'Mmph?' The drake gives a surprised expression. He expected it to weigh fifty kilos or more and be unhandlable, and it weighed in at a comfortable five.
Without another word, Torrinah's skirt lengthens and the vest grows sleeves, a mask, cape-like lovely black wings and sleek, leather-like gloves and boots. Within seconds, the lovely enticer who first called to him stands before the magenta drake, her seductive form giving an aire of beauty and grace that he had never known could exist in a non-dragon form.
Marada silently reminds himself that he can't be distracted. She looked lovely, but so did fire. And she was equally dangerous in this state.
As she steps out into the night, it is nearly impossible for the dragon not to follow at her heals. But he sees the gleaming light reflected off the blackened blade that makes him give pause.
He backs up, giving her a few metres to lead, and a few metres slack in case his blade tumbles by an inadvertent fault of strength. The drake then asks a rather stupid question, but one he didn't quite get enough details to handle. ~What in particular are we looking for?~, he asks, for he had not sensed her think the plan and did not wish to pry, slightly uncertain how to handle the odd Colzar thoughtfeel.
Taking to the air on her cape's newly formed great wings, the shadowform on deadly beauty soars into the night sky. ~Now is the time to hunt down one of the beasts that you have faught before... but we do not kill it immediately... we must hold it, while I drain some of it's essence into a magical flask.~
'Ah.' This makes sense. He was wondering how he would get the blood of an enemy without a container handy. And it was not the sort of thing he would have immediate qualms with.... it could be one of those boar-thingies; or the daemonic voices. He could hunt without worrying of hurting a brother dragon.
After a moment, Marada takes wing, following his mate. His motions are slightly tenuous, considering the possibility that here, at least, he was still so close as to be able to kill one of his clan were the blade to leave his control and fall.
He also realizes that one of the primary motives for him to rush into combat has faded. In this form, Torrinah had little to none of the frail delicacy that urged him to protect her. But still, he thinks of how else he has seen her... nearly dead on five claw points, or so damaged by the rocs or shades, and it remains clear she needs defence, at least to him. Finally, he turns himself away from the house, still aware of the potential for disaster, and flaps his great, near-black wings to propel himself forwards, beginning to scan the ground for something shadow-like to attack.
It slowly dawns on him that evidently his dream had been longer than previously thought, or his time with Torrinah. It was late in the morning when he first dropped off, and now the sun is down again. It would seem many hours had passed, unless perhaps the jelly mould around the region was more opaque now or at certain hours. But there was no sun.
The stars are barely seen in teh sky, as if a huge tapestry had been crisscrossed over the heavens to block it out. There is a strange feeling to the air, as well... somthing that the drake cannot put his talon on, but it makes him edgy, none-the-less.
The drake shudders slightly, as though he was responding to the night's chill. It is not industrial pollution; that much he can tell, but what other than massive industry can affect the ecology -- even the air's feel and translucency-- so?
As he begins to observe, somehow expecting the traditional evil glowing red eye to flash and quickly deciding to also search for motion, another feeling joins the daemons of his draconic pride in the back of his mind. This feeling is guilt. He knows he was responsible for his mate's near-death, and somehow knows the thought-Corbyn was his fault as well, not even to mention the disaster his bravado with the rocs incited! Why does he keep committing such crimes against the one he loves?
The shadowed woman moves ahead of him, easily banking thorugh cloud and over mountain, her sharp eyes peering through the foggy veil to find their prey. But it is the drake behind her that sees the dark apparitions making their way across the landscape as if intent on some sinister purpose.
Marada begins a slow dive on the motion, listening with his earfans and mind. He doesn't expect anything yet. In fact, he assumes it is most likely a distraction of nearsighted eyes. For some reason, he decides to examine deeper alone, perhaps by a mixture of not wishing to bother or endanger his determined-looking love, distrust in the sight, and perhaps more. If anything, he expects perhaps a hornbeast group, or a few drakes out in a party. But still, it is a large motion, perhaps symbolic of a group of shades. They seem to always attack in groups. A smart military decision. The blade in his claws affects the aerodynamics and weight distribution of his dive, and seems to urge him down and into the group faster.
As he races into the group in motion, the dragon feels a sharp pain in his mind as one of them gives him a mental stab of psionic energy. The group rushes at Marada, their claws slashing the air before them, their teeth nashing while vile fluid foams from their hidious maws. As the first one strikes the drake, he knows for certain, the pain that surges through his new wound means trouble.
//Definitely shadows,// Marada thinks as the beasties pull into view and the headache of the first psionic stab surges. He hits the ground with an unbalanced grunt and thoughtspeaks to his mate. ~We've got something... a good number of them.~
The returning mental tendrils are vague, as if something is trying to block their communique. ~Don't worry, my beloved... I'll take care of you... Just let me get rid of the mentalist amongst their number, and it'll be easier.~ Her mental self seems tired, but then, he is blocked again. Hearing only her seductive song in his ears, rather than her gentle mind touching his own.
