Avishraa Reloaded

Demarath had never before had occasion to be introduced to the dungeons, but from what he understood, they were deep in the heart of the rock. By the standards of prison in Alvraan, then, the cell to which he was escorted must have been a VIP suite.

It was definitely a cell - the barred doorway testified to that - but it was a modestly spacious size, and it even had windows of a sort, letting in fresh air and the reddish glow of the long sunset outside. They were just about big enough for a small male such as Demarath to squeeze through, but, like the door, were fitted with bars. There was even a rudimentary bed.

The guards politely but firmly ushered him in, shut and locked the barred door, and turned and marched away again. The light from their lanterns turned a corner in the corridor and was lost; though the sunlight lit the cell sufficiently and would for some some to come, outside it there was darkness.

Wrapped in the shadows, making no noise at all, an unseen observer waited to see what Demarath would do with his new situation.

As far as prison cells in Alvraan go, this one is actually quite nice – at least, from what little he knows of said cells. It was more like a small, sparsely-furnished room… as long as he ignored the bars. And the lack of lights, aside from that of Mikurmiya; though that would probably only last another vigil, maybe two, before it set. At least there was a bit of fresh air, and a bed.

Soon enough, the sounds of the guards have faded into silence. Soon enough, the world is silent, save for the faint sounds from outside. For a long moment, Demarath holds himself still, listening to the silence, before he finally lets himself come apart, flinging himself onto the meager bed and burying his head in the pillow, muffling his cry of frustration and the subsequent sobbing.

Everything has fallen apart. How could everything have fallen apart so quickly? A few rests ago, everything was fine. Okay, it wasn't perfect; his job was dull and tedious, but at least he wasn't in prison. If Aveshinoth hadn't shown up, hadn't tried to convince him to marry her – dear gods, what had he been thinking?! He should've just said he was interested; surely even a loveless political marriage would've been better than this. Surely it's moot now; he doubts Aveshinoth would even consider the prospect now.

After a while, there was a very faint sigh. “No doubt it's cold comfort,” came Ilirith's voice from the shadows, “but it could've gone much worse than it did. Nearly anyone else who'd so much as scratched the princess would've been a candidate for execution.”

A sudden jolt travels through the copper-scaled takma, twisting to snarl and glare in the general direction of the voice as it speaks, bristling with rage at the unanticipated visitor. How long has she been there? Hadn't she left with the guards? After another moment or two, the rage cools down, settling instead into a distant wariness. He turns his gaze away from her general direction, looking off to the opposite wall, trying to hide the forepaw wiping away at tears. “…Don't you have a Matriarch you're supposed to be bodyguarding, or something?”

“I've been instructed to keep an eye on you instead,” she replied tartly from the darkness. “I thought possibly that talking might help, but if you enjoy being bored, I could go back to being silent.”

The implications of that statement come apart in his mind at once. Of all the things the Matriarch could ask her spymaster to do, the one she considers most important is keeping an eye on the idiotic teenager who accidentally shocked the heir. What is he going to do, shock a guard and steal the keys, let himself out? Do some 'creepy magic thing' and flee? For what?

But then, in the context of what she said before, it makes some amount of sense. Anyone else in his situation would've been executed. …Maybe he'll be, too. He wouldn't put it past Ankorineth.

Her comments are met with a long silence, long enough that she might think he's taking her up on that latter offer, before he finally breaks it again: “Is her alliance with my mother the only reason she hasn't decided to execute me yet?”

“In all likelihood,” Ilirith remarked, “it was what kept you from being executed immediately. But now that she knows the circumstances, I seriously doubt she's entertaining the idea any longer - if she was, she wouldn't have bothered to have you put in a cell.”

Ilirith emerged from the shadows, and at the same time, the faint tingling in Demarath's head returned. She sat primly in front of the door and pushed her hood back. She was a lustrous green in color; like most females, she had with dark markings on her face - in her case, vaguely flame-shaped, around blue-violet eyes - but her narrow muzzle gave her a slightly boyish look.

She was also quite young. In fact, she didn't look much older than Demarath did.

“I imagine,” she added, “that she still has some use for you. She seems to regard witches as useful tools rather than horribly dangerous - which is a step above how most would view it.”

