Avishraa Reloaded

The task Ilirith's been given, categorizing all the linking books in Udunshraa's library, might be described as nothing short of Herculean, ignoring for the moment that such a cultural reference would surely be lost to the Citadel's inhabitants. Instead, it's 'merely' onerous, time-consuming, and so utterly broad in scope as to be mind-boggling – but it's certainly been remarkably educational. Ilirith's glimpsed works in styles rather unlike her mother's or her own – while all follow a familiar structure, some descriptions are flowing and dynamic, seeming to take a life of their own, while others are so dense as to be nearly opaque, taking quite some time to even puzzle out the primary features of the place.

Between cataloguing the books and regular forays into the worlds they describe in search of survivors, though, there's been little opportunity for her to work on her own books thus far. Her progress has been routinely monitored by Demarath; usually he's off doing something else for most of the time, though he's never “seen reason to tell her” what. However, some days he remains in the library instead, observing her with the air of a scientist studying some ill-understood phenomenon.

Today is evidently one of those days, given that he's been observing her with idle curiosity for the past hour or so as she's worked through a particularly convoluted description of what's looking to amount to another dead-end, though there's something in there about gravity that's potentially promising, if only she could work out what it was actually doing.

As enjoyable as puzzling out the fine art of Writing usually is, she finds herself getting mildly frustrated. The metaconcepts used in the text of the book are ones she's encountered before; wide-ranging and vast as the vocabulary of the arcane terms is, she's become acquainted with many of them. She's just never seen them together before, and finds it hard to grasp what they're doing to each other.

The linking image isn't much help, either - things are clearly sticking to the ground oddly, but beyond that little can be said. It's terrible to think that someone wanted to deliberately twist space, time, and mass into some kind of pretzel; it's the kind of book a Kaean would write, she thinks, and probably just for a bit of a chuckle.

On top of everything else, Demarath's watchful gaze is not improving her mood; even when she's not looking at him, Ilirith can feel it. While she doesn't quite like the way he wanders off at times, either - this place is gigantic and empty, with just her in it! - when he watches her like this, not saying anything, it gets uncomfortable in the extreme. After spending centuries in the desert, she'd hoped for some… conversation, or something.

For a long time, the only sound is the scritching of her pen, writing in her notebook, as she struggles to make sense of the text. At last, though, she says, neither looking up nor ceasing in her task, she says, “How you amuse yourself is your business, of course… but I'm surprised you find the sight of someone writing all that absorbing.”

The beginnings of an irritated growl spill from him, and antennae stiffen and flare outwards momentarily, but he curbs the reaction before it has much chance to get anywhere. The silence continues for several long breaths before he responds. “Have you given any more thought to my offer, Ilirith?” he asks, hint of a smile curling into his features.

The scritching of the pen stops, the pen itself held still. It's a question the dragoness had been hoping Demarath wouldn't ask yet, all the more so because she doesn't yet have the kind of answer the copper is probably looking for. After a pause, she replies, still not meeting his gaze, “…Yes. I think about it every day. Believe me.”

That certainly prompts a reaction from Demarath, bits of excited glee mixed with some pleasant surprise spreading into his expression. She's been keeping her word, that's wonderful. And, better yet, potentially usable. Of course, given her phrasing, it doesn't seem likely she's come to a conclusion, but that doesn't detract from the statement's usefulness. “Really,” he muses, taking a few steps forward. “I take it then that you've yet to come to a decision?”

Ilirith begins writing again, concentrating intensely on the page. “Not as such,” she mutters. “But it is more a question of when, rather than if, if you must know. I am sure that at some point, if nothing else, health considerations would drive me to it.” And that's true enough, she thinks. She is sure of that. But she feels that there's no need to describe why.

The thought of him sneering at a creature occasionally prone to severe grand mal seizures was not one she wanted to face. At any rate, she hadn't had one since many months before her capture; just the little ones that set her limbs twitching. It's bad enough him knowing about those.

Demarath gives a slow, sage nod. So she's concerned about her health. That's certainly as good a reason as any to undergo the process. “Perfectly understandable,” he replies. “Although, I should inform you, the process is neither easy nor quick, and requires a great deal of involved preparation beforehand.” Although there's a better-than-average chance that it won't require quite as much as his did, since they won't have to rederive parts of the transformation from first principles if her mana type matches one of theirs. “So if you've already decided that it'll be necessary eventually, there's no logical reason for you to continue putting it off.”

