Avishraa Reloaded

The guards took watches of six rests each. Most of them didn't speak to Demarath, except to issue commands.

The third guard to come down, however, seemed a bit more jolly. At least, he was humming cheerfully to himself. He was blue, wore a leather helmet and armor and had a javelin slung across his shoulders, and he carried a bowl to replace the one that had been broken, complete with food in it, a rather basic dish of wet-grain in a fruit sauce.

He approached the door, managed to wiggle the bowl between the bars, and set it on the floor inside. “Well, my lad, there you are. What passes for breakfast is served.” He leaned comfortably against the bars. “The chef hopes you enjoy.”

If Demarath paid attention, he might have noticed a faint tingling in the back of his head.

It's probably for the best that his guards hadn't tried to talk to him much – Demarath wasn't in much of a talking mood after what had happened with Ilirith, and had spent a fair bit of both guards' watch asleep. Alas, his hope of the situation magically repairing itself while he slept was unfulfilled – not that he really expected anything else.

One thing about being stuck in prison was that it was impossible not to think about things.There was nothing else to do besides sleep, and no shortage of things to worry about. Despite this, he still felt no closer to answering Ilirith's question than he was when she left – and wasn't particularly looking forward to having to do so. He could probably keep his curiosity at bay for a while, at least, though how long that would be – or whether it would be enough – was still impossible to tell.

The humming from outside the cell caught his attention, his gaze following the male guard as he set down the bowl of food. At least this guard seemed a bit more cheerful than most of the others, even if it felt horribly out of place. “Thanks,” Demarath replied, nodding once in respect before picking up the food….Well, it didn't look particularly appetizing, but food was better than no food. He tried a bit, then made a face, setting it aside. Not remotely what he's used to. Maybe later.

The guard watched him put aside the bowl. “Well, I can't make you. But I wouldn't leave it too long, if I were you. It's not like you can send it back.” He took off his helmet and hung it from his neck by its strap. “But, since you're not eating, we should talk. It won't be long before the real guard realizes there's been a mix-up and comes down here, and I sort of have to not be here when he does.”

Demarath shrugged in response to the comment about the food. “It's fine, just… another thing to get used to, I suppose.”

And then the second comment stops his thought process dead in its tracks. 'The real guard'? Demarath's eyes widen, and he takes a step back. This doesn't sound like a good sign; this sounds like something that is going to make this complicated situation even more so. “What do you mean, 'the real guard'? Who are you?”

That's about when he notices the familiar tingling in the back of his head. A witch is nearby… but the sudden appearance of a fourth witch in such a short period of time seems far too unlikely. Is Ilirith hiding in the shadows? His eyes dart past the guard, trying to see if he can find any sign of the cloaked assassin.

The possibly-guard held up a finger. “One moment…”

A blur enveloped him for a moment. What happened while it lasted was very hard to make out; but at the end of the moment, the blur disappeared, leaving behind a considerably smaller bronze male. The leather armor now looked comically large on him.

The witch, who looked very much like a smaller version of the diplomat from before, grinned through the bars at Demarath. “Call me Zadireth. I suppose you can guess what I am.”

The blurring of the 'guard's form immediately tugged at Demarath's attention, suspicion, confusion and excitement mixing awkwardly in his gut – and then, once the shape resolved, recognition. The bronze male from before – albeit now closer to his own size. The witch he sensed earlier, who had been talking to the Matriarch… and who can apparently change how he looks.

This only raised more questions. What was he doing in Alvraan? Why had he been talking to the Matriarch? Why was he visiting his cell, now? What else could he do?

“A witch,” Demarath replied, his tone betraying his suspicion of the stranger. Did he know Demarath was one as well? Almost certainly, if the ability to sense other witches is as general as he suspects.And either way, his own small size didn't do much to dissuade rumors to that effect. (This 'Zadireth' could change his size, even! How useful that must be…)

Either way, there wasn't much point in trying to hide what he is to this man. “And one from outside of Alvraan too. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I have a few tasks I'm tinkering around with. Most of them are really sort of esoteric; but one of them is to keep an eye out for other, as you put it, 'witches' living among the Unchosen. That's a rare enough thing these days; but imagine finding not one, but two! Exquisite. Although you seem to be,” he added dryly, “in a bit of a situation here.”