The lowering of her hood draws a look of bewildered surprise from the prisoner, at first for the action itself – one of the rumors that had floated around was that none saw the face of the graycloak and lived – then moments later for the realization of just how young she looked. She could easily be his age, and certainly looked younger than Lirrinath, his oldest sister. He tilts his head in confusion, not entirely sure what to make of this gesture.

Whatever the reason, it seems to put some of his nerves at ease. At least now he's talking to a person with a face, rather than a shadowy figure. And someone his age! Who would've thought the graycloak was so young?

“You're telling me,” Demarath replies, tone bordering on self-deprecating as a wry half-grin, half-grimace spreads across his face. “And it looks like Aveshinoth inherited a similar attitude, given what she said to me earlier…” He trails off, gaze shifting off into the distance. “…I hope I haven't just doomed a future generation of witches.”

Ilirith gave him a sober look. “I don't imagine that what you did will make all that much difference, one way or another. The Matriarch will continue to find you useful, and likewise me. And Aveshinoth…” Her nostrils flared. “Well, most witches are probably doomed once she takes the throne in any case.”

Demarath's eyes widen perceptibly at that comment, his gaze pivoting back to the takma outside his cell. He's not quite sure what to make of that – given her emotional reaction to the accident, it's clear she doesn't hold a high opinion of the Matriarch's daughter, though for all he knows that could be just a personal thing. “…Well, yes, that was the case I was most worried about,” he replies, his head tilting to one side in curiousity. “What makes you say that?”

Ilirith gave him an almost pitying look. “She isn't one to invite competition. She had been looking to have a witch as an heir because of the power - but that advantage of power disappears if there are other witches around, doesn't it? If you'd married her, you would've been safe, but…” She trailed off, the sentence speaking for itself.

And then it clicks into place. Of course, of course Aveshinoth wouldn't have wanted any other witches to threaten her, or her daughter's, seat of power. Demarath lets out a frustrated groan, flopping back onto the bed, one forepaw covering his eyes. “Right. Of course. I really should have seen that coming. Sorry.” … On the bright side, he hadn't agreed to marry her. Though he can't quite keep himself from wondering if he could have made things better if he had. 'Unlikely,' he points out to himself. 'She wanted you for your power, she doesn't care about your opinions, and that wasn't ever going to change.'

Ilirith gave him a sympathetic look. “On the bright side,” she murmured, “the Matriarch doesn't seem in danger of dying just yet. What happens when she does is an entirely different matter.”

Demarath's forepaw slides down his muzzle, gaze turned to the window, lost in thought. He has cycles to figure out what he wants to do about that particular issue; his current uncertainty is much more pressing. Maybe at some point, after all this is done, he'll be able to figure out a way to nudge Aveshinoth off her current path. …Though given that, to his knowledge, he's the only male witch in the clan, she might have a bit of difficulty pursuing her plan, unless….

“Oh, I, er, guess I never did ask what her side of the story was, did I?” he comments, gaze shifting back to Ilirith. “…Not that I'm actually sure I want to know, at this point.”

“I'm not sure it's worth it,” Ilirith muttered. “She's a spo-”

The assassin stopped herself, shook her head, and sighed. “Anyway.” She hesitated, then asked cautiously, “I, um… I was wondering. What is it like, with your family? Did they treat you well?”

Demarath gives his visitor a quizzical look at the cut-off comment, not quite sure where she was going with that, but pressing for more information at the moment feels rude. He's quiet for a long moment, until she asks her questions. He bristles a bit at the latter, the past tense in it suggesting possibilities he's not quite ready to entertain. It's probably not intended as such, but in his current state he can't help but hear the darker implications.

After a long, hesitant silence, Demarath finally speaks. “It's… complicated,” he offers, haltingly. “My mother is…” A pause. “She cares about me. She doesn't always know how to show it, I think, but she does. My fathers… mostly keep their distance, besides Ashernath, who's generally tried to give me a 'normal' upbringing. I have a few brothers I don't see very often; they're usually out on scouting trips. My sisters are…” He closes his eyes, lets out a slow exhale. “Difficult.” The room seems to get a bit colder at that word, though whether that's simply her imagination or the effects of Demarath's magic is anyone's guess.