Ilirith tries to continue writing, but her pen simply hovers above the page. Her concentration, such as it had been, was gone. She sighs, and puts it down. “I am quite convinced of the physical benefits,” she replies, finally looking at him. “But I find it prudent to get an idea of how it will change the way I think. What it will do to my mind. Considering the encounter I last had with a Hzataal before meeting you, that's an important thing to be certain about before I'm prepared to become one myself.”

The Hzataal's expression shifts subtly, eyes narrowing and antennae lowering into a light sneer. “Is that so,” he purrs venomously, taking another two steps closer, posture shifting to something more vertical to better loom over her. “And what exactly gives you the idea that you're in any position to make such a judgment as you are now?”

One of the dragoness' antennae dips in concern at Demarath's stance, but with a slow breath she forces herself to remain calm. “Life,” she says, taking care to look him in the eyes, “is judgment. The desert teaches that. If I did not dare to judge - and I do, and on things much greater than this - I might as well be a vegetable.”

For a long moment, there's tense silence between them, Demarath glaring at her in a mix of confusion and frustration. Then, finally, he breathes a soft sighand shakes his head gently. She's missed the point entirely. “While that may be true in many simple cases,” he begins, clear tone of irritation in those last two words, “there is apoint at which it breaks down, and this is precisely that point.”

He shouldn't have to be explaining this. It's transparently self-evident – at least to him. Of course, given her condition, it's not a surprise, but he'd hoped for something a bit more promising. A part of him briefly ponders whether this is all an colossal waste of time – the explanation, the conversation, the offer, dealing with Ilirith at all…. But no, he can't give up yet. She's the one Srian they've found so far, and if giving her the opportunity to choose freely meant explaining rudimentary concepts, then that's the price to pay.

“Of course you can't make a judgment on how the transition will change the way you think, precisely because it will change the way you think. How can a creature blind from birth understand what it's like to be able to see? How can a creature unable to form mind-links understand how that sense influences one's perception of oneself and of others? How can a creature that has never truly experienced freedom even grasp such a concept?” There's unmistakable energy in that last rhetorical question, a frightening, dark ecstasy tinged with a frustrated tension; then the moment passes and he's turned his muzzle upward, gaze finding an abstract spot on the rotor above them. “If you're looking to understand how it will change the way you think, there is precisely one way to do so.”

Ilirith had watched Demarath carefully as he spoke, finding herself wondering how precisely he expected her to believe that the way a Hzataal thought was so different from that of a Davir Sria that she would not be able to understand it. She had said nothing, merely attempting to look vaguely attentive - at least, until his mention of freedom. Then her expression had changed, in some strange subtle way that was hard to pin down, acquiring an undertone of some other emotion. Despite the fact that she is manifestly not doing so, one would be tempted to swear that it almost looks like she's wearing a satisfied smile.

“Freedom,” she murmurs. Her voice then begins returning to a normal volume, but slowly, as if reluctantly pulling away from some larger thought. “Well, well. Yes, I suppose I see what you mean. …Nonetheless, if I may, I shall still wait a while longer. No doubt I will feel ready in due time.”

The expression on Demarath's muzzle adopts a hint of curiosity, but it dissipates as his attitude slowly cools to one of resigned disappointment. Even if she's grasped some small part of what he's trying to communicate, it's not enough to guide her away from her irrational hesitation. “You have made yourself useful so far, and so long as you continue to do so I have no issue granting you the time you need to come to a decision.”

Ilirith dips her head in agreeable submission, the odd sense of satisfaction still quite present. “Thank you. I intend to remain useful.” She turns back to her notes, picking up her pen as if intending to continue where she'd left off, but a thought seems to strike her. “Ah. That reminds me. …If I may, I'd like to ask a favor. Is it safe to venture outside Udunshraa these days?”

The question strikes Demarath as a non sequitur, eliciting an expression of confusion laced with irritation. “Outside? What exactly does going outside Udunshraa have to do with anything?” he asks, eyeing her with a skeptical look. He's not outright dismissing the notion, so there's at least a chance she'd be allowed, but he can't see why she'd want to.

