Avishraa Reloaded

Aveshinoth has come down into the cooling room again. That, in itself, isn't the odd part; she's her mother's heir, dutifully checking on the town's food supply, the sort of behavior you might expect and approve of in a future matriarch. She does it every few vigils, and has for many turns now.

No, the odd part, of late, has been her apparent thoughtful inspection of the system keeping the food cold; this being not a device or mechanism, but a living takma, it's quite possible that he doesn't know what to do with the attention. Or maybe he does. Aveshinoth feels that, nice as the latter would be, it's not really essential just at the moment. Finishing her survey of the stores, the young female pauses by the door, hesitates, and abruptly turns and sits across from him. Even sitting, the black dragoness looms over him; she is neither very short nor, particularly, in any way lightly built.

“Your name is Demarath, isn't it?” she asks. It's quite possibly the first thing she's said to him beyond a monosyllable.

The clan's refrigeration system, a male takma only a handful of turns younger than Aveshinoth, seems to be intently focussed on a rather large chunk of meat that was only recently brought in, one forepaw just shy of touching it, invisibly teasing the latent heat out of it. It's not a task that particularly requires focus and effort – on the contrary, he's been doing this for so long that it's become almost unbearably monotonous by now – but it serves as an adequate distraction from the more troubling thing in the room.

Aveshinoth. The matriarch's daughter and heir to the position. It's not the frequency of her visits that's strange, so much as the timing of them. Up until maybe half a turn ago, her inspections and his duties rarely coincided except by chance; now it almost seems like she's specifically coming to see him, and the stores are secondary. Which… he's not sure how to interpret. Most likely she's keeping an eye on him out of suspicion; she is, after all, one of the few people outside his family who knows about his condition.

A visible twitch runs through the copper-scaled takma when she speaks, gaze swiveling up to meet hers, expression briefly indicating that he's anticipating something terrible about to happen before he manages to paper over it with a deferential, if somewhat tense, dip of his muzzle. “Yes, that's right,” he replies. If it were anyone else, he'd reply with a similar statement; but with The Matriarch's Daughter, that would just fall flat. “…Is there something you require of me?”

Aveshinoth does not immediately reply. The initial impression might be an attempt to intimidate, but the faint difference in elevation between her antennae, and the coiling movements at the tip of her tail, suggest an only partly hidden hesitation, even nervousness. When she finally speaks, however, her tone is level.

“I merely wish to speak to you. It has occurred to me lately that I should know more of the-” She pauses only briefly. The term 'witches' is clearly the first thing to spring to her mind, and for an experienced observer this is as plain as if she had actually said the word, but she obviously feels it would be impolitic to use it. “-the magic-users in my mother's service. Her guardian is not known to speak out, unfortunately, but I thought that since your task, perhaps, leaves you with little company, you would not be inconvenienced by some conversation.”

A twinge of nervous discomfort runs through Demarath's posture, gaze shifting over to the side, briefly eyeing the hunk of meat he'd been working on cooling. Yes, conversation would be a wonderful distraction, if it were with someone less intimidating than Aveshinoth, and if he weren't convinced it served some ulterior motive. She only started paying any attention to him recently, and she's being nicer to him than she has any reason to. What exactly is she hoping to get out of him?

Demarath's neck twists back and forth in a noncommital gesture. “I suppose,” he replies without enthusiasm. His gaze avoids the Matriarch's heir for a few moments longer, before reluctantly turning back to face her, putting on the most pleasant face he can muster. “…Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about?”

The dragoness assumes an expression of regal benevolence; or at least, that seems to be the intent. It's not a look she's practiced much. “Well… I admit to being curious about your… kind. My mother's willingness to make use of your abilities, and that of her, uh, guardian, has not translated into any kind of understanding or curiosity. For example: you were, I understand, born with your abilities? They are not something that can be acquired?”