This doesn't add up to Marada. Was it thoughtspeech equal to being put on hold? Or was she trying to Entice something from a distance where it can be heard?
Realizing that if they haven't cornered him yet, they will soon enough, he backs away from his striker and runs as fast as his fat legs will carry him, hoping that he can divide the group and face one of them... he only needed one, and it would make the effort a lot easier and less dangerous. He supposes merely asking for a blood sample would go over as well as asking a bunch of highschoolers for the same.
As he slices through one shade, he notices his mate doing the same to another, just a short distance form himself. Her song actually enwrapping the attentions of the shadows to draw them to her.
The confusion now ends, with this image serving to resolve the music source.
As her blade slices deep into the darkness of one being, the drake notices that the darkness absorbs into the blade, while the bone that remains disintegrates into dust within moments. His own blade mimics this effect, leaving a slab of some limb to exaporate into the soil before him.
Marada is fascinated.... what was this blade made of? He had never seen a weapon of his own people that absorbed the blood of a foe-- which seemed to be the closest equal. He then picks up the limb, figuring holding onto the flesh made it more likely they could extract blood from it. These creatures were very strange indeed. No structural integrity.
The limb's natural acidic blood does begin to burn at Marada's inner talon, but it is not noticable, yet.
One shadow starts to sway with Whisper's song, moving amongst it's companions to attack them, as well.
The old drake mouths 'Wow.' He realizes that the enchanted shades would now be easily contained. He carries the limb with one forelimb and drags the absurdly oversized blade with another and sneaks up upon a shade, which he expects to be distracted by the odd behaviour of its comrade and by the song. His plan is to hold it and let Torrinah take the blood.... there was some strangeness of their biology which made him unsure if he could pierce the flesh without blowing it up like a sulphuric-acid filled baloon. He drops the limb about 2 metres out from the shade and moves to wrap his forelimbs, one dangling still the huge weapon, about the shade. He hopes he puts it blade-side-up.
The woman continues her sirine-song, dancing away from teh blades of her opponents. The enthralled shade taking the brunt of it's companions' attacks. While Marada steals up behind one of the shadows, another notices the movement of the drake, and truns to face him. It's lethal dagger and claws poised to strike. It slowly tries to circle, the drake. Hoping to get the magenta figure stuck between itself and it's companions.
Whisper dances past one blade, and parries another, her own weapon ringing with her song as it's eates away the magical energies of the shadow's knife. She pulls the creature into her clutches, and with a kiss, causes it's form to fade into a viscious vapor that rises into the atmosphere.
'Yeep.' Marada whispers, thinking that it could be himself. This power was out of all normal range for him.
With a ringing laugh, she finishes her song, calling to Marada in a seducing to tone, "Finish them, my lover, and then you may claim your prize."
He ducks his head so his horns point up and out and dives at a shade, realizing the presence of the oversized blade and swinging it forward as he jumps.
Feeling the blade bite into teh solid region of the shade, Marada hears bone snap, and feels the beast's claws begin to rake his throat and chest, then fade into nothingness.
The blade almost slips from his claws, its light weight being almost forgotten to the drake, and he tries to pull his body in to defend his neck before it fades. He wipes the little blackness on himself off carefully.
The remains of the shade's corpreal element lays scattered across the ground looking like pale white flakes of rock in the sand. Torrinah steps up to the drake, her cloak fitting itself around her shoulders again, her face smiling triumphantly up at Marada. "You are _magnificent_!" She says, huskily, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissing his maw.
Marada returns the kiss and then starts to ask 'Did you...'
In her exitement, Torrinah does not let him finish the question.
"We did get some of what we came here for, my love." She finally says, looking up at him. "We should get back to the children, and prepare to leave on our quest. There are a few items we will need to pack."
'Never mind', he mutters, his question answered. She must have drawn it from the one she enchanted. The old worm breathes out, thankful that he evaded encounter with a shadowdragon, that which he knew he could not bring himself to kill. 'Sounds good.', he states, expecting the scent of rotting flesh to attract beasts even more feral than himself. He prepares to take wing.
As she turns to make her way back to the house, there is a blur of motion, and Torrinah is struck to the ground, blood spraying from her face across Marada's head and chest.
Marada's beak opens, half confused, half ready to start a seven-hundred- syllable string of cursing to the responsible party.
The blur of darkness turns without being seen and comes toward the drake, a glint of metal barely visible to Marada's eyes. Torrinah begins to rise, but the strike must have hurt her to severely, for she shakes with the effort, then drops back to the ground, unconscious.
Marada starts to move toward his lover, wondering what he can do-- lift her? Carry her? Cover her?