Ilirith regards him for a moment, then idly glances at the book she'd been studying and jots down a few more notes. “I thought, perhaps, that my continuing usefulness might be worth a small favor such as this, that's all. Of course, if that's not the case, then by all means, forget I mentioned it.” A pause, and then - “I wanted to look for my father.”

… A favor. The notion seems to rub the Hzataal Sria the wrong way entirely. Does she think she's entitled to 'favors'? He's already doing her plenty of favors – offering her as much choice as he can afford to give her, protecting her from other Hzataalar, allowing her to stay in Udunshraa. And she's asking for more?

Then again… she has been well-behaved, all things considered, even if she still seems to fail to understand her position here. She's done what he's asked of her efficiently and without complaint. Encouraging that behavior is just as important as disabusing her of her misconceptions, and aside from how she phrased her request, he has no rational reason to forbid it – he could easily protect her from any dangers she might encounter out there. Still, if he simply agrees, that would send entirely the wrong message.

“Ilirith,” he begins, right forepaw gliding up the back of her neck, before coming to grip the base of her skull firmly, central digit continuing the curve of her spine to rest at the back of her cranium, other digits splayed to the side. That didn't bode terribly well – he very rarely addresses her by name unless it's a sign of disappointment. “Before I answer your request, there's something I should clarify for you, since you still seem to have a few unfortunate misconceptions.” His expression has turned smug again, as the pressure of his claw against the back of her skull increases faintly.

“I appreciate your usefulness. I really do. But please don't make the mistake of thinking that means you're entitled to any more favors from me than what I've already granted you.” Another increase in pressure, still not yet painful but certainly uncomfortable. “You're incredibly lucky, Ilirith. Perhaps you don't realize that, but I assure you, your life could be much worse if I didn't have such a vested interest in your well-being.” His muzzle lowers to a few centimeters away, silver eyes staring piercingly into hers. “…Am I making myself clear?” Oddly, that question isn't in the demanding tone she might expect, but rather a cautious, curious, almost hopeful one.

Ilirith grits her teeth. So much for that avenue of reciprocity. He speaks of freedom, she thinks, without knowing the trap he's in; he talks about favors without considering rights. Aloud, she says, “I entirely understand,” in a voice several tens of degrees lower in temperature than before. “I was asking for a favor, not demanding one. If you are not inclined to grant it, then I shall return to my work.” She finds it best not to comment on whether she will return to it with the same amount of diligence or enthusiasm.

Whatever hint of warmth there might have been in the tone of his query, it's quick to vanish. The grip remains on her skull, but does not increase its pressure. “…You know, I was planning to let you go outside, as a reward for your good behavior, but if you're going to continue being this difficult with me despite my best efforts to make you comfortable, I don't see much point in doing so.” His paw relaxes, and then relents, as he takes a step back. “But if you'd rather stay here and keep working, by all means.” At that point, he turns away, and slowly makes his way towards the central stairway.

Ilirith sits staring at her notebook, without seeing. The nerve! The arrogance! She picks up her pen, fiddles with it, then throws it back down. …What does he want from her? She'd given in already, hadn't she? She'd said what he wanted, hadn't she? She'd said she wasn't making demands, hadn't she?

Finally, she whirls around in her seat, trying to ignore the little twitches starting to move down her arms. “Look, I'm sorry! Is that what you want? I'm sorry for being angry!” She hates herself for apologizing. She'd happily avoid asking for further favors to avoid doing so again (except for seeing her books; she refuses to give up the chance at seeing her books), but here and now, she thinks, there is an important matter to take care of.

The Hzataal Sria pauses in his stride, a few meters from the staircase, wings flaring briefly, bristling with faint static electricity. She's missed the point, again. It has nothing to do with her anger, and everything to do with her lack of respect. 'She's trying,' a part of him points out. 'You can't blame her for her failure to understand; she's only Davir Sria after all.'

Was that all it was? Had he himself been this dense when he was nothing more than an animal? He's quite sure that he'd at least learned to respect his superiors. He shakes his head briskly, dislodging the thought process. No use thinking about that now. “…Fine,” he barks back, over his shoulder, before continuing to the stairs. “I'm going outside. If you want to tag along, you'd best catch up.”