Real or imaginary, Ilirith huddled into her cloak. “Ah.” She seemed to be at a loss, and understandably enough. Not many volunteered to talk about their personal lives with an assassin, so she didn't get much practice.

Finally, she said, “Sorry if I touched on a sore point. I've just never… well, I wanted to know what it's like.”

Demarath responds to her comment with another slow, focused exhale, before shrugging off whatever was on his mind. “It's okay,” he replies. “Not so much a sore point as a less than pleasant part of life.” There's a pause, then a frown, confusion gnawing at him. He opens his eyes again, glancing sideways at his visitor, searching her posture for answers. Then, “…Know what what's like?”

“Well, just… family, I suppose. I've seen families from outside, of course, but I don't usually talk to them.” Ilirith's antennae curled in a grim smile. “And they don't have witches in them, anyway.”

'Seen families from outside'. It takes him a few moments to process the implications of what she's saying. Does she not have a family? Did her family abandon her to her current position? For a moment he considers the possibility of her being the Matriarch's estranged daughter, but quickly dismisses that as implausibly unlikely. There's a story there, he's certain of it, but asking about it feels too much like prying – something he's loathe to do in a situation like this.

This entire situation is surreal – the Matriarch's own personal bodyguard, assassin, and mindreading witch, is talking to him through cell bars. Is being kind to him. Is actually talking to him about his life, and listening. “…Why are you being this nice to me?” he asks – tone more confused and bewildered than suspicious.

Ilirith's antennae stiffened briefly; she looked as if she were about to shout. She calmed herself down, but there was still considerable stiffness in her voice when she said, “Maybe I find it nice to not be a scary assassin all the time. There's no reason not to be nice unless you try to escape. …And anyway, this is the only time I've ever gotten to talk to another witch.”

Even before she's verbally answered him, he can see he's made a misstep. He shrinks back on himself, cringing slightly and uttering a softly-spoken apology before she's even replied. Her response is much more measured than he was expecting, though; enough so that it takes him a moment to process what she's saying, to work out what it was about his question that set her off.

She doesn't like her job. Or, at least, doesn't like the terrifying reputation it gives her. That's interesting – he'd imagine the reputation would be seen as a boon. …But then, it's probably a very lonely job. Nobody wants to talk to an assassin.

“…Sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's just that… after everything that's happened today, anyone being nice to me is more than I'd expect.” Least of all someone with a terrifying reputation, he thinks, but judiciously doesn't add. …Hopefully she can't tell he just thought that. “Um.” An awkward pause. “So, uh. Yeah, I guess… we are the only two witches in the clan, aren't we? Unless there's another one I don't know about.”

“Um. Yes. That I know about.” Ilirith hesitated; it appeared that Demarath wasn't the only one having a little difficulty. Making polite conversation was not, after all, one of her usual job duties.

At last, she added, “One or two others were born into the clan within the last six cycles or so, but when they got exposed…” She didn't really have to finish the sentence. It was general knowledge that witches usually didn't have much of a life expectancy. “But sometimes a witch passes through from somewhere else. I can feel them when they're near; it's like a tingling in the back of the head. They don't usually stay long.” Ilirith lapsed into silence. She looked suddenly troubled, as if something had crossed her mind.

That first tidbit of news sparks something in him, filled with a sudden hope of finding other witches around his age. His gaze whips up to her, antennae alert, heart racing, expectant for a few moments…before the unstated implications sink in. Right. Of course. He should have expected that. His gaze shifts back to the floor, antennae drooping, a hint of a scowl on his features, though it's clearly not directed at her. Somehow, the knowledge that there had been others around who'd died made things even worse.

Her second comment piques his interest, manages to keep him from sliding into newfound despair. “Oh?” he asks, turning his attention back to her in curiosity. Then, a moment later: “Wait. Is that what that feeling is?” Another pause, and then, “So… That bronze-colored guy who had an audience right before mine, is he…?”

“I thought I picked up something,” Ilirith muttered. She was a bit disgusted with herself for having missed it. “I was busy wat- busy keeping an eye on you, but yes, I think he was.” She looked up, seeming troubled. “Maybe I ought to find him and see what he's doing playing delivery boy…”

There's a glimmer of excitement at her confirmation, mixed with a tiny bit of pride at having noticed something the assassin mind-reader missed. Another witch, and one respected enough by some community to serve as a liaison to their Clan's Matriarch. How did he end up in such a position? Do his people know what he is, or has he managed to keep his powers hidden from them?