As the blur strikes the magenta form of Marada, he feels the ripping of a harsh blade, and then sees his attacker.
The strike levels Marada as well, and he is distracted from his concern.
The figure stands, as if purposfully looking intimidating, her deep blood-red wings glinting in the sunlight, and long auburn hair blwoing in the breeze. "Come quietly and I will not have to kill you." She says, the red mask of this world's half-dragons showing her liniage.
[Sunlight? When did this come? Wasn't it night five seconds ago?] Marada is unsure what to do. He's outclassed by position, and presumably size. His mate is unconscious, a subject of severe concern. But he knows he can't just address it... that would invite slaughter. Moreover, he doesn't know what she wants, beyond following. Perhaps it was important, like the Trentrellians' unpleasant and unclear invite. But perhaps it wasn't as desirable.... and he got the feeling it wasn't. Moreover, he was fascinated by the creature-- a half-draconic form with fur seemed savagely beautiful and fairly close to his own race, and an obvious point of curiousity. And this was presumably what hurt his mate. That was most important.
The female stares at him with dark sapphire eyes, her hair, like flames, lashing behind her in the harsh desert winds. She looks sensual, alluring, yet her eyes show a deadliness worse than that of any dragon Marada has ever seen.
Marada's panicked mind has even more trouble than expected making sense of this creature. The form is enticing, perhaps more than his current choice, but he knows that to make the wrong move is to encite a major danger. She seemed like the dominant mate he would prefer.
Smelling the fear from the dragon makes the woman smile, dangerously. She knows now that he will be compliant to her whims, and that is what is important right now. She watches him as he stands silently, then...
The smile is the LAST thing Marada needs... he can't make flesh nor stone of the situation as is, and this sort of thing made him even more uneasy.
He begins to offer a resistance, planting the blade in the ground to serve as a crutch. 'My mate... you hurt her badly. At least let me bring her to safety.... then we can address your desires. I will be surprisingly difficult to move unless this is handled.' His voice starts weak, intimidated, but gains in strength as he poses his argument, and begins to lift himself up, forcing his hindclaws into the earth in a manner that hinders his lifting but also makes good on the promise of difficulty to move. He also knows that if he can get the permission to move Torrinah, he can use it to gain escape or at least better position for combat... though the draconic form of the creature makes the last option extrodinarily undesirable for him.
At the word "mate", the female's eyes narrow further. She taps her foot for only a moment, then speaks in a more harsh tone. "You will come with me, or I will rip your heart out with my bare hands!" Then she seems to tack on the last words as if in an afterthought. "The black garbed witch can live or die, it does not matter. But after I have slain you, I will kill her too, if you do not come with me now."
The drake's mind is clouded with a near-unesitmatable terror. He knows he's in no position to gamble, especially considering the risk facing Torrinah if she is not dealt with. Plus, he's slightly intrigued-- is the draconic sentiment here allied against his mate? What exactly does she want-- besides threatening? And why did a draconiforme use the term 'hands' instead of 'foreclaws'? He finishes rising to his hind legs and walks toward the Huntress, dragging the blade. 'I... I surrender... I cannot fight under these circumstances-- but permit me to take her with.'
"Good choice." She says, dryly. Unfurling her large wings and leaping skyward. She holds her sword before her, her slender hands showing that she could cut him down quickly if he were to try anything she did not like.
The drake, a lot afraid and more than a little curious, begins the difficult process of lifting Torrinah. He looks around to remind himself of where he is if he is ever to reclaim what looked like an expensive sword.
He realizes the value of this manouvre on several levels. Torrinah seemed clever and strong-- perhaps if all else failed, she might know of a last-ditch effort, and equally importantly, he could monitor her and ensure that the next rambling boar-thing didn't mistake her for an Extra Value Meal. Finding no suitable storage for a blade two-thirds his size, he forces it into the ground and moves toward the half-lifeless form of Torrinah, preparing to lift far more mass than his twisted back was rated for.
When the drake does pick up the unconscious woman, he finds that she is much lighter than he believed possible. Her head lolls to one side, much like a rag doll; he sees the head wound, a light rivulet of blood running from her skull, is already healing and Torrinah's breath is normal, not slowed with sleep or rest, as he believed. In his mind runs one thought, ~Possum!~
The meaning is obvious to him with only minimal thought, and he is more startled by the light weight. Evidently this planet didn't enjoy 9.8 metres per second squared. And the healed wounds seem very odd.... what sort of biology could repair itself at that clip? He begins to flap his large, dark wings to rise and catch up with the Huntress, and asks a question to her. It seems a reasonable one, all things considered. "Where... What do you want of me?". He had no useful information, no funds, no technology or goods handy. And that she was willing to kill him implied that it was both extremely important to earn whatever he had, and unimportant to have him alive.