Demarath tilted his head to one side. 'Unchosen'? That wasn't a term he'd heard used before, but he could take a guess at what he meant by it. Still so many questions, though. “So you just happened to be visiting Matriarch Ankorineth, bumped into me on the way out, found out where I was being held, and disguised yourself as a guard just to talk to me? And from the sounds of it, at significant risk to yourself if the guards find out you're down here. Why?”

“Oh, I've done this sort of thing before,” Zadireth replied cheerily. “Ordinarily I would've taken more time about it, but events seem to be, um, eventuating. It appears that I will have to work a bit faster on figuring out how to get both you and your gray-cloaked friend out of here.” He examined the door. “I can take care of this easily enough, but getting out through the palace would be a bit more complicated.”

Demarath took another two steps away from the doorway, staring at the bronze dragon like he'd sprouted a second head. “What do you mean, 'events are eventuating'? What's going on? I don't – don't break me out of prison, are you crazy? I'm already in way too much trouble, do you have any idea how much worse things would get if I were caught trying to escape?”

“If you get caught, yes,” Zadireth replied pleasantly. “But I've done this sort of thing before, you see. And what I would ask you in turn is: do you have idea what's going to happen to you if you stay here?”

The bronze's expression turned serious. “You hear a lot of things when you're wandering around looking innocent. And right up among them, my friend, is that the Matriarch's daughter got attacked by a witch, and that she's now on her feet and very much on the warpath. I don't know what kind of influence she has over her mother, but somehow I suspect it doesn't bode well for you if it's a lot.”

Demarath's antennae flattened backward in fear. That… was not a good thing to have going around. Even if Aveshinoth didn't convince her mother to turn against him, it spelled very bad things for his long-term survival in Alvraan. “How, um… widespread is this particular… rumor?” he asked cautiously. “And…okay, even if you do break me out, what then? Where am I going to go? Alvraan is my home, and if things are as bad as you stay then…” His gaze lowered, turned away. “…Then I probably can't stay here, can I?”

Zadireth's look was almost pitying. “No. None of us are ever safe among the Unchosen, not really, but specially not when a certain princess is blabbing about the incident to everyone she can find. But that doesn't mean there's nowhere to go. I can tell you, from experience, that there's a place-”

Zadireth paused, and his antenna twitched. “Blast.” With another blur, he returned to his previous blue disguise, expanding to fill the armor again in the process. “Someone's coming. There's a place I can take you. Be ready.”

With that, he scuttled off down the hall, as the sound of clanking metal armor sounded from the other direction.

And just like that, his strange visitor was gone, leaving behind more questions than answers. What kind of powers did this Zadireth have? How was he planning on getting Demarath out? When was he planning to do this? Where was he going to take him? Could he be trusted? Why was he doing any of this in the first place? Why had he been talking to the Matriarch earlier? What were the other 'really sort of esoteric' projects he'd alluded to?

And then, another question came to mind: What was he going to tell Ilirith? In light of this, the question about experimenting with his powers was almost rendered moot… perhaps. He still wasn't sure that escaping from prison and running away from Alvraan was all that good of an idea… but if things were really as bad as they sounded…

Demarath sighed, eyes falling to the bowl of food Zadireth had given him. He probably should eat something, if he's honest. And who knows what the actual guard would do if they saw a food bowl that wasn't supposed to be there. He picked up the bowl, grimaced a little, and began working his way through the rest of the grainy porridge.

Another guard, a heavily-armed female, strode up to the door, and, wordlessly - quite nearly ignoring Demarath, though she glanced around suspiciously, as if to check whether someone else were there - she took her post.