Ilirith scrambles after him. 'Scramble' is exactly the right word, too. The tremors in her forelegs have passed, but her hindlegs are as unsupportive as ever they were, shaking with the effort of pushing her along. Her trek up the stairs, as it has been every day, is managed via a series of telekinetically-assisted hops. By the time she reaches the top, she's managed to catch up somewhat, though she almost immediately begins to fall behind again as she silently follows Demarath along the corridor to the main gate.

When at last the great doors move aside and the pair step out into the air, Ilirith can only stare. The air is nothing like she remembers, thin and cold and dry. A hundred paces beyond the walls, the treeline still stands, but the trees themselves are brown, either dead or only barely surviving. And in the sky… great Avikael, the sky…

At first, she doesn't understand what it is she's seeing. An immense blue curve crisscrossed by red cracks, like the gas giant brought much closer and set mostly below the horizon, except the wrong color… but the giant is still up in the sky, albeit at the wrong angle. Only slowly does it steal over her what it must be, and she reels at the thought of it.

“The world,” she whispers. “Cracked like an egg? Wh-what did this?”

Demarath continues his stride several more steps, as if oblivious to Ilirith's disorientation, before his gaze twists back to her, confusion evident in his expression. Then the connection is made: She hasn't been here since before the Culling. She's probably familiar with a much different view than this one, even if nothing could be more commonplace to him by now. “Isn't it obvious?” he responds, tone underscored with that ever-present smugness. “Six hundred years of unmitigated chaos.” There's a hint of wistful sorrow in that statement, and perhaps a trace of anger that – for once – isn't directed at her. Then both vanish, and he's turned his attention away from her, studying the horizon.

If angry glares were daggers, Ilirith's would pierce the back of Demarath's skull. Of all the things to be knowing about, he's picked the end of the Order-spurned world. Standing there with a smug look on his face - and in her present mood, she finds it hard to believe that she's not mistaken in seeing something less annoying there - while, while, while… bits of the world are just floating around in the distance. Arrogant bastard.

Ilirith wants to ask for more details. She really does. But what she wants even more is not to give him any further excuses to wave his superior knowledge at her, and so she remains stubbornly silent on the matter. Anyway, if it's chaos… surely the monsters were involved in it, somehow. That's all she needs to know. Another thing they destroyed. She glances around, trying to avoid the sight of the sky. All of a sudden, she wants to find her father, dig him up, and then be back inside.

Meanwhile, quite some distance away, hidden in the sickly underbrush, two pairs of eyes have focused on the Sria, and watch them with interest.

The sight of the twisted and shattered earth itself is long since familiar to him, but having it explicitly pointed out and offering an explanation, however curt it may have been, prompts a moment of reflection. When all was said and done, this is what it had always been for, after all. Shahrivrath's arguments held weight, of course, but this sight had been the catalyst that lead him inexorably down the path of locating – and ideally converting – the surviving Srians. If they could just acquire the necessary critical mass, in a few generations this damage might be reparable.

Hopefully they wouldn't all be as stubborn as Ilirith.

There's no sign of intruders as far as he can see; rare as they are these days, it's not entirely unheard of. “I believe you mentioned something about finding your father's remains?” he asks coldly, turning his attention back to her.

“Yes,” Ilirith replies, scanning the nearby wall of the Citadel's vast bulk. “I'm looking.” It hadn't been far from the gate, she thinks, but not this close. There had been… a large tree, they'd tried hiding there… could that be it, over there? It's hard to tell, everything looks different out here now. Especially the trees. She begins hobbling in that direction. “This way, I believe.”

The eyes in the trees, and presumably whatever they're attached to, stay still for the moment, until the copper one stops watching. But, in the psychic space between them, a message flickers: ~Awfully bold. Or they're looking for something important.~ There is a reply, much more amused: ~Or they've forgotten the lessons we taught them, poor things.~

Demarath follows Ilirith in tense silence, antennae perked up in alertness, paying close attention to his surroundings in case of an attack. The fresh air, and the visceral reminder of his reasons for embarking on this process at all, help the copper Hzataal put his current troubles with Ilirith into fresh perspective. She hasn't yet agreed to convert – perhaps giving her the option had been a mistake, but it's too late to take that back now; he'll have to adjust his strategy the next time. But… she was still considering it, and any actions he can take to improve the chances of that happening would be to his long-term benefit. If letting her find her father's remains improved those chances – or offered the opportunity to improve those chances – wasn't it his duty to ensure he made maximal use of that?