"You will find out soon enough, dragon. For now, remain silent, or I'll remove your tongue." The female says, a grim tone to her voice. //I hate these beasts, why must I alwasy be the one to bring them to her?// She questioned her own mind, as they flew onward, toward the spire that held a dark sway over all the land around it.
Marada gulps, barely audibly. It was as if this creature had only one personality element. Somehow, though, he anticipated the answer he got. Of course he wouldn't get the truth-- when has he gotten the whole story in one convinent bite since he got here?
"When we land in the courtyard, you will set down your charge and follow the warriors, or you will be killed. Is that understood?"
"I'm afraid so." He wishes he could use not knowing the tongue as an excuse to drag Torrinah with him, but it was unlikely he could start speaking Draconiati now and not arouse suspicion it was the ruse it would be. He puzzles as to the intent.... warriors implied he would be led to a prison perhaps. But whose authority had he violated? The shades'? And how? And was he not entitled to an expanation of his crime and rights? Or to stand before a Tribunal? //Silly, lad//, he thinks, //Who would enforce the Constitution here?//
As the woman, spoke, Torrinah linked into Marada's mind, seeing through his eyes. She felt sad at his poor sight, but she knew that with time, and effort, she would be able to reverse teh damage that age had taken on the drake.
Torrinah's blame is misplaced, for 1000 to Marada's race is about 50 to a human. This damage has been done by staring too long at books and monitors and poor diet.
Watching and waiting, she noted their destination and her heart was wrung with despair. //No, not my newfound mate!// She wept inwardly, as the drake circled down into the courtyard of the Ebon Tower.
The red figure before him moves to one balcony, waving him to continue downward. Her lithe figure glistening lightly with an eiree red glow as she moves backward, toward the doors that lead into the Tower. She smiles sinisterly, her mask taking on a characteristic like that of a true predator who is just ripping the life from it's prey. She folds her wings tight to her back,a dn walks into the Tower, her hair trailing behind like whisps of flame.
He follows, a new fear growing in his black heart. He doubts he could get a promise of good treatment for himself or his mate, and even if he did, who would enforce it? But the curiousity motive is strong, and he wants to know what's going on. This drives him forward.
This place fascinates Marada. It is so incongruous-- large enough to require civilization and technology in high levels not available here. And yet it is attractive. He wishes he could just stand somewhere and scream "Would someone tell me what the hell is going on?!"
As he drops into the courtyard, Marada sees that he has come into a place that was once filled with light and beauty, not the sadows dominate each crack and crevice, and the beauty has turned gothic... sinister. Grotesques of bat-winged angels look down from nooks in the walls of the tower, gaurding long forgotten secrets in silence.
Marada mouths 'wow.' This was truly impressive architecture. If he ever built a fortress, it would be in this style.
Where there must have once been a lovely tree stood a withered and decaying stump, bigger around than three of the magenta drake's people joined in a circle. The outer wall shows a sore need for repair, and the guards that stand upon it appear as hollow shells of the armour that he can guess must be filled with skeletal warriors, or shadowed forms.
The armour without apparent filling gives Marada a mild shock.
One such suit moves forward, holding a sword at the ready, while two more take the downed Colzar from Marada.
'Take care... good care.. of her', he whispers, adding the clarification just in case, and waddling to keep up with the leader.
The suit begins to move toward one open doorway, the lack of light making such an opening seem as if it were leading to the dark realm itself. As the warrior continues onward, the suit glows with a faint red light, showing Marada his way through the otherwise impenetrable darkness.
It almost makes Marada consider the creature an automaton... no percievable flesh and an glow akin to an electric light.
There are the sounds of whips, the familiar clinking sound of metal chains, and the strong smell of sweat, blood and heat. A few wayward cries reach the dragon's ears, and still the warrior leads him through darkness. Into the very heart of the Ebon Teir that brings fear to the breasts and eyes of all who dwell in it's shadow...
Marada shudders. This was the sort of treatment he would estimate would be given to a human convicted of a crime against his people. He fears the cries are of those he cares about-- other dragons, Torrinah already there, perhaps even Jesren's essence, and that he might be making them soon enough. As the fur on his back begins to rise, he gets the feeling that the anxiety is reaching a head.... whatever he was here for was about to come. //I wonder if it's too late to update my will//, he thinks, struggling to submerge an unusual terror. The fear of this overload of things he'd usually enjoy.
When the figure before him stops suddenly, he feels a chill run up his spine, for at that moment, a horrendous, otehrworldly scream echoes across the expanse before him. He sees there are children of varied races, and adults of all descirption working at the walls within this humid waste of a dungeon. There are carts being loaded with rock, and the workers are forced to dig with claws, or hands, for they have no tools to aid them. Those who fall to exhaustion or pain, and whipped until they either struggle to their feet and resume their work, or lay motionless under a continued assault of their now lifeless form.