But after another six rests, the graycloaked form of Ilirith came down the corridor, and the guard, with a look of fear and disgust, scuttled off. The assassin sighed and threw back her hood. She didn't look like she'd gotten much sleep. “Are you feeling less disagreeable today?”

Six rests were a lot of time to sort things out, and thankfully this guard seemed perfectly happy to pay him the minimum amount of heed necessary to do her job. The hardest question was still what to tell Ilirith of what had happened…. If nothing else, she probably ought to talk to Zadireth at some point, ideally before he tried anything drastic. Maybe she could talk him out of that particular crazy plan. That said… it seemed distinctly unwise to tell the Matriarch's loyal bodyguard and assassin that someone was planning on breaking him out.

That, and he desperately needed more information. Especially about whatever rumors Aveshinoth was spreading about him, and just how large of a target those rumors painted on him. He needed to know how long the Matriarch intended to keep him in prison. He needed to know whether his mother could offer him any protection against the fury of an angry princess, if and when he did get out… though he was fairly sure the answer was 'not much, and not for long'.

When Ilirith finally returned, looking just as aggravated as when she left last night, a familiar spike of cold fear found itself lodged in his gut again. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, tried to find some calm. You can do this, Demarath. He nodded slowly in reply to her question, then added, “I'm sorry about last night. I…” He opened his eyes, glancing to the side. “It was a very stressful day. For both of us, I'm sure. But I was still being foolish and immature, and I'm sorry.” His gaze finally finds hers, and he falters for a moment, uncertain how to proceed… then the confusion bleeds into visible concern. “…How are you doing?” An odd question to ask one's jailor, for sure.

Ilirith's annoyed expression faded somewhat at the apology and apparent concern. “I… don't know, really. Things are a little uncomfortable at the moment.” She snorted. “I had to sit in while Aveshinoth and the Matriarch had a… discussion. It wasn't pleasant. And then-”

The assassin paused abruptly, and then coughed, the tips of her antennae curling in what looked like severe embarrassment. “Um. Well, it's not important. But, er, but the Matriarch did give me some news to pass on. She's made a decision about what to do with you and will be seeing you tomorrow about it.”

The sudden pause and change of topic evidently piqued Demarath's curiosity, his antennae perking up in interest. That definitely sounded like something he wanted to hear about… but now was almost certainly a bad time to ask. More curiosity to shelve away for later. Hopefully she'll at least be willing to tell him a little bit though.

The other piece of information hit him with surprise, and a not too small amount of fear. Decided what to do with him. That didn't bode well. “…What did she decide? Do you know?” The tone in his voice was cautious, timid. Another question was left unasked – 'Even if you do know, would you tell me?'

“I know, yes,” Ilirith mumbled. She still looked severely embarrassed, and tried to force her antennae to straighten, without much success. “I can't tell you. Just… don't worry about it. It'll require some adjustment, but it's not bad, as such. You should have plenty of opportunity to practice that new trick of yours, anyway.”

Demarath pressed his lips to a thin line, exhaling slowly. “Lovely. More uncertainty,” he muttered, shaking his head for a moment, before catching himself. “I'm sorry. It's… I'm sure it'll be fine. I'll just try not to think about it too much before then.” Would he even still be here tomorrow? Or would Zadireth try to make his move before then? No, not worth thinking about it now. Things would happen and he'd have to deal with it as it came up.

“I imagine it'll be a vigil or two to get everything ready,” Ilirith muttered. “You'll probably be kept here until then. But that's not so long, right?”

Demarath breathed a soft sigh of relief. Finally, a tiny piece of certainty to lay a handful of fears to rest… though at this point, those fears have been overtaken by other, much worse ones. “It's less than I'd feared last night, at least,” he replies with a bit of a shrug. “Short enough that… I think I can actually make good on that promise I owe you.” An awkward half-smile, not quite eager to delve back into the topic of last night. “I haven't done anything with… that new power, yet.”

“Good,” Ilirith replied, looking relieved. “Just… just hold onto that for a while. I think you'll get to play with it. And other powers. So long as you don't, er, destroy anything substantial.”