So she wants to understand how he thinks, in preparation for her conversion. She can't, of course – he's already explained as much – but she's certainly capable of thinking she does; and if she wants to believe she understands, he can certainly make efforts to satisfy that. He's not going to take anything like orders from her, of course; anything of the sort will still get quickly rectified if she's that dull. But perhaps, with enough time and effort, he can adjust her way of thinking enough to get her to convert.

Ilirith pays little attention to the copper; her brain isn't exactly on the present day in any case. She's quite sure that's the right tree; even dead,it's the right shape, preserved by the thin, dry air. This was where they'd been attacked, and they'd run toward the wall, this way… she turns, following the dim memories in her head.

But as she continues, the silence becomes jarring. She's had enough silence in her life up to now. She asks, absently, “May I ask… what happened to your family? I assume they escaped the Culling?”

Demarath's gaze locks onto Ilirith, and a light growl surfaces from his throat, twitch of irritation at the subject matter glancing off his expression before he turns his gaze aside, scanning the skyline. It almost looks like he's planning to simply ignore the question, before he replies: “'Escaped' is such a misleading term.” Antennae twitch back, and lips part into a light grimace. “They– we thought we were safe. It was a delusion.” A pause, and his eyes turn back to Ilirith. “My parents and my brother, the only 'family' I had growing up, were all killed.”

The green dragoness breaks her step briefly. “Ah…” She searches for something to say. Well, if they'd ultimately lived, surely she would've… seen one of them by now, or something. She should have known. “I'm… sorry. I will pray for them.” She continues onward, toward a dark discoloration on the Citadel wall.

She adds, in a considerably more venomous voice, “Would that I were confident any prayers would be answered.”

The promise to pray for his deceased family – if they could even be called that any more – clearly strikes a nerve. “Don't waste your breath,”he hisses back venomously, glaring daggers at Ilirith, tensed as if he might spring to hurt her any moment. “They died from their own stupidity and short-sightedness. They don't need prayers from anyone.” Least of all an animal like you, he stops himself from adding. He falls silent, breathing slowly and deeply, forcing himself into a state of calm.

Ilirith stares at him, antennae drooping in fear… and, it must be said, horror. That had not at all been what she'd expected, and she finds herself wondering, perhaps, if he hadn't been right about her inability to comprehend him. Who would think of their own family like that, stupidity or not?

She turns away, trying to regain her bearings, and trying not to let the shudder building up inside her become visible. No telling how he would react to that.

This time, it's Demarath's turn to grow increasingly ill-at-ease with the current silence, with the topic still floating in the air between them. A slow sigh escapes him, and he waves a forepaw dismissively. “And besides, that was all a lifetime ago. None of it is even remotely relevant any more.” Just a few leftover, unwanted memories that remain firmly lodged in his psyche.

They approach the wall of the Citadel. The dark brown blotch on the wall that had been visible from a distance appears, this close up, to be the dried, crusted remains of some liquid that had been splashed there, preserved in the dead air. Ilirith stares at it, silently comparing Demarath's statement with the memories bubbling up from her childhood. Not looking at Demarath, she croaks, in a shaking voice, “Perhaps not.” She lowers her head, and then begins scooping out dirt from a spot on the ground near the blotch.

A single digit scratches at the wall, flakes of dried blood peeling off, rubbed into fine dust between his fingers as he examines it. A brief twitch of irritation crosses his expression, directed (for once) not towards Ilirith but to the blatant smudge of disorder on the Citadel's wall. Perhaps he can get Ilirith to clean it off when she's done with whatever she's doing with her dead father's remains.