'Ick.' Marada scans the scene, terrified there might be draconic forms among the abused.
Above, as if as for further incentive, hangs the skin of an enormous dragon, the gruesome tapestry shedding light from long faded stars still on it's hide. It's full length running the entire expanse of the area Marada looks down upon. "Be welcome to your new home, slave." The winged woman says, her red mask glinting with a satisfied smile. "And know that there is no escape for you."
'F***', Marada states simply. It wasn't what he expected, but just as bad if not many times worse. He wants to puzzle over the dragon-skin more, the stars fascinating to him, but he gets the idea the shades will soon turn violent.
With a laugh, and a fourishing turn, she leaves Marada in the tender care of shades. They brandish their whips as if relishing to use them.
***
Elsewhere, Torrinah is dragged before a dark figure. She does not look at the surroundings, or the residents therein. Her mind is locked tight, and her breathing stays even, only gasping slightly when she is dragged down a short flight of stairs. //I'll destroy the bastard later.// She avows herself.
With a sudden start at the voice she hears, Torrinah sits up, hearing the words clearly. "Get up, mother! You don't fool me so easily."
***
Marada's blood is boiling. Slave? Dragons are NOT slaves. And to a fellow what-looked-like-a-draconiforme no less! However, an attack at this juncture would be expected. Perhaps with a bit of information, he could figure out a better way out. And he begins to ponder how to cover his tracks-- perhaps he will be let out if the job is done, or he can improve efficency, and nothing improves efficency like simple machines. He looks for a long stone, the base of leverage, and asks 'How are we to dig-- up? Down? Out? Looking for something?' to nobody in particular.
Looking at the slaves, he does see that there are a few dragons, and half dragons in the crew. Their wings in shreds, two small half dragon boys struggle with the weight of one large stone, flecks of some gemstone glowing within it's makeup. One shadow begins to whip the boys, the lashing causing both to cringe, but they continue to struggle with their load.
//NO!// He could accept his own abuse; but never could he permit it thrown on others of his kind. He decides to take the labour from them and thus the battery. 'Leave off of them.', he states almost politely. 'I'll finish pushing it.' To add a point that they would *have* to accept, he adds 'Injuring workers hurts you in the long run; wounds diminish productivity.'
The guardian gives Marada a few lashes, as he dives between the children and the flail. Then turns to heap abuse on someone else, not far away.
He grimaces, half at the pain and half at the irritation that even cold reason wouldn't apparently work. //Let's see... if selling them on more productivity won't work... what next?//
Inwardly, he tries to come to grips with a situation that is biting so deeply into him that he wishes to end his existence. //At least... it is one of my own kind. Draconic-- at least in form. It is not a human.//, he thinks, referring to the master. //But is that any better in the long run? For can I fight her? If only there were some basic agreement I could work with. Or some way to get one.// Unfortunately, Marada knows that the wonders of treaty and order were several centuries to come here.
On a ledge above, slipping through darkened corridors, a figure watches the new arrival and gives a grim nod... now is the time.
He moves from the ledge, following the path of the other prisoner that was brought in.
The drake begins to shove the stone away from the walls, vague reccolections of Sissiphus flowing into his head, and puzzling. The shine within the rock makes him think this was a ridiculously primitive mining operation, but that it was under a building implied construction of a dungeon. His thoughts turn to Torrinah. He gets worries that she is even worse off. The red figure hasn't even shown interest in preserving her, so she might have been discarded-- thrown out or killed.
He wishes he could free the drake now... there was no telling when the Mistress would return here, and finding one of her own, take him away. But the dark figure knew that it was a chance that had to be taken. For now, however, nothing would harm the drake, with the magics he placed over the magenta hide.
***
The woman in Marada's thoughts was not where he believed though. As she had escaped her "care-takers" with a word of distruction, she followed the scent of her mate, thinking to rescue him. She was not ready to fight all the gaurds of the slave mine, though... she was not quite strong enough for that, yet. //But soon...// she promised Marada, as she watched him take the marks of the flail for the children below. //Soon, I'll let you take your vengence.// The tears came to her eyes as she turned from him. //First, I must find help.// She thought, not wishing to activly project to the dragon, and risk her location or life.
With a nod, the figure watched the woman from a hidden alcove. He knew of many of them, since he had been here for some time. He did not know if he could trust to the silence of the female, but he knew that she did not like seeing the drake hurt either. She would bare watching, for the time... he wanted to see where she was headed, and what she might attempt to do.
As she moved down one shadowed corridor, she felt the claws of one daemon, she lashed out with her magic, causing the shades to disperse like a black fog fleeing from the breeze. She felt as if she would scream, as the poison faught through her system, but she had become used to it's effects. Listening to the sounds ahead, in the corridor, Torrinah moved on, cautiously.