One of Demarath's antennae droops hesitantly. Lovely, questions about witches in general – a subject he's woefully ignorant about. It's not as if he's really ever spoken to another takma 'of his kind', after all. “I don't think it's something one can just learn, no,” he replies after a moment's pause. “…But yes, I've… been able to do what I can do since I was young.” His attention momentarily hops back to the chunk of meat he's been preparing, tapping on it with one forepaw. “But like anything else, it's something one needs to practice at to get better.”

“Hmmm.” The matriarch's heir looks slightly resigned, as if Demarath's answer had been disappointing but expected. Does she hope to gain magical powers? “I don't suppose you would know, then, whether magical abilities are inherited? The tales suggest so, the ones about the witch-clans of the mountains…”

“I'm… afraid I wouldn't know that,” he replies after a long pause, chilly gaze turning back to Aveshinoth. “There are a lot of tales out there, though, and if I had to guess, most don't have much truth to them.”

Aveshinoth stands up, and strolls closer to Demarath before sitting down directly in front of him. The stiffness of her antennae, not quite concealed, suggests that she had not appreciated the tone of his last answer.

Her voice, however, is sweetness itself. “I beg your pardon; would you prefer a different topic of conversation?” She bores into the copper's face with an unblinking gaze.

As soon as Aveshinoth starts to approach him, Demarath realizes he's made a mistake – either something he said or something in his tone attracted her ire; he's not entirely sure which, nor does he particularly have time to care. His gut lurches in instinctive panic, screaming at him to either run or drive her off, but he manages to curb both, shuffling a few steps back to put a little bit more space between them. Antennae curl back, pressing against his neck, tips pointing out in an expression that's not quite sure whether to be defensive or terrified. His fingers curl around each other tensely, and – it might just be Aveshinoth's imagination, but it seemed, just for an instant, like there was a tiny spark of light between them.

After a few tense moments, Demarath's breathing slows to a normal pace, tips of his antennae pressing back against his neck and snout lowering in a practiced submissive bow. “I humbly apologize, Lady Aveshinoth,” he replies, voice quiet but subtly strained. “I did not mean to upset you; please forgive me.”

The black dragoness' nostrils flare, and then she appears to relax - because of his submission, naturally. Certainly not because the spark in Demarath's forepaw might have been enough to remind the royal to tread carefully.

With a gracious nod, she replies, “There is nothing to forgive. However much I might wish answers to my questions, tasking you with them when you cannot answer serves neither of us…” She trails off, giving the copper another speculative look.

Demarath relaxes his posture slightly, exhaling a quiet sigh of relief through his nostrils. The Matriarch's daughter isn't angry at him. Frustrated, perhaps, with his lack of education on the topic of witch lore – something he can absolutely relate to. “If it's any consolation, it's just as frustrating for me as it is for you,” he replies, eyes peeling open to look up at her cautiously. “I don't have any way of finding out most things about witches or magic, nor anyone who could offer training. Given my… particular situation, it's hard to ask questions about any of it outside of a few people, and the few times I've managed to do so, I've found the answers are mostly nonsense and rumors.”

Demarath's posture slowly shifts, drawing back to a more relaxed position than the low bow he'd been in moments ago. “Please don't mistake my comments for a complaint against the Mother of Mothers, of course; there's not much that could be done to improve matters. But I do certainly understand your frustration.”

Aveshinoth's tail gently slithers back and forth as she regards the copper; evidently she is pondering an idea. She says, absently, “Alas, it would have been better had someone thought to attempt to learn about these things.” She stares a bit longer, and then appears to reach a decision.

“Perhaps it is better if I am plain with you. I have come to see you, Demarath, because I have a… proposition of sorts.”

For a moment, there's a look of uncertainty on Demarath's features; then the implications of her statement connect. Of course she has something she wants. Of course she's not here to have a friendly chat about witches, and of course she doesn't care about his situation. She's not interested in being friendly; just in trying to achieve some end. Demarath shuts his eyes for a breath, inwardly cursing his own optimism… and then the moment has passed, his eyes open and antennae tilt in curiosity. “A proposition?” he repeats, tone one of polite interest. “What sort of proposition?”