Demarath's gaze shifts back to the other dragon, coldly observing her. She's afraid of him – there's no snarky retort being bitten back, no misguided sense of superiority, just an entirely reasonable, and largely recognizable, terror. He still remembers his own fear of Shahrivrath, even if now it's little more than an abstraction. But his relationship with Shahrivrath was by definition different from that which he's attempting to cultivate with Ilirith – Shahrivrath never gave him a choice, aside from 'obey or die'; so it was easy for him to wield that fear against his former self. But now, it's not clear that the same sort of fear will be useful to his purposes, even if it does bolster his injured pride.

So what will be useful, then? The only way to determine that is to observe, and to infer. What does he understand so far? She is a Writer; her books are precious to her – that is leverage. She has some degree of sympathy towards him, rare as it is to occur and ill-founded as it is – evidenced by the fact she offered to pray for his family. (A wire of irritation at that reminder makes its presence known; he stretches and flexes his wings in attempt to dispel it.) Irritating though that might have been, there is potential there. And she's… digging up her father's remains, now, for some reason? “What exactly is it you're hoping to accomplish by doing this?” he asks, tone and expression of curiosity, both.

Ilirith wonders whether Demarath is that far gone that he can't guess the answer… or whether she's so far gone as to be incomprehensible. Neither answer is comforting. Aloud, however, she simply says, “I am reuniting my parents. It's… for my peace of mind.” Placing the palm of one forepaw down, and leaning down so that her antennae is likewise touching the ground, she begins humming.

A faint blue glow builds up around the paw, and then, with hum suddenly being cut off, the glow vanishes into the dirt with a faint thump. Her antenna twitches, she nods to herself, and she begins digging in a slightly different spot.

Reuniting..? Ah, yes, the Srian's mother had been on Tarrabor with her daughter, and perished there. A mind-link viciously torn like that would be deeply traumatic for both mother and daughter – something he can personally attest to. A simple model of Ilirith's internal logic begins to form in his mind – father murdered, fleeing for their life, she and her mother travel through one of her books. Mother dies – of natural causes, from the harsh climate, or from simple lack of will to live. Now she's here, and….

And there the logic breaks down. Antennae twist lightly in confusion, lips creasing. It still doesn't explain what she means by 'reuniting her parents'. Rather than question her on it further, though, he takes a more passive role, simply observing her, gaze occasionally darting up to scan the sky or horizon.

The eyes among the trees watch with interest and amusement… or at least one pair does. The temper of the other seems to be shortening. ~We ought to just kill them and go,~ this one says. ~If it's something important they're looking for, we can dig it up after they're dead.~

The amused one sounds even more amused. ~So impatient, my friend. We might learn something from watching them.~

~Your father might disagree,~ comes the snapped reply. ~Indeed, he would be liable to call it cowardice. I wouldn't want to have to mention that when he questions me about what happened.~

The amused pair of eyes fixes the other with a half-lidded stare. Amused, still, and friendly… but, perhaps, now there is a hint, just a hint, of something else behind them. Their owner certainly intends to remember that remark. ~Curiosity, my friend, curiosity,~ it replies mildly. ~Not cowardice. I think- wait.~ Both pairs of eyes turn toward a noise, further out from the Citadel. Something large is moving through the brush.

The amused pair of eyes adopts a businesslike tone. ~Keep an eye on them by the wall, will you? I'll look into the noise. Maybe another Srian's decided to come home.~ While the other eyes grumbled, it moved very carefully through the brush.

When the dark green dragon had first stumbled upon this particular chunk of floating rock in the sky, it had seemed almost impossible. The Srian Citadel – still standing, despite everything the Kaeans had done to try and break it. It didn't look terribly impressive, just a massive, broad dome jutting from the earth, unlike its Kaean twin. He didn't know whether anyone was still in there, or whether the wards were still active, or whether they'd do anything to him if they were – though the answer to that last one was probably 'yes' – but it was at least worth checking out.

Neginath had flown down to the edge of the shard of earth, and begun the trek through the forest surrounding the Citadel. He didn't particularly want to be noticed flying up to the Citadel in case there did happen to be prying eyes watching from inside; he might've given the wrong impression. So the slightly longer way it was.