Still, with her senses so alert, she did not detect the one who was tailing her, waiting for the right moment...
He moved on in silence, his boots not making any sound on the stone floor, his cloak wrapped around his form, hiding him in eternal darkness.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, the felinoid woman moves away from her mate with a heavy heart. She does not want to leave him too long, but she knows that she must put a stop to a far greater perversion.
The sorcery seems to affect Marada with a surprisingly short duration of the discomfort of the whip-wound. However, he discounts it to the unusuality of the weapon choice. He had been shot at, thrown spears at, clubbed, but not whipped. Because it was different in dimension than a tail-whip, for example, he did not know the expected result.
As she allows her cloak to re-form over her body, Torrinah becomes one with the shadows and entities that roam the passages of this ancient structure.
A small child further away watches with bright blue eyes full of sorrow. He does not understand why one of the fliers would be here, but he's certain it must be a trap or trick of some kind. He watches the beast being hit, but notes that it is not enough to make him bleed like the others who've known the sting of that hated weapon. //I will find out you're secret plan, beast... and when I learn your trap, I will kill you!// He promises himself.
Moving beyond the passages, toward the central stair, she feels a dark presence ahead. She waits for jsut a moment, then strikes out as the shade rounds the turn of the stariwell, grasping it within her talon-like hands, she squeeses it's essence, making it melt and fade into nothing more than a harmless mist. //Now, if the rest of them are this easy, I should be done in only a few minutes, my love... tehn i'll return to you, and allow you to enact your vengence on those who cause you harm.//
[Marada’s] concern for Torrinah is not quieted. If only he could get information, or assurance that she was taken care of! But this was not the sort of place where detailed records would be kept. Either that, or someone, given the decor, would probably read them as a comic.
She continues up the stairwell, meeting with a pair of the human guardians of this place... with a simple running of her hands over her hips, and a song to their souls, she knows they are hers. "Go ahead of me, and turn aside others like yourselves." She tells them in a voice of silken ecstasy.
The child slowly makes his way toward the cart that the dragon is loading. Silently moving past the other workers and their overseers to sidle up to the magenta form.
[Marada] grunts and keeps pushing the stone, still too far out of the loop to know why.
While Torrinah continues toward her goal up the stairway, she begins to incant a silent spell, wanting to be prepared for the force of energies she is sure to meet when she enters the High Teir.
"You're lifting the ones that are too big for others, you know." He says quietly, hoping that he won't be noticed too much by the shades. His furred face and rich eyes are familiar to the drake next to him, though he seems to be avoiding calling Marada by his name, and acts as though he is just now meeting him. "IF you don't let someone break them down a bit first, then the only one who will be able to push the cart will be you."
Instead, she turns the corner of the stair, and meets with a blade through her hip; the cloth of her protective item slicing open like butter at the touch of a hot knife. The blade's black essense trying to consume her mind and soul...
"Quid?", Marada states, expressing his surprise at the distraction with psuedo-latin. The face is indeed familiar, but he can't connect it in his wearied state. For a moment he digests the statement, unsure of its exact meaning; particularly the last part. It almost sounded like a euphemism for something worse. 'If I push it alone, they harass me, not the other dragons.', he states, explaining his rationale for the action to the creature. He hadn't thought it out farther than that-- just to do something to eliminate the suffering of those little ones. And in retrospect, the creature-- was it Corbyn?-- was probably right. 'You're probably right. Wonder if there's a chisel or something around. Would make it a lot less of a strain too.'
"You are tired, I can tell." the child says, with a pat to his arm. "Here, drink this, it'll help." He tells the drake, handing his a small wooden vial. "It helps when the fatigue gets to be too great."
He pushes it away, not really wanting something like that. 'Nae thanks. Just need a night's rest.' Really, that was the truth. His exhaustion was a function of his tormented, political dreams, not his labour.
"There are tools over there." the boy points, then moves over to drag a maul and pick to the dragon's side. "Here!" he says, with strain in his voice. "These will help." He tries to lift one of the tools, but his small arms are not developed enough to egt them more than an inch.
'Thanks', the dragon states, picking the pick up. He knew it couldn't be that absurd that there was none to have.
"By the way, I'm Cobbe, what's your name?" The child asks, his innocent round eyes staring at the drake as if he believes Marada can give him all the answers to the universe.
This name evokes a slight confusion in the magenta beast. It looked too much like Corbyn, and yet it was not. Perhaps they all looked a lot alike. Though Torrinah would seem to counterpoint this.
'Marada.', he mutters in response. He had all but forgotten the warning of the power of names. It was something that didn't make sense to his logical mind, and was unlikely to pop up in memory.