Aveshinoth hesitates, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed. “It will sound a bit… unusual. But… the fact is, no matter how legitimately she inherits it, a matriarch is rarely as secure in her position as she would like, you see. There are always those who think they would be a better choice, always opponents and rivals.

“There will not be much more I can do for myself, when the time comes, than the same things my mother had to do for herself when she was young. But it would be wise to consider, now, what to do for my own heirs.” The black dragoness fidgets idly. “My mother was unusual in finding ways for witches to have a useful place in her realm. She believes it has been a worthwhile experiment, and I agree with her… but I don't think she has considered all the possibilities. The power afforded by magic is not something that should be kept and used at tail's length, as she has been doing, when a future matriarch might wield it more… directly.”

Aveshinoth takes a deep breath. “I would like to see that the daughter that comes after me has magic of her own. And as it is approaching the time when I should begin seeking a husband… I, er, I wish to propose marriage. To you.”

For the first few moments, Demarath tunes out her words – he's still angry at himself for his childish mistake, and she sounds like she's trying to get to a point in the most oblique possible manner. Yes, yes, being a Matriarch is hard and dangerous; given the political games his sisters play, he can only imagine what it's like when suddenly everything is real. It's strange how nervous she seems, though. Demarath can't think of a time he's seen her like this, so cautious as to almost appear afraid.

Once she mentions witches, his attention snaps back to the conversation. (What was she just saying, something about heirs?) She wants to find more uses for witches – that could be potentially good, or potentially terrible, depending on what uses she has in mind. It's only when she mentions her daughter having magic of her own that things begin to fall into place, Demarath's eyes starting to widen even before she makes her plans explicit.

Even though he can see her revelation coming, it still manages to catch him by surprise. “…Marriage?” he repeats, dumbly. “You… you want to take me as a husband?” 'You have to answer her, idiot!' he tells himself. “I… erm…” He takes a couple shuffling steps back, suddenly finding himself unable to meet her gaze, seeking out anything else to focus on and eventually settling on an interesting bit of slightly-differently-colored rock in the carved stone floor.

“Yes…” Aveshinoth fiddles idly with her claws. “I imagine it's a lot to take in. But, you know, it would be beneficial for you, as well. You wouldn't have to be stuck in here, for one thing. They say some of the other clans have devised enchantments that can keep food preserved, anyway. You could find more enjoyable things to do with your time.”

Demarath closes his eyes, trying to get over the initial shock of Aveshinoth's question. It certainly would have some benefits, even beyond not needing to spend his time keeping the storeroom cold. He can already hear his mother telling him that this would be greatly politically advantageous, and help foster the relationship between the Matriarch's line and her own. He can already imagine how jealous his siblings would be. It's quite an honor to be chosen as a mate of the rising Matriarch.

But then there are all the downsides. For one, he's not particularly fond of Aveshinoth, though more out of lack of having spoken to her much before today than anything else. He's also not entirely certain he wants to remain in this settlement for his entire life; he'd like to travel and see more of the world, and it would be difficult, if not impossible, to do that as Aveshinoth's mate. A cynical part of him notes that he'd just be trading his current cage for a larger, more comfortable one.

He still needs to say something. “I'm sorry, it's just… this is all very sudden,” he begins, struggling a bit to retain his composure. “I mean, I… we haven't really…” Talked, at all, for more than a passing 'hello'? Spent any time together to figure out if we actually enjoy each other's presence? “This isn't something I thought I'd have to think about so soon,” he says, chuckling a bit, trying to lighten the awkwardness of the situation a bit.

“Yes, yes,” Aveshinoth replies. “There will have to be time to… prepare ourselves. And talk more. And so forth. But,” she continues, tenseness in her voice, “it's not such an unpleasant idea, is it? I have no intention of being unkind to you, I promise.” Her antennae twitch, spread and stiff with… nervousness? Desperation?