Demarath opened his mouth as if to say something, paused for a moment, then closed it again, pursing his lips together in mild frustration. There was a long pause as his gaze shifted off to the side,fingers of one forepaw idly massaging the palm of the other. Eventually, the silence breaks. “For someone who's trying to avoid the topic and wants me to stay calm, you're doing a really good job of dropping maddeningly cryptic hints,” he comments, attempting to soften the nervous edge in his voice with humor. “I know I really shouldn't ask, and you probably can't answer, but… what exactly is it that I'm in danger of destroying?”

Ilirith's look became pained, and she shook her head. “I'm really not supposed to tell you. I've said as much as I have because… I want you to understand it's not going to be bad. Different, but not bad. In a way, you'll have more freedom than you did in the storage room.”

Ilirith fidgeted. She didn't look quite as embarrassed as before, but there was a definite sense that she was uncomfortable with her position - though possibly it was just the strain of tiptoeing around her Matriarch's prerogative.

'Different, but not bad. More freedom than the storage room.' Well, that doesn't sound anything like a proposition he's heard in the last thirty-six rests, does it? But with the way Aveshinoth reacted, and from what Zadireth said, there's no way she's still going through with that. …But would the Matriarch order such a thing? Only if she had a twisted sense of humor, which all indications said were false.

Demarath breathed out a long sigh. Continuing this line of conversation was only going to make both of them more uncomfortable. “Like I said, I'll try not to think about it,” he replied, trying to infuse his voice with an air of finality. “I have plenty of other things to worry about, anyway. Speaking of which… I heard that Aveshinoth is spreading rumors about being attacked by a witch. Is she?”

The assassin's nostrils flared. “Yes,” she said shortly. “That was why the Matriarch called her in. She told her to stop. I don't know whether Aveshinoth will listen. But it was shortly after that that the Matriarch decided what to do with you.”

Ilirith mused on that for a bit, and then blink. “Wait. You heard? You actually got a guard willing to talk to you?”

Now it was Demarath's turn to look uncomfortable. Oh boy, dealing with two complicated messes at the same time. “S-sort of,” he replied. “I'll get to that. But first, I just… What has she been saying? Do you know? Has she mentioned me by name, or described me, or given any details at all to anyone who doesn't already know about m- about my 'condition'?” Panic began rising in his chest, but so far didn't threaten to overwhelm him.

“Not as such. I think she thought that would be going too far… But. the guards know who you are, after all. Someone will talk eventually. And in the meantime…” Ilirith looked faintly distressed. “…since they don't know which witch it was, and I'm the more well-known of the two of us…”

Demarath's eyes widened as the implications suddenly hit, a sharp pain lodging into his gut.How did he not think of that before? “Oh gods. I… I'm sorry. I didn't even realize…. I've been so worried about it I didn't even think about that…” He closed his eyes, antennae curling back in fear and shame, with a hint of self-directed frustration mixed in.

After a long silence, Demarath finally opened his eyes again, a strange expression settling onto his features – grim, yet somehow with a glimmer of hope hiding within. “Ilirith… how much longer do you think Alvraan is going to be a safe place for us?”

“Not very. The Matriarch knows that too. She'll take care of it.” She stopped, and looked at his expression - and, possibly, the shape of his mind. “…did you have something you wanted to tell me?” she asked suspiciously.

Demarath's antennae twitched, uncertainty and discomfort bleeding back into his expression. The Matriarch would take care of it? How? Whatever she was planning to do with him, it clearly at least made Ilirith uncomfortable, which really wasn't helping matters. He exhaled softly, tried to put his thoughts into some kind of sensible shape. “About that 'sort of'…” he began, then approached the cell bars, glancing around outside to make sure no one else was there. “You remember that other witch? The bronze one from yesterday?” he asked in a hushed tone. “He came here right before the last watch, specifically to talk to me. He's the one who told me about Aveshinoth.”

Ilirith's eyes got rounder as Demarath spoke, until they were nearly bulging. “He did what?” she shouted aloud.