Marada wonders what is next... he's stuck in a hellhole; administered by, but enslaving his own number. He figures he can carry on until whatever is going on slows down enough to escape or be released; but would the latter actually happen? And could escape be achieved? And could he find his mate, if he did leave? He knows of the shadows guarding everything, but perhaps there were cycles or structures locally that could be exploited: a changing of the guard; a time when they expect them all asleep and lighten protection.
The child watched him for a moment, still offering the draught. //What is wrong dragon, do you think I could harm you? I would kill you all... except the poor star-hide ones, if I could.// "Won't you try it? It's supposed to help give you energy to keep working through your shift... it's for when you're tired. You really do look tired, dragon."
'No thanks. I've just been up nine thousand cycle without rest. And I've had a lot to digest mentally. One night of rest, is all I need...', he sighs. Marada had never been particularly keen at stuff that messed with his biology-- except for caffiene. He doubted that was known here. He also deliberately messes with others by using Draconiati notions of time now. 'How long is a work-shift, anyway?' As if y suggestion, however, a current of thirst is now flowing through Marada's thoughts.
"Well, if you need it, I've got it here." the boy replies.
The felinoid's voice begins to grate on the dragon's sleep-deprived mind.
"Our shifts begin when the star-hide pulses, and end when it pulses again... no one knows why it pulses, or even how, but it does. And we've been able to figure that each pulse takes somewhere from 30 to 32 hours." He sighs, "It's a long time, but once you get used to it, and drink the Jugomah, it's not as bad as the first few weeks."
Marada thinks about this system. The timing unit wasn't in any way divisible-- and it was doubtful there was much else depending on it to verify. //Hmm... they probably don't time other activities by it... if I could figure it out, it sounds to be easily riggable.// A small smile fleets across his beak, replaced by the expectation that they weren't *that* stupid, and he'd need to play it properly-- forging 25 hours for 30 might work, while forging 7 wouldn't. And it all depended on his access to the device.
The child watches him, scrupulously, while trying not to be noticed by the drake, himself. He sees the smile play across Marada's features and wonders at it's source. //If you're planning a double-cross, dragon... I'll rip your heart out with my bare claws.//
Trying to pretend to be busy and be deep in thought keeps Marada largely unaware of the child who is reading far more into his behaviour than he ever put in.
Perhaps there was a potential to organize; or some way to appeal to the draconiforme in charge. The concept of the abuse of his own kind, barely tempered by that it was by the same, flares up in his soul, and he clenches his claw; compacted, dried mud about the surface of the stone crumbles, showing a bit more of the stone's sparkle.
The child sighs, moving to push the cart as the last rock is dropped into it. Another man leads the small team, with encouragment, "Okay beings, _puuush_!" He says, the strain in his voice coming out wiht the last word, as he leans against the cart himself. The small boy nearly falls, slipping on a wet spot, and finds the sting of a whip as he slouches.
Marada kicks dirt over the wet spot, in hopes of sopping up the moisture.
The heat of the moisture brings up steam with the dust, but the water does sop into the dirt. Another cart tips, and the workers are whipped mercilessly, until they right the cart and have it loaded again.
But above all, there is the tormenting, gnawing feeling of unknowing-- it drove him mad, guessing and reguessing why he was here-- why go to the effort of drawing him-- or other life-- here, when there were obviously enough loyal shades to do some of the work? What was their goal? Wouldn't the tower cave in if they were digging as close as he thought they were to it? Why did the red female turn against her own kind, when nobody of his kind would ever consider such a structure? Was it the general low tech level around here that prevented them from having access to basic tools, or the low cost of labour compared to them, or poor planning, or a deliberate attempt to keep them busy via inefficency? How did the dragon-skin above shine? Lights mounted on or inside? Infections of phosporescent bacteriae? A trick of light and shadow?
The boy watches the stars shimmer on the hide of the dragonskin above, making a whispered remark, "It used to glow brighter and hotter." Though whether he speaks to Marada, or himself, cannot be assertained.
The response makes Marada uneasy-- it sounds as though his thoughts had been listened in to by the appropriateness of the answer. And it's not really a useful answer.
These were all good questions. Unfortunately, he couldn't check any answers he got in the back of the book.
Just moments after the boy says his words, the hide flashes brightly, causing the slaves to be blinded. But Marada's sight clears a little more quickly, and he can tell that the shades have been irraticated by the light. The few humanoid guards that are present rub at their eyes, then begin a quick spell to re-animate the left-over matter of the shadowforms.
Still, the child stays next to him; watching... waiting...
Marada blinks several times, at first trying to figure out what happened. He then notices the guards are reduced. Was this the timing signal, or something else? Should he make a break for it? Should he try to help the others? The draconiformes at least? He sees his opportunity: A rather stupid gamble, all else being equal, but assuming even the raw mass of more beings slowing stuff down would make it less a suicide mission. "CHARGE!", he howls, and darts for the nearest exit, struggling to take wing. He hopes the howl will cause the others to follow, and he adds on a hideous shriek to continue the attention draw as he glides toward the exit.