For once, Demarath is actually eager to return to his duty – if only to have something to distract him from the sudden awkwardness he's been thrust into. 'Not such an unpleasant idea' – at least she grasps that he's not entirely at ease with the idea. And yet…

Perhaps this could have further benefits down the line. Presumably if she's interested in having an openly-magical heir, it could bring about greater acceptance of his kind in the future. Or lead to other takmar born with such abilities to become even more coveted by those in power. It all depends on how such a hypothetical daughter were raised, but that's something he'd have a say in – or at least he'd suspect as much. Surely Aveshinoth would want her heir to have the chance to learn from an experienced magic-user, wouldn't she?

“I… It would certainly have its benefits,” he replies after a long pause. “It'd certainly be better than chilling food for the rest of my life.” Really, it comes down to how controlling she is; if she's willing to give him enough freedom to do as he pleases, it could turn out to be the best for both of them.

“Yes, exactly!” Aveshinoth gushes. “Isn't it a waste, being stuck in here?” She sidles closer. “I'll have to speak to her about… about all of this, anyway. I haven't, yet. But surely she'll see the benefits of it… I could persuade her, perhaps, to release you from your duties here as a beginning…” The black dragoness reaches out to place a comforting paw on Demarath's foreleg.

Demarath's posture tenses as Aveshinoth steps closer, some subconscious part of him still registering her as a threat – in part spurred by her larger size and higher authority, in part because the thought of marrying the Matriarch apparent is still deeply unsettling to him. His forepaw pulls back sharply and he puts a few more steps of space between them, his tail soon bumping against the back wall of the cold storage room. “Um… maybe you should do that, then, I-I wouldn't want to go against your Mother's wishes after all,” he quickly stammers, verbally flailing for an excuse to get some space, trying not to seem too frightened.

Aveshinoth's antennae twitch higher in surprise. Why is he backing away? “There's no point!” she barks, exasperated. “What would it look like if I asked her before you had agreed to it? What kind of a plan for the future would it be?” She stalks forward after him, bristling with nervous energy, but tries to bring her voice back under control. “I understand that this is a sudden and important matter,” she adds. “But I don't have the luxury of choosing my own timing. My future, and my status, are at stake here as well.”

Aveshinoth's reaction strikes fear into him, her continuing advance backing him more towards the corner of the room, more out of instinct than anything else. He needs to get out of here, he needs to–

No. Stop and think. Why is he so terrified of this? Surprised, that's understandable – he'd had no reason to expect this to happen, and a part of him is still reeling from the sheer surreality of the situation. If he says yes, then everything changes. No more iceroom chores. Probably the envy of all his brothers. No more feeling like an outcast. He can even hear his mother's approval, talking about how marrying into the Matriarch's line would help strengthen the relationships between their families. And she's certainly not unattractive, quite the opposite, just… he doesn't know her. At all, except by reputation.

Or he could say no. The thought of that is immediately more terrifying – how would she react? Would she demand it anyway? Or would she find some way to punish him for that; give him a task far more unpleasant than his current one, or even worse, out him to the clan at large? If saying 'yes' would move him up to a larger cage at worst, saying 'no' would mean keeping his current situation at best. So saying 'yes' is strictly better than saying 'no', so shouldn't he just say 'yes'…?

“Look, I… I'm interested,” he says, raising his hands to chest-height, trying to de-escalate the situation. “I'm definitely interested in this as a possibility. I can see many benefits to this for both of us, it's just…” Just what? What exactly can he tell her that's truthful and not likely to get his head ripped off? “I'm not… sure I'm ready to make this kind of commitment yet. Especially not… right at this very moment, when we've never really–” No, stop it, shut down that line of conversation before it goes anywhere.

Aveshinoth suppresses a growl of frustration. Not ready to make this kind of commitment? Did he expect a loving relationship right from the beginning? Surely, given his family background, he should be at home with the idea of a political marriage…

…commitment? Had someone else already-

Her antennae bristled with sudden anger. “Someone else has already offered, is that it? A female of a lesser house?” She closed in, lips curled back. “That won't happen, do you understand? Mother would never allow it! Who was it? What makes you think they could do anything for you?”