She clamped her mouth shut. This was not news she'd wanted to hear, not at all. After a certain amount of effort, she managed to get the rest out more quietly. “You mean to tell me that another witch just waltzed down here past the guards to have a chat with you?”

Demarath winced as she shouted back at him, reflexively jerking back. Immediately, he regretted his decision to bring Zadireth up – at the very least he should have waited until some point when Ilirith was less agitated. Definitely don't mention what he's planning.

“I… wouldn't say 'waltzed', exactly, but he at least managed to… get past the guards without them necessarily noticing.” Demarath shrank in on himself a little, his antennae pressed against his neck, fearful of saying the wrong thing. “For whatever it's worth, he seemed friendly, or at least sympathetic to our plight.”

“Friendly or not,” Ilirith replied firmly, “he can't be allowed to wander around loose, you understand? If he can breach security that easily, he could get up to anything. He could get us both in even more trouble, if he gets caught.” She glanced around nervously. “I should go find him.”

Demarath's antennae twitched, a look of concern starting to leech into his expression.There's a long moment of strained, thoughtful silence, before he speaks up: “While I do think you should talk to him… at least to figure out what he's doing and dissuade him from doing anything ill-advised… I'm not sure right this very moment is the best time to do so. Today, certainly, if you can manage it, but–” He scrunches his eyes closed, suddenly overcome by embarrassment. “No, I'm sorry, forget I said that. It's not my place to tell you what to do.”

Ilirith sighed. “I'm sorry. It's not something I can allow just to slide. I'll be back shortly.”

“No need, really,” Zadireth's voice said from the darkness down the corridor. “I'm right here.” The bronze scuttled into the light, looking serious. “Charmed, lovely to meet you,” he added, behaving as if he took no notices of the way daggers flew into Ilirith's forepaws, “but I think we should all be getting out of here. Right now.”

The assassin stared at him. “What? Getting out? None of us is going anywhere, including you-”

“If we stay, we'll all be visiting Ba'uk in her halls. Is there any chance we can discuss this somewhere else?”

Demarath winced slightly at her reply. She clearly wasn't in a good mood right now, and chasing after Zadireth wasn't going to do her any favors. “Ilirith, wait, it's not going to be that easy, he–”

And then, suddenly, the thing he was about to say became completely moot as the takma in question emerged from the shadows. “Zadireth?” Demarath took a couple steps back from the bars, eyes darting over to Ilirith – surprised at how quickly she'd managed to get daggers into her forepaws. Still a scary assassin. His attention darted back and forth between the other two witches, a terrified alertness taking hold in his expression. Something is wrong.

“What are you talking about? What's going on? Explain!”

“Well, if you must know,” Zadireth replied, slinking around Ilirith, “your old girlfriend the princess decided her mother was getting unreasonable in her old age about not having you executed and other matriarchal responsibilities, so she went and promoted herself.” He touched a claw to one of the bars of the door, which started turning red and gently crumbling into rusty dust.

Ilirith gaped at him. “She what?” She grabbed him by the forelimb, but jerked back, something tiny and sharp had protruded from between his scales. “Sorry,” he murmured, “reflex. But yes, the Matriarch's been assassinated. And while the guards are running around upstairs trying to figure out what to do, the new Matriarch will probably be ordering them down here to turn us all into animal food once she eases their minds a bit, so if we could move right along…”

Demarath grimaced at the 'old girlfriend' comment, a part of him wondering how Zadireth had heard about that particular detail of their interactions – he doubts Aveshinoth or the Matriarch had talked about it in public; maybe a chatty guard had overheard it somehow? Of course, this consideration paled in comparison to the more direct revelation. “'Promoted herself'?” Demarath asked, momentarily confused before sudden realization set in. “… Oh. Oh no, no, please don't tell me she actually – Aveshinoth wouldn't do that, would she?” His attention turned to Ilirith, expression pleading for some kind of confirmation; he didn't know Aveshinoth well enough to be sure she wouldn't kill her own mother.