That line of thought gets somewhat interrupted by Ilirith's troubled musing triggering a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Um…” A pause, punctuated by nervous fidgeting. “Do you – I don't think you really need to check right now, do you?” He suddenly looks to the floor, cringing a little in embarrassment. “I mean, I don't want to interrupt your duties, if… if you think you should then it's probably a good idea. It's just that –” Another pause, then he exhales sharply. “No, never mind, it's okay, forget I said anything.”

Ilirith's antenna twitched. Even if Demarath's discomfiture hadn't been visually obvious, she felt the signals being given off by his mind. Why did he care whether she investigated or not? “I'd rather,” she remarked, “that you finish saying what you started.”

Demarath inhales deeply, then slowly lets it out, taking the time to steel himself. “It's just…today's been pretty awful. I mean… granted, it could have been a lot worse, if the circumstances were slightly different, and all things told I'm lucky to still be alive, but still. I did not wake up today thinking I'd be going to sleep in a jail cell. And, well…” More fidgeting. “Despite all of that, getting a chance to talk to a fellow witch is probably the best thing that's happened to me all turn. And, um, I was… kind of hoping it wouldn't be over quite so quickly?” He winces a little, antennae scrunching up against his neck. “I know, I know, it's a really selfish request, and it's more than I deserve, but you're… You've actually been nice to me.”

Her antennae quivered with surprise. The Matriarch had required her presence before, but she couldn't recall anyone actually wanting her around because of… well, her. She had never been one to be all that prone to sentiment, but the thought made her feel sort of warm and gooey inside.

“I should really-” Ilirith began. She tried again. “Maybe-” No good there either. “I, er, well… I can't stick around forever, and I'll have to sleep eventually, but I suppose there's no harm in staying here a while longer…”

Ilirith's response prompts a jolt of mixed surprise and excitement in Demarath. “Oh! No, I don't mean to keep you here if you need to be somewhere else. I mean, it's not like I'm going anywhere any time soon.” There's a slightly forced, humorless laugh at that.

Demarath takes a few moments to shift his posture a bit, trying to find a comfortable position on the bed from which he could still carry on a decent conversation through the bars. “So, um… forgive me if this comes across as overly personal, I don't really have a good sense of the etiquette for this sort of thing, but I'm really curious. What… sorts of things can you do? With your magic, I mean. Aside from the mind-reading thing, that is.” There's a bit of a shiver at that last part; it doesn't take a psychic to see that he's still a bit perturbed by his earlier firsthand experience.

Ilirith hesitated. She wasn't really sure whether to point out that the 'mind-reading thing' covered an awful lot of what she did, depending on how you defined it - everything from locating others by mental signature to inducing confusion and misdirection. She decided not to expand on the point; it clearly made him nervous, and she found that she didn't want him to be nervous of her, not when they were just getting to know each other. Besides, there was something else she could do.

“Well,” she said, reaching inside her cloak, “there is this…” She withdrew a small, smooth, round stone, held it up for him to see, and then tossed it lightly up into the air. At the top of its rise, it slowed, as one might expect; but there it stopped.

It hung in the air for a moment, gently turning, and then started slowly moving around Ilirith's head, orbiting it like a tiny moon.

Demarath's antennae perk up a bit as she produces the stone from her cloak, curious what it's meant for. As it settles into a hover, his expression shifts momentarily to confused before the realization of what he's looking at hits. “Oh!” A tentative excitement worms its way into his expression, spurred onwards when she starts moving the stone into a slow, circular orbit. “Oooh!” he exclaims with a grin, “That's pretty neat!”

He pushes himself up into a stand and approaches the cell door, watching the stone complete its slow, steady circle with a mixture of awe and curiosity. “Can you do that with larger things too? Or many things at once? Or – or can you pick up things further away?” There's a sense of excited energy about him now, his mind starting to play with the possibilities of what one could do with a power like this.

Ilirith's antennae twitched in a smile at Demarath's excitement. It was nice, she thought, to have an appreciative audience.