It had all been going so well, too, until, not far from the edge of the forest, he caught the sound of voices nearby, followed by the sound of motion. He freezes in place, then slowly turns towards the source of the noise, making as little sound as possible. He reaches a hand behind his back, drawing the spear from its harness and gripping it firmly in both hands, his stance shifting to a firm defensive one. And he waits.

A pair of green eyes peer through the underbrush, opening wide with astonishment. “Neginath?” a voice calls out, judging it safe to speak softly this far from the Srians. A bronze head extrudes itself from the dry foliage, antennae upcurled in delight. “Great Telkael, is that you?”

Antennae perk up as that single word is spoken, surprise and terror competing for dominance of his expression. How could someone who knows who he is be here? It takes several moments to place the voice, but only an instant to recognize the face once he sees it. Zadireth. For a brief moment, his jaws part, antennae drooping back in mixed fear and dismay. He's been discovered. All those years of running and hiding, and now he runs into, not just any Hzataal, but the very one he'd most wanted to never, ever see again.

It's only a moment later that the shock wears off and his arm flings back, unstrapping the spear from his back and twirling it to point in Zadireth's direction, both forepaws holding it steadily as he shifts his weight further back. “You,” he hisses, eyes narrowing into a glare. “What in the gods' names are you doing here?”

The bronze leans upon a low-lying tree branch, the look of near-manic cheerfulness never departing his face… though he appears to be keeping one eye on the spear. “That's no way to greet your dear cousin, now, is it?” He brings a claw up to his mouth, picks something out of his teeth, inspects it briefly, then flicks it away. At last, he adds, “Father sent me to keep an eye on that Citadel. I don't know what he expected me to find, but I can't imagine he thought I'd find you.” He rests his muzzle on his forepaw, fixing Neginath with a steady gaze. “He was really very upset, you know, when you left. Family just disappearing like that. And of course, he doesn't like to see Auntie distraught.”

Neginath's lips press to a thin line, antennae swept back in annoyance, eyes only leaving Zadireth for quick flickers to the side, scanning for tricks or backup. He's certain Zadireth isn't alone, and equally certain he's not surrounded, but the exact number of fellow Kaeans he has with him is unknown.

No, greeting one's 'dear cousin' by pointing a spear at them is perfectly reasonable if said cousin happens to be a sadistic psychopath – and given the saccharine chime in Zadireth's voice, that doesn't seem likely to have changed. He starts pondering what he's going to do when Zadireth tries to capture him. The spear would help equalize the battle, but he had no idea how physically strong Zadireth was, or what he's learned to do with his magic in the past few centuries. His best bet would probably be to flee and hide, ideally while Zadireth was distracted by something. For now, the best thing to do is wait and plan, which meant keep Zadireth talking while trying to figure out what to do and just how screwed he is. Hopefully he's still fond of the sound of his own voice. “Really,” he comments drily. “I can't possibly imagine why he'd care, it's not like I was the world's best nephew.”

“Family is family, Neginath. And it's always worth sparing a thought for family.” Zadireth pauses, eyes suddenly glittering. “Particularly when you're close to them. I know Zanareth must have been quite worried; you and she got along so well.” He waggles a cheerful finger. “Shame on you, cousin, for deserting her like that.”

The dragon's antennae twitch sharply, a note of shame creeping into his expression. Zanareth. It'd been a while since he'd even thought about her; he'd almost forgotten about her entirely, between the length of time since he last saw her and the sheer effort of surviving in the wilderness. He'd wanted her to come with him; he still remembers the day he asked her, but she knew all too well what the consequences of that would be. It was sad, but there wasn't anything he could've done to help her out of the awful situation she was in.

“I had my reasons,” he answers coldly. And then, after a few moments of hesitation, he starts, “Is…” 'Is she still alive' was a terrible thing to ask. “How… is she doing?”

“Ah. Well, you know-” Here, the bronze puts on a somber expression. “We had thought, well, perhaps she of anyone would know where you'd gone. Father became convinced of it, in fact. He asked her to tell him anything she knew. He asked and asked. But… you know how Father is, of course. He can be quite… rigorous.” He sighs, and adds, “Happily, her limp is finally gone. But Father remains mistrustful, I'm afraid.” His antennae curl upward again. “The next scouting mission I go on, she's to go with me, under my supervision. I shall look after her with all due brotherly concern, of course.”