Demons Over Easy

Log Info

• Title: Demons Over Easy
• Emitter: Cryosanthia
• Characters: Cryosanthia, Svarshan, Ezil, Zeke
• Place: W02: Mictlan
• Time: Tuesday, February 11, 2020, 11:30 AM
• Summary: It's morning in Mictlan. Svarshan took Cryosanthia with him to the Warriors tent, Ezil was left lying on the ground. As the sith-makar wake up and look to getting breakfast, Ezil is woken by some younglings attempting to determine if he is dead, and food. He is brought to the other two by a stern Egg-watcher, who is not happy to find the man near her charges. Breakfast is in progress when Zeke arrives. He and Cryo clearly have something they want to discuss with each other, but that is put aside to discuss Demons. What Svarshan knows about them, and the muddle of experiences Cryo and Ezil have had, including the Jerboba conundrum. Finally it seems, Svarshan knows some who can assist, and they all mount up on swiftraptors and ride off into the sunrise.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-<* W02: Mictlan *>-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Located within the Deep Woods, and hours past Wilderness Pointe, in the heart of its northern woods, bones frame this hollowed-out space. Massive and heavy, they reach towards the sky, meeting--almost--in the center like great and worn stalagmites. Or giant teeth. After a few seconds--it's quickly evident that this is a space carved from a dragon's bones. A very, very large...dragon's bones. The air smells of ash, brimstone, and earth. Underneath the apex of the bones lie the workings of a central Fire.

The grounds are run by shamans of the sith-makar, and the sacred space dedicated to the Death Singing Dragon, one of their names for the goddess, Vardama. There are always a number of them about, from a mixture of tribes. Formally, the sith use it to sing the souls of their dead back to the land of Wing and Flame, and celebrate the Memory of Blood. It was here that brave heroes stood, and vanquished the ashen warriors of old, thereby freeing the land from Thul's curse. Informally, it is a gathering place.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-  Appearing, in Order  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Svarshan     5s      6'4"     307 Lb     Sith'makar        Male 
    Demons: Another name for spicy BBQ                            
Cryosanthia  0s      6'7"     245 Lb     Sith-Makar        Female  
    A dashingly tall, lithe white lizardgirl with tattoos.       
Ezil         3m      5'11"    175 Lb     Human             Male
    An armored man with dark skin, and grey-blonde hair. 
Zeke         6s      6'8"     239 Lb     Sith-Makar        Male    
    A blue-scaled sith-makar in shadowy robes  
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Fire. Fire and tail-drums, of youngling running about. Svarshan stretches the next morning--he looks at the other sith-makar about. Warriors, mostly, and then the pale speaker among them. He settles onto his haunches, after the stretch.

"...peasse to you," he says, sounding awake, though somewhat muzzy. The Sun is risen overhead. Outside the dragon bones, one can hear the wind howl, cold and chill. Inside...

Well. Shamans' magic.

The pale speaker stirs, awareness coming in to morning. She blinks once slowly as she takes in her surroundings and remembers where she is. Her sleep was quite deep and resting, her mind able to put away most of the pieces it explodes out of the box throughout the day.

She moves, then groans in a familiar way. One any warrior would recognize, the groan of a young warrior that overdid it in practice. She is sore! She's about to complain in a softskin way when she clamps it down, "Peace to you. This is nice."

Carefully, she massages her legs and arches to get her hands at her tailbase on her spine. The warrior lowers his muzzle, and then looks to the side--allowing privacy. Warrior-caste, an honor of not acknowledging a weakness. Well. Even a temporary one.

"One has thought," he says at length, as Svarshan watches the rest of caste stir. As he watches Mictlan wake up--and stretch for the morning. "...and the fires will be of food, ssoon. One hears the crafter-caste preparing."

Warm, "It may be...an updated sstew. From yessterday." The fish stew, maybe, that suggests. He might be joking.

Are...are paladins allowed to joke? The light glint in his eyes suggests yes, though the bards might never admit to it. The books.

"This one has had many updated stews." The palescale says with an eager sound to her voice. Her movements are a little abrupt, but likely stems from her exertions. She seems happy, and it only took a strong radiant presence several hours to fix her. "The softskins make theirs very well, so even days later they are fine, for me. Ours, are even better!"