She glanced through the bars into Demarath's cell, and spotted an empty bowl sitting in a niche in the wall. Without speaking an answer, she squinted at it; it rose up, although with not quite the assurance that the pebble had, and started orbiting Demarath's head, turning gently as it did so.

Demarath lets out a soft gasp of surprise as the bowl hovers towards him, his eyes tracking it as it tumbles through the air around his head. Tentatively, he reaches a forepaw up, grasping at the bowl and tugging at it, testing the psychic grip's resistance. “Wow,” he comments, his excitement shifting into a quiet, bewildered awe as he stares at the bowl, trying to wrap his mind around the possibilities power like this could unlock.

After a long silence, his attention turns back to Ilirith. “Do… do you think I could learn how to do this?” Some excitement has bled back into his voice, tempered by fear as it is. “Could you teach me how?”

Ilirith had allowed the bowl to be taken; snatching items away from people when they weren't expecting it was relatively easy, but it was harder to pull against a grip that was purposely pulling back. She considered his question as she dropped the pebble back into her forepaw.

“I really don't know,” she confessed, after a few moments thinking. “There might be different kinds of witch magic. When I first learned what you could do, I tried to figure out how to move heat; but if there's a way for me to do it, I haven't figured out what it is.”

She moved closer to the bars, eyeing him curiously. “But it's a bit like having an invisible forepaw. You move it around and grip things with it like you would with any other limb. I don't suppose you can imagine that you have one, too, and try to move something with it?”

Her response prompts a moment of introspection – how does he move heat around? If he were to teach someone how to do it, how would he? It's not something he can easily put into words, certainly – it would be like trying to explain how he can move his arms, he just does it.

Regardless, he's much more excited about the idea of being able to move objects around from a distance than in philosophizing about the nature of his own power. “Well, might as well try,” he replies with a shrug, grinning widely at her. Then his attention shifts down to the bowl in his forepaws, and the excitement slowly gives way to focus.

Invisible forepaw. Right. He just needs to imagine he has one of those, and use it to pick up the bowl. Fingers tense, then relax. The imaginary paw grabs the bowl, and goes through it. The imaginary paw tries again, and again, and then he imagines it closing around the lip of the bowl and lifting it a little. In his imagination, the bowl moves up; in reality, it stays in place, completely oblivious to his imaginary attempts. He tries it again, to the same result. He tries lifting it from below, to the same result.

He shifts the weight of the bowl to one hand, and lifts it slowly to eye level, trying to keep track of what his arm is doing. Then he lowers it again, and tries to mimic it in his imagination. Nothing happens. He shuts his eyes tight, antennae beginning to curl in frustration, trying to imagine the arm lifting up the bowl, imagine it as vividly as he possibly can while still keeping his actual arm actually still. The weight of the bowl doesn't budge in his forepaw, unmoved by his efforts.

Ilirith watched intently for a while. It occurred to her that, should Demarath manage the feat, it would make the task of watching him much more complicated. It was one thing to melt your way through a door, which might cause a lot of light and noise and get attention; it was entirely another to, as she could, form her “invisible hand” into the right shape and size to quietly pick the lock on the door and stroll away.

As it became clear that Demarath's efforts were not bearing fruit, she slowly untensed. With sympathy in her voice - only slightly feigned - she finally said, “Maybe each of us can only do one kind of magic.”

For a long stretch of silence, the unsuccessful attempts continue. Breaths accumulate into a pause, then another, then another, with the bowl happily staying exactly where it is. The worst part about it is the increasing feeling of ridiculousness he feels, standing here trying to lift a bowl with his imagination. It's not working, and it doesn't even feel like it could work. He's wasting his time and embarrassing himself in front of the only other witch he's ever met and she's probably laughing at his incompetence and –

And then her comment, mild and well-intentioned as it is, manages to pluck at that string of tension and self-loathing. In a fit of rage, he channels his power into the misbehaving bowl, willing the blasted thing to move.

At this, the bowl finally decides it's more than happy to cooperate – flinging itself straight into the ceiling with a loud crack, splintering, and then falling back to the ground in a few more pieces than it flew up in as Demarath scrambles backwards in surprise.

Ilirith could move impressively fast; almost before the bowl had hit the ceiling she had rolled backward into a low crouch, one forepaw extended. What it was she had intended to do with it remained a mystery, however; Demarath felt a brief sensation, like a breeze blowing across his brain, and Ilirith slowly relaxed. Clearly he hadn't expected that either.