It was still possible that Aveshinoth wouldn't be able to secure enough political power to be certain of being seen as a legitimate successor. Especially if she were guilty of matricide. But as far as he knew, she was still the designated heir, and she certainly had the initiative to at least make Ilirith's life difficult, and his own life extremely short. “If she's really dead… Ilirith, we have to leave. You know as well as I do we're going to die if we don't.”

Ilirith glanced warily up the corridor toward the stairwell. “I… I don't… she was very angry, but surely she…” She trailed off. She was very angry. And very ambitious. And a spoiled brat. It might very well have been the kind of thing she'd do, if she was pushed.

The sound of distant shouting and many feet filtered through her consciousness, and she shivered. With sudden decisiveness, she turned around. “Here,” she said shortly, and telekinetically opened the lock. “But the only way out is through where all the noise is coming from.”

There was another grimace at that response – that didn't bode well. If they went out that way, they'd surely be spotted, they'd attract attention, things would become a huge mess, they'd probably have to fight off guards as they escaped…. There had to be another way out. Maybe Zadireth had found one, or maybe –

Demarath paused suddenly, halfway out the door, and turned his head inwards towards the cell, almost as if bidding an old friend farewell. Then his gaze turned down to the partially-rusted bar. Then back to the room – no, the window. “Maybe not,” he mused, the beginnings of a grin spreading across his features. “Zadireth, how fast can you do that rust trick?” He stepped back into the cell, turning his attention to the mysterious newcomer and gesturing to the window.

“Ohhh my, this makes things easier,” Zadireth commented, stepping into the cell and examining the window. It hadn't exactly been built to a size meant for exit, but a takma the size of a witch could squeeze through. “I may not be able to manage much magic for a short while afterwards, but I could work at this faster, I believe-”

There was the loud bang of a door being smacked open at the top of the staircase. Zadireth coughed awkwardly and then gripped the bars with his forepaws; they hissed in his grip. Ilirith, meanwhile, closed the door behind her and locked it, barricading them all in the cell. “With any luck, they won't get through before- ah.” She sighed as the soldiers came into view. “They have javelins.”

Only so many soldiers could cram around the door, but the ones nearest it started hurling the short spears between the bars; Ilirith dropped her daggers and began flicking them aside in midair with quick chops of her forepaws.

Demarath quickly scampered behind Ilirith as the guards arrived, figuring that 'behind the assassin' was probably the best place to be in a situation like this. This turned out to be the right idea, given her ability to easily deflect the oncoming javelins. His gaze jerked over to the window, eyeing Zadireth's progress – still on the first bar, but it looked like he was almost finished with it.

Well, as long as Ilirith could keep up with her telekinetic tricks, they were fairly safe, and the soldiers would eventually run out of javelins anyway… And then what would they do? Try to force the doors open? Did any of them have a key to the cell?

Ilirith didn't have to rely entirely on telekinesis. One of the javelins got jerked out of its trajectory and into her paw, and with a snarl whirled it like a cheerleader with a baton, knocking other oncoming javelins to the sides of the room with what she made to look like effortless ease. “Idiots!” she shouted at the guards clustered outside. “You're a miserable excuse for security, you know that? You didn't even bring-”

From outside, someone shouted, “Make way! I've got the key.” Ilirith clapped her jaw shut, then muttered, “Terrific.”

But as the key-wielding guard approached, Ilirith gritted her teeth, concentrated, and made a yanking motion with her free forepaw; the guard, approaching the door, suddenly found himself approaching it much faster than intended, his head slamming into the bars with an unpleasant sound. As he slumped to the ground, another guard pulled the key from his grip and began working it in the lock; Ilirith curled her fingers in an attempt to hold the lock, but the barrage of javelins started up again and she found herself hard-pressed to deal with both. “Are you done over there yet?” She barked.

The second bar was crumbling away at Zadireth's touch. “We'll have our exit, I think, as soon as this one is done…”

The supply of javelins appeared to have run out for the moment, and Ilirith was able to devote her attentions to holding the lock; but she could see the guards starting to make way for two sturdy females of their number, bearing what appeared to be a handheld battering ram. “Blast.”