The woman moved onward, listening for any sound ahead that might be a danger to her. She already felt the pain of the slashes from the shades, and also the poison racing through her bloodstream, trying to dominate her very soul. She smelled, testing the air for strange scents. That was when she noticed the figure in the shadows more clearly. She moved onward, as if unknowing, but ready for a pounce or knife in the back. //I will be ready for you, dark one, but I will continue on my way, letting you believe you have the upper hand, too.//
When she reaches a turn of the corridor, she peeks around, watching to see the guards there move on their way, tow going up the stairway, while three more moving down the halls that cross in a "+". Torrinah slinks forward, the feline showing in her movements more clearly, as she sneaks up behind the figures moving up the stair. She reaches up, gripping their necks, and with just a twist of her fingers, snaps both spines like twigs. As they fall, she moves past them, continuing on her path to the goal she sought from the beginning, when she left her mate behind. //Please be well, Marada, I'll return soon... I promise, my love.//
As she continues to wind her way up the stair, she feels someting terribly wrong, then it's too late. She is stabbed by a figure who had been waiting on the stair for her. His knife sinking into her chest, burying itself between the ribs and the heart...
As the dragon takes to the air, he feels the yank of his wings and legs, and then is able to remember the chain that holds him fast. The boy, almost laughs at Marada's enthusiasm to be free. "You forgot something, dragon?"
'Evidently so.', he mutters, and tries to muffle it with a laugh to avoid exploding in a red mist of fury. How come he didn't remember the chaining? Was his memory that muddled by stress?
He rasies his own shovel, along with that of the others lifting their tools, and lets with a yowl form a young feline throat. "Death to the dark ones!" Marada hears all around him, the sounds of blunt objects beating the guardsmen to pulp. He is sprayed with blood from one guard, while another races for the cover of a wagon and ends up losing his head from the flat side of a shovel, and splatters him from the other side.
There is little time to act, as the mob takes vengence on their oppressors, their captors, but then Marada feels a cold breeze, and sees a dragon form rising... only a shadow on the wall at first, but then stepping directly from that darkness is the hidious form of black scales.
As the riot commences, he looks at his chains, and claims his pick, holding it like a scythe. If the chains are merely attached to a small mass, he can drag it with him. If it is to the earth or a large mass, perhaps he can break or release the chains with the pick. A few thousand newtons in the right place, and most things will budge.
The cold is very obvious and strong, compared to the heat of the mine, and it crawls up his spine like some ice-blooded parasite. It is a very uneasiness-inducing feeling.
His left eye still glowing like a hot ember, but the right socket is scarred from some wound that had taken a gruesome prize. With a roar, and a snake-like strike, Marada barely catches the flash of the drake's head as he bites down on three of the rebels. After swallowing them, he looks at the magenta form and says in a rumbling whisper, "You're next, traitor!"
Marada shrieks in fear. It's obvious 90kg of old, bound Draconiati flesh is simply not enough to compete with this. He tries to ball up to an extent, hoping he can avoid at least being bitten in two by the massive jaws. If he was inside, perhaps he could harm the creature's mouth and get himself spat out. If, of course, he could convince himself to harm a fellow dragon...
The shout of 'traitor' and the creature's appearance seems to reinforce this is another battle of light v. shadow. It also reminded Marada that the shadows were the side of the dragons... but at the same time, were they not enslaving these dragons? This was simply not an issue he had time to evaluate deeper.
The sight of his imminent killer is odd to him-- the missing eye draws a reccolection [of his dream shadow-form] that he can't exactly complete.
Suddenly, he gets an idea. As if he is posessed by the speaking ability of a Protari or the Dark Chancellor, he roars back a defence: "Who is really the betrayer if you would let your own kind...", he yells, drawing his claw across the dark surroundings and searching for a dragon-form creature to point at, "...be enslaved in a mine?" Perhaps he can gain a bit of respect and safety by drawing on an issue that his foe surely cares about-- the condition of his number. Or at least, it might buy a fractional more to think of a better way to preserve his pitiful life.
The man behind her, swings his arm up, and the blade pulls out of the woman, then drives backward into it's weilder's left eye. With a shriek that is quickly silenced, the man falls and rolls down the stairway, his wounds making him bleed and twitch with the last spasms of life leaving him.
Zoldar bends down to Torrinah, taking her hand and moving the shirt away from the wound. With a smile, he stares into her eyes, drawing her mind into his own. ~Come child, and awaken to your true destiny.~ He tells her, watching her own eyes grow wide with the secrets he reveals to her.
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