Perhaps she's joking.

Svarshan casts a look towards the speaker, over a heavy shoulder. Unsure. Uncertain if she /is/ and that--that? The warrior squints as though to tell, and eventually--chuffs.

Speakers!

"This one will ask for. Bowls. There iss no cause to leave warrior-caste," he says, warmly. And still wonders.

Do speakers joke? The question must roll in his mind. It's about then, that there's a commotion over--over where? He looks that way for a moment, quiet, quiet at whatever it is, and then ambles towards one of the smaller cookfires.

One that does not smell like fish.

He'll be back, soon.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Mictlan...

"Is it dead? Can we eat it?"

Poke. Poke. Poke.

Several younglings surround a prone form, prodding it with sticks.

Ezil wakes up after a few of those prodding claws, having slept far longer than he had wanted. It was deep, and it came with dreams. Sitting up after he is poked, he doesn't realize he had become center of attention of the younglings. His movements are creepingly slow as sleep had cast it's groggy spell. "I'm up, Daj! Why are you...." blinking as the dreams are now gone, and it's not his mother waking him as in his dream. ".....Hello." his confused words come, looking to the smaller Sith-Makar, though his ponytail had come undone in his sleep, and now his hair is wild and loose from static and rest. "Am I in the way?" smiling, and following it with a yawn. "Do I look funny or something?" he probably does, more so than usual.

"Ahhh!" The younglings all jump back in unison, spreading away from the paladin in a small circle.

"Oooo!" They jump back in, one of them resumes poking with a stick.

"You are not soft. This is a softskin?" <draconic>

"That's armour dummy."

"Poke it in its eye!" <draconic>

"That would be bad!"

"No, that would be awesome!"

A bunch of small lizard heads all crowd in around Ezil's staring at him. One says, "Yes. Your face is flat."

Ezil raises an arm to fend off that stick. "Hey now!" his laugh coming with a huff. "At least let me put my 'scales' on." his glance rising to search for more familiar faces to help deal with this small onslaught. "I'm a friend, not food." though the face comment comes with a sigh, and a bob of his head. "Yeah... I get that. A face only a mother could love. Still, not nice to point it out." joking, but having a somewhat dry tone as he tries to collect his banded mail, and put on it's pieces. It will take a bit, leaving him ripe for more of their curious assault.

The younglings find him very fascinating, surrounding the man. Instinctively perhaps, the ones to his back do more prodding while the ones he can see, return the gaze intently. They are all very similar, although each of them has hints about the person they will grow into. Some are larger, either taller, wider, or thicker. Their scales are for the most part, green or brown hues, some with flashes of other colours in the form or strips or flares. The heads of some are mostly smooth, while others have bumps that might form into the great crests and horns the adult sith possess. There are metallic scales as well. One youngling has five different bright colours. Completely monochromatic sith like Zeke or Cryosanthia seem uncommon, if not a rarity. It's also impossible to tell gender. They all have the squeaky voices of children. The larger ones might be the females at this stage, or not, only sith can tell.

They are all completely captivated by the armouring-up procedure. They've seen the Warrior-caste do it, but a smooth-skin? Once Ezil has his cuisse and greaves on, one of the younglings announces, "See! He's totally protected now. He won't even feel this."

Then he... she? wacks Ezil in the shins as hard as she... he... can with a stick.

Ezil twinges, raising a brow after the strike and looking to the assaulting Sith. "Well... feel it as much." he notes, still registering that hit to his shin, and giving his leg a shake with a huff of a sigh. He continues to finish getting his armor sorted, and even attempts to rebind his hair. "Are you all so rambunctious?" not knowing if they understand him fully, but he tries his best to mimic what the Sith-Makar Svarshan had done the night before. He closes his eyes and tries to flare his aura, throwing out the calm, and peace of the night. The stars as light and hope, and seeing if those near him can feel what he carries inside. Ezil is patient, mostly, and so he does not anger.

And while his eyes are closed, Ezil is interrupted by a Warrior who suddenly appears. "There you are. This one has been looking. All of you, back to breakfast!" <draconic>

"Yes, Nest-Mother!", "Yes", "Going!", "We Go." <draconic>

The younglings suddenly scamper off in a single direction as a small swarm.