Demarath cursed inwardly as the guard shouted about the key. His gaze darted over to Zadireth for a moment to check his progress, and then he heard a sickening crack; when he looked back, he saw the aforementioned guard slump to the ground against the bars. For a few long moments, his gaze was stuck on the form of the fallen guard, eyes wide, struggling to process it – but they didn't have the luxury of time.

Then there was another guard trying to open the door, and more javelins, and Ilirith was straining to handle it all. He had to help somehow, if the guards managed to open the door, they were as good as dead. He focused on the frame of the iron-barred door, near the top, raised a forepaw towards it, taking aim, took a sharp breath, fighting back nausea, and let loose a bolt of lightning. The guard shrieked in pain and fell to the ground, muscles contracting against their will, clutching the key in a vicelike grip.

Of course, a few moments later, Demarath spotted the burly women with the battering ram, and his heart sank. There wasn't much he could do about that, was there? Not unless he wanted to zap them directly, something he deeply hoped to avoid. At best he could dissuade them from coming too close. He stepped forward, around Ilirith, and began pulling heat from the air, particularly from the direction of all the guards. He raised his forepaws, crackling with electricity, and stood to his full (rather short) height, doing his best to appear menacing and trying to disguise his fear. “I don't want to harm any more of you – I truly don't. Just let us leave, and no one else has to get hurt.”

The other guards drew back at the felling of one of their number, and pulled him away as Demarath made his brief speech. The looks they directed at him, and at Ilirith, were filled with terror and a kind of loathing, but for a moment it seemed enough to keep them at bay.

Then there came shouted orders from the rear, and the burly female guards, steeling themselves for electric death, rushed forward with the battering ram.

Behind Ilirith and Demarath, Zadireth called out. “There's enough room to squeeze out! Come on!” Ilirith flinched back as the ram hit the door with a loud CLANG, and then motioned Demarath towards the window. “Go! Go!”

In the moment the battering ram began rushing towards them, Demarath's courage began to falter. They're really going to do it. Whether they're calling his bluff, or they simply value accomplishing their objective over their own lives, it leaves him without any options. He raises his forepaws, antennae curling back in fear…

Then Zadireth's voice calls out, and a moment later, the ram crashes into the bars. A way out. The door holds, but it probably won't hold after a second attack with the battering ram. He hesitates for a split-second as Ilirith shouts at him to go, flashing a look of concern in her direction, before he follows her command, clambering onto the windowsill. He perches there for a moment, judging the space below him, then leaps out, spreading his wings as he falls and beating furiously to catch himself. Then his flight stabilizes into a glide in a wide arc, and he takes the chance to look back towards the window, watching Zadireth circling there and hoping to see Ilirith following after.

Ilirith's cloak had been designed with slits for her wings, and she struggled to push them through as she scrabbled toward the window. There was another loud CLANG behind her and then the metallic crash of the door, ripped from its hinges and lock, hitting the floor; she dove through the window as her pursuers entered, not having time to judge the conditions outside.

Because she had simply dove out, her momentum carried her downward for some distance before her hastily-unfurled wings allowed her to level out from her dive.

Zadireth turned away from the window. “North!” he shouted. “Follow me!” Far above the window, from the top of the flat-topped mount that contained the palace and its connected rooms, there could be seen the tiny specks that suggested that some of their pursuers were already on the move.

There's a moment of terror as he hears the crash and watches Ilirith dive blindly out the window – which thankfully is over just as quickly as her flight stabilizes. Then he turns to follow Zadireth northwards, glancing behind him to make sure their pursuers weren't following. So far, so good – not that there was much room for them to follow, given the window was barely large enough for Ilirith and much too large for an ordinary takma.

Of course, they probably weren't going to give up quite so easily. Hopefully this at least gave them some time to get a solid head start. For now, though, there was little to do but follow Zadireth and hope for the best.