A pit of cold terror settles into the copper's stomach. Where did she get that idea from? It couldn't be a rumor, or she'd have known about it before coming here, and wouldn't have brought this insane idea to him. “What?” he replies at first, tone a mix of confused, terrified, and a touch angry. “No, what… why would you even,” He takes another step back, wings folding against the corner of the room. She's furious at him now, and for no good reason, for some… imagined slight. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest. Why is she still coming closer? His eyes squeeze shut, as he tries to pull together some scrap of composure. “M'lady, please calm down, I d-didn't mean to insinuate anything like that,” he says, barely managing to keep himself together. He needs to get out of here. Now.

“Then what's this about 'commitment'?” Aveshinoth snarls, the tip of her muzzle within a few inches of his. “Would marriage be any more of a 'commitment' than spending the rest of your life in here, keeping the temperature down? You really expect me to think that that kind of life might be preferable to a life in my household?”

He can't take this any more. Not in his current emotional state; not with her breathing down his neck. He needs to get out of here, maybe fly back home or something. Ask someone for advice… one of his fathers maybe. (He can already guess what his mother's advice would be.) He'd make a fool of himself, but on the other hand, he's already made a fool of himself in front of the Matriarch's daughter, and he can't really imagine fleeing would make her opinion of him much lower than it currently is. “I have to go,” is all he manages to whisper, before placing a forepaw on Aveshinoth's left arm to push her aside–

In that instant, an arc of light sparks through that paw, sending a lance of white-hot pain through the limb, causing her muscles to spasm involuntarily and leaving behind a nasty burn.

The black screeches shrilly as she tumbles aside, landing heavily on a pile of thawing fish; she lies there for a time, muscles still trembling, her eyes glazed. The burn is hard to see against the black of her scales, but her arm and fingers are curled up tightly in pain.

For several long seconds, Demarath is frozen in place, trying to piece together what just happened. A part of him wants to just forget about it, take this chance now that the one who was threatening him isn't a threat, and flee. It's only when he realizes the full scope of what he just did, seeing Aveshinoth lying on the ground in pain, that he thaws out of his paralysis. Still, he's strongly tempted to flee – he just assaulted the Matriarch's daughter; things were about to get very, very bad for him. 'It won't help,' he tells himself. 'Fleeing would just be an admission of guilt, and you know that.' And even if that weren't enough, he couldn't live with himself if he did flee.

“Aveshinoth!” he cries out, tone frantic now. He crouches down by her side, reaches forward to help her out of instinct, then stops himself. He'd burnt off a fair amount of the excess magical energy inside him, but there was still enough left that he was dangerous; it could still happen again. His hands pull back. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear I wasn't trying to, it just, I was nervous and scared and I'm sorry. Are you okay? Please be okay.”

Aveshinoth blinks, very slowly, and manages to turn her head to look at him. After several fruitless attempts to line up her tongue with her brain, she manages a faint “…what…?”

Okay, she can still speak, that's a good sign that it's not horrible. “I'm sorry,” he reiterates, tone slightly less frantic at this point. “I-I didn't…” She might not entirely understand what just happened; maybe he's okay? “I just…” Calm down! “Are you all right? Can you stand? Can I get you anything? Water, maybe? Are you still in pain?” He looks extremely nervous, terrified even. 'Please don't ask what just happened,' he thinks to himself.

She blinks at him again, then looks down at her forelimb, still curled in pain, and shudders. “Get… away,” she mutters.

A pained expression crosses Demarath's face. Whatever is going through her mind right now, she clearly blames him for what just happened – and rightfully so, even if it was an accident. “Aveshinoth…” he replies, tone uneasy. “Please, listen. I wasn't trying to hurt you. It was an accident; my… I lost control of my magic. I… I won't let it happen again, I promise. Please forgive me.” His head dips low, tip of his muzzle touching the ground, antennae folded back against his neck, as humble and heartfelt an apology as he could muster.

Pointedly ignoring him, Aveshinoth hauls herself to all fours, or at least three of all fours, and shuffles toward the door with a determined expression.