“What,” she said, forcing her voice to remain calm, “was that?”

It takes Demarath a few moments to catch his breath after the sudden scare, staring blankly at the remains of the bowl in disbelief, before he finally begins to process what just happened. “I… I did it?” A moment later, the force of that hits him, his fear transforming into a burst of excited energy, and he breaks out in manic laughter. “Did you see that?! That was amazing!”

He walks over to the bowl and picks up the largest piece, turning it over in his hands. “Oh wow, I really did a number on this thing, take a look,” he comments, turning to show Ilirith the underside of the bowl – with a distinctly forepaw-shaped scorchmark burned into the wood. “Alas, poor bowl, you've met a grisly end indeed.” He begins pacing around his cell, frantically turning the bowl over in his hands. “I wonder if I could get it to hold still in midair…” he mutters to himself.

Either he's ignoring Ilirith's question, or he's simply so overwhelmed with the discovery of his newfound power that he's already completely forgotten she asked it.

“I…” Ilirith began, contemplating the scorch mark. “I don't know what you did, but I don't think it's like what I do. My first time wasn't like that.” No indeed; it had also involved a bowl, but there the resemblance ended. She'd caused it to gently scoot across a table a few inches while it was just beyond her physical reach.

“Demarath,” she spoke up again, enunciating very clearly, “How. Did. You. Do. That.”

Ilirith's comment puts a little bit of a damper on his mood, but it's quickly brushed off. “Even if it's not technically the same thing, that was still really cool. Though I guess it'll still take a lot of practice to control it so it doesn't, um… go quite that fast. And to do it to things that are further away. And see if I can get it to stay in the air since I'm still not sure how that–”

Her question seems to ground him for at least a few moments, an odd twitch touching one of his antennae. “Um.” He looks down at the bowl, turning it over in his hands a few more times, his motions suddenly adopting an air of nervousness. “I… um, why do you ask?”

Ilirith rubbed the side of her head to quell the impending headache. “Suddenly discovering a new power while locked up,” she said, with exaggerated patience, “is always going to be of immense interest and concern to those who did the locking up. Please don't drag this out, because I really don't want to be angry with you.”

Her response drives a cold spike of fear into his skull, the implications all rushing in at once. As nice as she's been, the situation's still the same; he's still a prisoner, she's still his guard. Which means the Matriarch will certainly find out about his newfound power. And given how potentially dangerous it is, on top of what got him into this cell….

If he wasn't careful with how he answered this question, things could rapidly spiral out of control. He lets out a slow, deliberate breath, nods once. “Right,” he says, the enthusiasm of a few moments ago gone from his voice. “Of course. Sorry.”

Of course, the worst part is, he's still not entirely sure what he did or how; but saying that had just skyrocketed from 'embarrassing' to 'potentially suicidal' in his threat estimation. Think, Demarath, what had actually happened? He'd been trying the 'invisible forepaw' method, it hadn't been working, he was getting frustrated…. He'd just wanted to get the bowl to move. It had felt a bit like channeling lightning did, but… different, in a way he found difficult to describe. More like… pushing something into the bowl, maybe?

It might be easier if he could try it again, get a better sense of what he'd actually done, but he could tell Ilirith's patience was growing thin. He owes her at least a partial explanation. He presses his lips to a thin line, trying to put his thoughts into words. After a long, tense silence, he finally speaks. “So, the 'invisible forepaw' trick wasn't working, no matter how hard I tried. So maybe you're right about the whole 'types of magic' thing, and I can't do what you do. But I just wanted to get the bowl to move, so I just… 'told' it to move? I don't know how to describe it. It was something like what I do with channeling lightning, or heat, just… different.” He looks at Ilirith apologetically, hoping he doesn't sound completely crazy.

Ilirith pondered what this could mean. The worrying part was that what it could mean was objects and people getting hurled away with enormous force. She had a few ideas in case of fire or lightning - chancy though they were - but she'd need time to think up something against this.

“Well… look,” she said finally, “let's not play around with it while you're in here, because it's only going to attract attention. Wait till you get released, otherwise it might incline the Matriarch not to release you. You understand?”

