writer, isn't she? So she must know a thing or two about linking panel descriptions. And now that she's bound, she has a disincentive to try escaping through one of the books, unless she happens to have a death wish – which from what he's seen, she doesn't appear to. “Actually,” he continues, a self-satisfied smirk on his muzzle, “I think I have just the thing for your particular… talents.” With that, he's turning, making a beckoning motion with his paw. “Come along, Ilirith,” he says, with a tone of… encouragement, perhaps?

Ilirith rises on shaky legs, and, after a very brief and apprehensive glance at Shahrivrath, follows her captor from the room. As they walk along, the dragoness considers that, insofar as it's possible to judge at this point, she would prefer the company of the copper to that of his mentor, who appears not to have followed. Sneaking up on people in their sleep, and implanting… things… and that disconcerting appearance. And, too, something else, which she can't quite put her finger on. Nothing he'd said or done, as such, but something in his manner had seemed… off. Though, perhaps, it's just another manifestation of this strange insistence on obedience, just like her captor… hold on.

“I don't believe,” she says, “that you had mentioned your name.”

This is excellent, Demarath tells himself as he leads his new protégé through the short stretch of corridor towards the library. They've found a Davir Sria who, at least from visible evidence thus far, seems to actually be reasonably obedient – and so far, seems to be doing quite well for a new potential convert. Certainly much better than he'd been, clearly attributed to his kinder handling methods.

They're nearing the entrance to the library when Ilirith's question causes Demarath to pause mid-stride, antennae darting back in irritation – though it's hard to tell at this angle whether it's directed at her. After a surprisingly long pause, he finally replies, “Demarath.” And then he's continuing onwards, crossing the last of the distance to the great wooden double doors, pushing them open with ease, revealing the grand library beyond.

The tiniest of snorts erupts from Ilirith's nostrils as she follows. Such a long pause, she thinks; she wonders, uncharitably, if he'd been embarrassed at having forgotten to tell her, or if he'd simply needed a few minutes to remember his own name.

The green dragoness follows up to the double doors, then slows to a halt as the vista of the library opens before her. The litany of unfavorable assessments of Demarath's intelligence drains out of her head as memories, sharp and searing, pour in to replace them; she stares around at the shelves as if looking at ghosts, and her antennae gently droop. “The library,” she murmurs. “We were here all the time, when we came back to Udunshraa.” She shivers. “And… there was that day, when there was… all the blood… and we, we ran back inside, and we came in here. And, and everyone who hadn't gone outside, they were here too, pulling down linking books without thinking, getting away as fast as they could. And Mother, she said, 'Tarrabor, that's going to be home now.' And, and we had gone through, and she called on Avikael, and begged-”

The rambling, which had been proceeding at an accelerating pace, came to an abrupt halt with a faint choking noise. Vibrating with emotion where she stood, she squeezed her eyes shut, then shook her head and opened them again, her expression suddenly gone all strange. There was horror and sadness there, but also anger… and a terrible determination. She briefly glanced sideways at Demarath, and mumbled, “It is… a hard sight.”

Irritation tugs at his expression once more, antennae pointing sharply back. Yes, this is the library, your powers of observation are astounding. As she starts rambling, Demarath turns his gaze away, starting to ignore the constant stream of words spilling out of her…. But then something she says gets through his filters and piques his interest. She remembers the Culling. Perhaps she even remembers which books the fleeing Srians had used? His antennae curl upwards and a grin starts to spread across his muzzle. This could be even better than he'd hoped. “You remember,” he says, turning his gaze back to lock on her face. “…How old were you at the time, Ilirith?” The question might almost be soothing, if not for the almost-predatory smile.

Ilirith gives Demarath a wary look. She wouldn't have thought he was listening, but quite clearly his interest has been caught by something she'd said. It's too much to hope, she thinks, that he's making the inquiry out of any personal curiosity about her, but she can only wonder what he expects from the question. “I was a child,” she says. “One hundred seventy-four, I think Mother said.”

Demarath nods slowly, mulling this new information over. A child, certainly, but one old enough to perhaps remember a few details. It's worth a try, at least. “I don't suppose you can recall the names of any of the other linking books you saw others using?” he asks, a tinge of excited hopefulness in his tone.

So that's it. Trying to find other Davir Sria. Ilirith mumbles, “Let me think,” and closes her eyes, looking thoughtful. Inside her head, however, her own voice snarls at her: 'It's one thing, preserving your own hide; it's another, delivering others' into all this. Tell him you don't remember anything, and leave it at that.' And it's a hard, hard thought, thinking that others might be found, think they're being rescued, only to be ordered around, and collared beneath the very skin, left under the threat of asphyxiation… and it would have been her who exposed them.

