Avishraa Reloaded

The caves of Velegath were far from a comfortable home, but as a relatively safe place where the four of them could coexist, it certainly sufficed. The rooms were dark and cold, lit with only a single source of light, a glass sphere of some luminescent liquid tied to the ceiling, accompanied by a strip of black fabric to tie around it for times one wishes to sleep.

Which is precisely what Davinath is doing - or at least trying to do - when a low grinding noise signals the door to his room-qua-cell opening. “Davinath!” It's Demarath's voice, filled with more glee and excitement than he's ever heard from his Srian friend. A moment later, the fabric around the light globe is practically torn off, bathing the room in an orange glow. “Davinath, wake up!” Forepaws grasp at his left arm, jostling it roughly.

It's been a few days since Davinath's seen Demarath, by some definition of 'day' - his inner clock, atuned solely to itself over the many months of travel from one world to another, certainly claims as much. His forepaws are bound again, of course, a crude rope wound around his forearms all the way up to the elbows, making for a less than comfortable slumber, and his antennae flatten against his neck in reflex at the sudden incursion of light.

For a moment of disorientation, he's not sure whether the voice he's hearing belongs to Chandarmaneth or Demarath, only just barely lucid, and whether that's enthusiasm or anger he's hearing, owing to large part to his conditioning - he has far more experience with Chandarmaneth's anger than with anyone's compassion, after all. Then the moment of uncertainty passes and relief washes over him, maw opening as he lets himself roll half onto his side.

“Demarath,” he greets, tone suspended evenly between exasperation and fond relief. “What-” His panting gets in the way of speech for a moment. “What is it?” he asks, willing his sudden erratic heartbeat into calm.

“It worked!” The reply is thrilled, but without context - but obviously whatever it was is reason to celebrate. …had he found a way to escape somehow? Was he coming to rescue his Kaean friend? “I can't believe it, but it worked! Look!” A forepaw grabs hold of Davinath's muzzle with surprising force, twisting it to face him as he holds up a forearm in front of the Azratha's face. An unblemished forearm, not gnarled or twisted in the slightest, coated uniformly in healthy, copper-colored scales. The patch of darkened scales on the right side of his ecstatically grinning face is gone as well, and the tips of his upward-curled antennae are no longer plagued by necrosis. “Isn't it wonderful?” he asks, voice a low whisper, filled with energy.

Demarath's words and gestures don't quite want to mesh into a coherent statement in Davinath's head. A stupefied stare lingers on the arm, message not registering past the only slowly receding haze of sleep, even with adrenalin helping him along.

And then it dawns on him, galloping down his spine as a light bristle of his scales and an almost nauseating chill. He's untwisted his body. It's done. He's no longer his friend, no matter if he thinks otherwise - they're completely different creatures. Demarath's insane, he just hasn't noticed it yet - and he has a forepaw wrapped around Davinath's muzzle.

The Kaean holds very still. “…congratulations,” he comments in some automation, keeping the terror in his gut from infecting his voice, tone steady and almost without inflection.

Demarath's mood dampens slightly at that response, a hint of confusion worming into his expression - but it's not nearly enough to stem his excitement. “It's the most incredible feeling, I… - I don't even know how to properly describe it. I've never felt this… - this alive before. And the strength! Davinath, you… - you'd never believe what it's like. It's amazing. Here, see!” Before Davinath has a chance to react, the Srian's free hand finds purchase on his upper arm. A breath later, the grip tightens into a punishing vice, sharp claws pressing against Davinath's flesh.

The Kaean utters a note of distress at the harsh grip, posture shrinking, his forepaws folding themselves into tense fists, crushed against each other, and his antennae flatten fully against his neck, eyes wide. An instant later, the soft sound morphs into a low howl and his body jerks in an attempt to yank itself free, albeit obviously to no avail.

He wants to wake up now. This is clearly a nightmare - Demarath's looming over him with the venomous glee of one of the Hzataalar, they've gotten his friend, he's alone again now, at the whim of Chandarmaneth, at the whim of Shahrivrath, and at the whim of what Demarath has unwittingly become. It has to be a nightmare. Please let it be a nightmare. His breath hitches and his eyes squeeze shut.

For a long moment, Demarath's giddy excitement at his new form meshes bizarrely with confusion at Davinath's reaction. Suddenly, clarity dawns on him: Davinath is in pain. …why is he in pain? He's not squeezing that hard. He's not trying to hurt him. He's just trying to show how much stronger he's become as a result of his transformation. Finally, the grip relents; instead the Srian is gazing down at his friend, expression one primarily of concern, though a bit of his excitement is still bleeding through. “…Davinath, is something wrong?” he asks, confusion evident in his tone.

There are, Davinath feels, many things he could be telling Demarath right now, and a seed of rage lashing through his gut wants to throw the bundle at the Srian and then escape. 'Oh, sure, crush my arm and then ask me if something's wrong!' certainly comes to mind. 'You're insane, that's what's wrong!' is also in there somewhere. 'I've lost my best friend, leave me alone!' is another hot contestant. His aching arm flexes, bound forepaws twisted up against the sore spot awkwardly, pressing against it, his antennae still flattened against his neck, fear still overwhelming, clamping down on his urge to snap at this newly minted abomination. “…please don't hurt me,” he says, finally, pitifully, not sure which part of him's prompted the statement, but so very sincerely meaning it, panic gripping his gut. This is nothing to wake up to. He can't deal with this right now.

Demarath's confusion mixes with concern. Davinath's afraid he's going to hurt him? Why? “…Of course I'm not going to hurt you, Davinath,” he replies after a long pause, tone soothing if mildly confused. “I'm your friend.” The forepaw that so recently was applying crushing force to his arm lifts to the Kaean's forehead, digits tracing down past his antennae and along the vertebrae in his neck. “That hasn't changed.”

And then the gears are shifting and the Srian is trying to be caring. A part of Davinath acknowledges the attempt as a form of empathy, genuine evidence of sanity within the hzataal, but the rest of him simply utterly baulks at the idea of a Hzataalar Sria running fingers along his spine. His muzzle lowers, neck creeping down slowly and steadily, a frightened gaze latched on Demarath. “Everything,” he objects. “Everything's changed, and if you don't see that-” He cuts himself off, not even sure what coherent train of thought he was trying to articulate - it's gone, dissolved amongst the froth of his emotions. He forces himself to breathe once, slowly, before continuing with a submissively intoned but no less vehement: “Would you please keep your distance for a moment? I'm trying to digest this. I promise you, I'm trying.” After a fashion. He certainly needs some physical space, though, if he wants a chance to calm down.