The initial bout of disappointment at not getting a chance to experiment with his power is quick to subside, replaced instead by confusion. It sounds less like a demand than a piece of friendly advice. Again, the question he asked earlier, 'Why are you being this nice to me?' comes to mind, though this time he leaves it be. A much more important question gets voiced instead: “Are you going to tell her about this?”

“I have a duty to do something,” Ilirith replied, sounding vexed. “I have to tell her, or-” She hesitated. “Well, if you'll let me look in your head again… much as I'd like to trust your word if you agreed not to play with this power for a while, I'd be remiss if I did. Under the circumstances.”

The suggestion twists the icy spike of fear deeper, Demarath's antennae dipping down towards his neck, his attention suddenly shifting back down to the bowl in his forepaws, trying to disguise his fear as thoughtfulness. If she told the Matriarch… he wasn't sure what would happen. At best, it would mean he'd be released at the cost of a future worse than keeping a room cold – which, really, was the best he could reasonably hope for at this point. He didn't know what ideas the Matriarch would come up with for someone who could… do whatever it was he'd just done, but he wasn't eager to find out. At worst… well, at worst it could mean death, but that felt unlikely. But being kept in prison for a very long time wasn't much better.

On the other hand… he wasn't really in a rush to have his mind probed again. But against the potential threat of extended incarceration…? Demarath turned towards the window, took the handful of steps to put him in front of it, and stared out into the Dimming sky, trying to let his thoughts clear.

Rationally, the decision was obvious. He just had to convince his gut to believe it really was the best choice.

After a long pause, Demarath breathed out a slow sigh, and turned back towards Ilirith. “Okay. I'll… let you do that, then.”

Ilirith sighed, at least partly in relief. She really didn't want to tell the Matriarch about this. Things were complicated enough as it was.

She put a forepaw to the lock of the door and made a gentle turning motion; the lock clicked, and she opened the door, shutting it and locking it in the same manner. She sat down next to Demarath, placed the same forepaw on top of his head…

It was not the same as when she'd gone through his memories earlier; it was at once both less intrusive and more so. Less, because there there was no rummaging around, no poking, no sense that his mind was not his own. More, because it was like being looked at. Stared at, intensely.

And then, her voice filled his head: ~Now, tell me… promise me… that you will not attempt to use this new power at least until after you are released. Later, things may be different, but not for the time being. I will know if you are uncertain about it… or not telling the truth.~

Demarath perked his antennae up in a moment of surprise as she opened the cell door –both because he wasn't expecting her to do so, and because she did so without a key despite it being locked. That was certainly a useful little trick… which, unfortunately, he didn't have much time to appreciate before she placed her forepaw on his head.

The burst of panicked distress at the intrusion is thankfully shortlived this time, and quickly resolves itself into the same simmering tension as before, his muscles held taut, his breathing forcibly steady. It was at once clear that Demarath wasn't happy with this situation, but was trying his best to cooperate. As long as she wasn't actively prodding around it was… better, at least.

The reaction to her request (command?) is… less simple than she'd hoped. Fear wells up again, threatening to break into panic. A valiant attempt is made at forming an honest promise, but it rapidly splinters apart into uncertainty, forking and racing to all the ways he might try to break it. He wants to experiment with his new power, to learn how it works, to control it, to find some use for it – but at the same time, he wants to avoid the Matriarch finding out, and he wants to cooperate with Ilirith.

He tries to reason with himself, to get the wayward thoughts under control, to gather up the shattered remnants and find some way to forge them back together. His fear of being trapped here forever seems to be helping as much as harming – a stick against breaking the promise, or failing to make it; but also undercutting the argument that he just needs to wait a little while and then he can experiment all he likes. His despair and guilt are ranting about how all his options are terrible and that it's all his fault. His sense of social structures has borrowed a shard of self-consciousness to point out that the pretty girl he just met is watching all of this unfold and gee, shouldn't he be feeling embarrassed right now?

In short, his mind is a mess. How can anyone think like this?

~Ugh. How can you think like that?~ Ilirith agreed.