On the other hand…

A Writer wanting to reach a living world, rich and complex, had to understand in at least a basic way how that kind of world worked. Although her mastery of ecology is not as great as she'd like, at least some of her mother's lessons had stuck, and she'd already thought about some of them, in those endless days in the desert, and one of them concerned the laws governing populations.

If a species is to survive, she knows, it requires a kind of critical mass - enough individuals, enough genes, in the same place and at the same time. The Culling had decreased the number of individuals, but the worst harm it had done was to scatter the rest: Davir Sria running for the books in ones and twos, leaving for worlds with no direct connection to one another and no way to find one another except to return to the Citadel they had fled in such a panic and which they - even as she had - didn't dare return to, for fear of what they would find. The Davir Sria had planned for many things, but they had never planned for evacuation. There was no bastion to go to in times of trouble, no refuge. Udunshraa was the refuge, and they had no longer felt safe in it.

But now? The individuals may have survived, but to what end? They would grow old and die. Some of them might have children, but who would they pair with? Their survival would come at the cost of that of Sriandom as a whole. They would die out, one by one… unless they were brought together. And, here and now, this is the only way it will happen.

Long-ago images flicker through her mind. She'd been scared, injured, spattered with blood, there had been Davir Sria running everywhere and panic in the air. There hadn't been much time for looking so closely at books. Nonetheless, a few things stood out for a young mind…

She opened her eyes. “No names, but… I saw others go through some of the books that were on the shelves nearby, because I stood there watching while Mother tried to find Tarrabor. I think I might recognize some by the look of them. There was one on the shelf just above, a thin blue one, with silver writing on the spine and cover.”

Demarath eyes his new protégé with an air of painstaking patience. After a minute or so, he starts to wonder if this is simply a waste of time, and if he should just move on to doing what he'd already planned for her – and then she speaks, and his expression immediately lights up. She remembers something. That's fantastic. “Let's go take a look then, shall we?” he says, his excitement clearly barely contained. And then he's beginning towards the stairwell, motioning for her to follow along.

Ilirith follows him down the stairs, and then across the floor of the library, between endless rows of shelves. She glances at the curving walkways above their heads. Amazing that it all looks just as big as it ever did; she'd expected it to seem smaller now, somehow. All that's missing is the faint rustling whisper of other occupants, quietly reading or moving around. As they near the correct section - and, increasingly, she finds her surroundings familiar; she might be able to find the book herself - she asks, “How many others have you found?”

Another tinge of annoyance touches Demarath's antennae, but it soon dissipates. She's a Srian, of course she's hungry for knowledge. She'd hardly be worth trying to save if she weren't, even if her questions are irksome. Was the foolish animal he'd once been this frustrating to deal with? Were his questions this pointless?

“You're the first living Srian I've found,” he replies, already scanning the shelves. “Other than that, you've met all the Hzataalar Sria in existence, at least that I am aware of.” A moment later, his antennae perk up again. “Aha, this looks promising,” he says, shifting onto his hind legs and tugging a book from the shelf matching Ilirith's description. 'Ssi'kael'. “Was this the one?” he asks, showing the book to the Davir Srian.

Ilirith struggles to focus on the book through the sudden wave of dizziness prompted by Demarath's words. “I… I believe it is. No others like it around. But… two of you? And myself? There's only three Srians?” The dragoness leans heavily on one of the shelves, suddenly looking quite lost. What she'd expected to hear, she doesn't know; but more than that, surely.

She lifts her head, and stares sightlessly at the row of shelves stretching into the distance. “They must be here somewhere,” she murmurs. “They have to be.”

Demarath's expression turns to a strange mix of solemn and irritated. “And we're going to find them,” he replies, tone one of determination. “And hopefully we'll also be able to convert most of them,” he adds, placing the book on the ground and gingerly opening the front page. 'There'd be four right now, if someone hadn't been so foolishly stubborn,' he mentally appends to that, then shakes his head slightly. No use thinking about him now. Now, or indeed ever.

Cold. That's the first thing he notices about the swirling description – the world is freezing cold, and quite possibly lifeless – hence why he'd discarded it as such. It's almost the opposite of Tarrabor in every way. It's hard to imagine how anything could live there, but it's conceivable they'd found some clever trick to survive.

Some part of Ilirith, so far as it could process information through her dull shock, wonders distantly whether Demarath is capable of any emotion not involving some element of impatience… at least, directed at her. As the copper stares at the front page, she meanders around to a position beside him from which she can see its contents, and scans the text beneath the page. “Something about caves there,” she says, in a flat voice. “Links into one.”