The voice and the presence were gently nudged into Demarath's head, but in a brief moment of annoyance-mediated loss of control, it was possible for him to see, for a moment, the shape of Ilirith's thoughts, all laid out in little branching, logical chains. Does he accept? If yes, watch for him to try to break the agreement. (If no, report to Matriarch.) If he does not, maintain watch. (If he does, then…)

A second, separate chain of thought seemed to be winding itself around and through the decision-making process like a vine in a garden: He thinks I'm pretty?

The moment passes. Ilirith adds, ~You do need to make a decision, you know. I can't just let this drop.~

The disdainful comment only serves to make Demarath's mind more agitated, a sense of apologetic shame of himself twisting around everything. The brief glance into Ilirith's thoughts don't help much either, met with awe tinged with horror at the sheer, ruthless cleanliness of the whole thing. Though it's not perfect, either – perhaps a good thing, lest it seem too much like gazing into the inscrutable mind of Seluurin. That said, the particular 'imperfection' he's seen doesn't help resolve his mood any. Oh gods, she heard that part, a part of him comments, cringing. Of course she did, numbskull, she's IN YOUR HEAD, another part points out.

The balance shifts at the moment of that last comment, the tension finally snapping,frustration boiling over into rage. ~WHAT DO YOU THINK I'M TRYING TO DO?!~ The myriad of conflicting thoughts burn away, engulfed in a bonfire of anger. ~I'm trying to make a decision. It's hard. Do you want me to say 'yes' and have no idea whether I can actually keep my end of that bargain? When I have no idea how long I'm going to be stuck in here, and no idea how hard resisting that temptation is going to be? Are you going to make me make a promise I don't know if I can keep, and then hold it over me when I fail?~

Ilirith gave him a long, flat stare, and in his head Demarath could feel the faint pressure of an extremely annoyed mind at close range. Stiffly, the assassin replied, ~Congratulations, you've been introduced to adulthood, where making decisions and resisting temptations are all part of the vigil's order of business. And so is dealing with consequences. And, sad to say, the world does not care how 'hard' any of it is, because the world is hard.~

Ilirith withdraw from his mind, but stepped forward to look him in the eyes from a very close range. “Frankly, I'm a little sick of being polite, and I need a decent sleep. I am going to go take one, and you are going to use that time to make up your mind. And you will, at the very least, not attempt to use that power until I get back, because if you do, I will have to kill you. You understand?”

He's screwed up. It doesn't quite register through the wall of rage at first, just enough to cool the flames a bit. It's not until the voice in his mind speaks again that his conscious mind realizes he's pushed his captor's patience too far.

How often does one get to see a raging bonfire invert itself into a frigid cage of terror, in such a short span of time?

Even after pulling out of his mind, the terror is obvious, would be obvious to even the most psionically challenged takma. He's frozen in place, fingers tightly clutching the damaged bowl, antennae pressed against his neck as tightly as they will go. He squeezes his eyes shut at her final threat, forcing himself to swallow. Still an assassin – nice when she wants to be, but still an assassin. “I understand,” he manages to whisper, sharply nodding once.

Ilirith breathed out through her nostrils, then turned away. “Good.”

Unlocking the door again, she added, “I don't want to put it on that basis, Demarath. I really don't. But I have only so much room for leniency, and I'm being a lot more understanding about this than your other guards will.” She stepped through, shut the door, and locked it. “Keep that in mind while you're deciding.”

Without waiting for a response, she strode away, radiating injured dignity.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

It's just as well that she doesn't bother waiting for a response – there's not one coming. It's not until she's locked the door again that he even dares to open his eyes again, watching her leave, trying to follow the cloaked shape as it vanishes into the shadows. He waits until he's sure she's gone; one breath, two, three, four, five, six… and then finally allows himself to curl up on himself, sobbing.

Stupid. That was needlessly stupid, he forgot his place, he should know better than to challenge the person whose job is to guard him. He stares down at the cracked bowl in his hands, a part of him sorely tempted to defy her demand even now, just out of sheer stubbornness – after all, who would know if he just experimented a little bit? The answer is obvious; she would, after she read his mind later. He tosses the bowl aside to remove any immediate temptations, listening to it skitter across the stone floor, then flops back onto the bed, closing his eyes against the world, trying not to think about how many powerful women he's managed to anger in a single vigil.

Maybe if he goes to sleep, he'll wake up to find today's just been a terrible dream.