Without waiting for permission, she reaches past him and flicks to the next page. “Geothermally heated water, dissolving away layers of limestone. Warm, humid environment inside the caves.” Flick, flick. “Some kind of rudimentary ecosystem. Mosses, fungi, probably no native macroscopic life. One adult Davir Sria might make it, if they were willing to eat that, but they'd be hungry even so. Two would starve. Outside the caves…” Flick-flick-flick. “…possibly some kind of ice-dwelling algae, but not enough to support anything else…”

Demarath's antennae twitch mildly in irritation at her initial comment. Yes, there's a cave, that much should be obvious from the abstract, swirling imagery – even if it took a moment's concentration to notice it. When she reaches past and flicks past the page he was examining, he shoots a spiteful glare at her, forepaws tensing as he considers attacking her for her insubordination…. And then she speaks, and he holds himself back. She's examining the written description itself – the symbols that he understood, on an abstract level, described the world in terms more precise than ordinary language could handle, and also served to establish the link itself, but the details were something he'd never truly learned. And yet she's reading them as easily as he might read an ordinary text.

At first, that sparks a furious rage. How could this be? How could an animal that had been, until recently, living in complete isolation in a desert, have this mastery that he lacks? She has perhaps two hundred years advantage over him, but that should hardly make a difference.

Perhaps it's his own fault, for not having insisted on learning the art of Writing from Tanith when that was still possible. But that was a subjective lifetime ago, when he was still a weak, pitiful animal. He's better now. And if she could learn this, he certainly could, should he choose to put his mind to the task. He may not have as much experience, but that's easily fixed in a matter of time.

But for the moment, there's a simpler option that presents itself. His eyes smile at her, and his antennae slowly adopt an upwards curl. “Impressive,” he comments. …A compliment? “Perhaps you'll exceed my expectations after all.”

Despite her concentration, and her disappointment in the relative unlikelihood of survivors on Ssi'kael, the shifts in Demarath's mood are not lost on Ilirith. Her antennae and the corners of her mouth twitch, just slightly; she thinks she is beginning to understand the picture here. Here stands an evolved Srian, a higher form of life, cleansed of imperfections… with one not so blessed having to read a book to him, like a parent to her child. Indeed, it must rankle.

Unable to resist the opportunity, she remarks, quite levelly, “Given the cause, I'm glad enough to be of service with this. Of course, with enough time, I would be able to give you a detailed analysis, but since much of it would have no immediate bearing on living conditions there, it probably wouldn't be economical.” She glances at the books all around them. “And, I suspect, similar details would be welcome information from the rest of the books as well?”

She has the feeling that an excess of free time is not going to be a major worry in the near future. If her wants her to read the books, it will be a constant task - there are a lot of them - but an educational one. She's well aware that there are gaps in her own education in Writing, and this would be an excellent way to fill them. And it would be a victory, however small, to know that she'd be doing a task that her captor cannot.

Demarath nods slowly, shutting his eyes as he does so. “That would be correct,” he replies, antennae twitching lightly. He's not relying on her, he tells himself. He'd been doing a reasonable job of this before, and if necessary could do so again without her – it's just that this is a more efficient arrangement of labor, and it gives him the chance to do more interesting things. Given that framework, the fact that she'd do the job better than he would just makes the arrangement better for all parties involved. “As for this world…” His eyes open once more, turning to the book. “…I suppose it's worth a quick look to check if anyone survived,” he comments with a sigh. Barely. There'd be at most one, and even that was a stretch.

Ilirith nods, still staring at the book. At last, she adds, “To be honest, it might be worth a check anyway. Someone who managed to keep their wits about them while fleeing might have grabbed more than one book, linked through one, then immediately gone on to the next.” She rubs absently at the back of her neck. “That was the plan I had, anyway. If you had picked Tarrabor a year or two later, I might not have been there anymore.”

A smile spreads across Demarath's features at that last comment. “It's a good thing I found you before that happened, then,” he replies, before turning his attention back to the book. “… Still, there must be plenty of places we're more likely to find survivors than this,” he decides. “And given the preparations we'd need to make, it'd be more efficient to wait until we have more and better candidates and visit them all in succession.” His gaze swivels up to Ilirith once more. “I'd like you to continue examining these books – prioritizing the ones after Tarrabor, as those I haven't even looked at yet – and determine which ones are most capable of sustaining life. Once you've made substantial progress, we can see about visiting some.”

The green dragoness' gaze turns toward the books. Despite her situation, she finds herself looking forward to the experience. For likely the first time since Demarath had found her, a grin appears on her face, antennae curling upward with enthusiasm. “If you can find me something to write with, something to write on, and food and drink, I can start now. No sense in wasting time.”