The warrior contemplates Ezil silently. She sniffs once at him, and she seems slightly less hostile after doing so. Finally she speaks.

"Why are you here?"

The warrior-cast ambles back after a while. He carries bowls, two. A third and fourth on the crook of each arm. They steam and smell...faintly of fish. Faint enough that the crafter-caste must have reused some of the broth. Also, the smell of onion and a delicious treat--shocker lizard eggs. Sort of like chicken but more...electric.

Svarshan slows as he passes the younglings. The warrior-caste and nest-watcher.

He opens his muzzle to say a word. Possibly, meets Ezil's gaze and--then looks directly towards the egg-watcher.

Shudders.

And then heads back to warrior-caste.

Ezil opens his eyes slowly, the egg-watcher near him earning a soft shrug, moving to finish sorting his things. "To speak with Cryosanthia, and Sunblade Svarshan." having caught the warrior turn and abandon him to this Sith-Makar asking questions out of the corner of his eye. "I thought, anyways." eyes narrowing with a second sigh. "This nest reminds me of home. Lots of politics, and distrust. I never imagined the Sith-Makar might make better Tsurans than I."

The female Warrior-caste stares at Ezil, utterly terrifying as she does. The egg-tenders protect the unhatched, hatchlings and younglings and would willing die to do so. Not that they are in any way easy to take, being some of the deadliest and strongest warriors the Sith can produce. They protect the future, are viscious and vigilant, and very perceptive of intentions. That they are almost always exhausted of patience from chasing younglings around, does not improve their attitude. She judges Ezil, staring him up and down.

"Come."

She turns and stalks off, expecting to be followed and not visibly checking if Ezil does so. At a slow pace, she trails Svarshan to his Warrior's tent and announces, "Sunblade, this one is yours. Cryosanthia, you are tasked as well."

She turns and leaves. As she passes Ezil she punches him on the armour of his left shoulder. A casual warrior's thump, still hard enough to feel.

Oh, no. Oooooh no... Svarshan returns to warrior-home, bearing bowls. So many bowls of steaming breafast soup...stew? A sort of ramen thing, almost, with its broth and eggs, roots and vegetables pulled from the ground.

"Your friend hass. Encountered the egg-tenders," he says, warmly, with some humor, and barely gets the words out, when they're THERE. THERE.

The tail goes down and he lowers his muzzle almost immediately, like a child caught stealing chocolates. "Ssa," he says. "Ssa, egg-tender."

Ezil watches the Egg-Watcher, though he follows when he is called, and does not argue. It gives him time to look over the rather stoic Sith-Makar, and ponder that demeanor, and how it barks orders even to Svarshan. Oh yes, the Sunblade was right about scraping scales with his presence. "Ah. I see." he says to himself, now realizing a bit of the situation he's in. "Sunguard. I cause trouble for you." he says plainly, flaring his eyebrows as he's brought to be tended by others like a wayward pet. "Apologies."

"Sssa, egg-tender." Cryosanthia echoes Svarshan, staying in his shadow and out of sight. She must have been found by scent alone, or spotted earlier.

She had finished her ablutions and other morning business and made another attempt to clean up her armour. Mostly by taking it off, checking the repairs and attempting to get some more of the ash out of it. Finishing dressing with it scant moments before Svarshan appeared with the wonderfully smelling food, and plenty of it.

She waits, listening to hear the egg-tender's footsteps fade, then calls, "Come in Ezil, we were going to eat."

It's probably ok to invite him to do so. She looks at Svarshan, clearly to see if it's ok to do so.

"You have not caused. Trouble." Svarshan straightens. He looks towards the exiting egg-watcher, his expression...odd. One might read a sort of longing in him, by the shift of muscles along the back, and tail, but the warrior-caste says instead, "One was glad for you to. Meet them and--meet the ssmall ones, Sentinel," he says. Then looks to Cryo.

An odd...expression cross his features, and he goes quiet, quiet. "You are welcome to sshare food with warrior-caste, Sentinel," he says and then steps aside, making a point to make room for Cryo. There's a general respect for their females, too.

Ezil pats his satchel, and looks between the two tasked to babysit him. "I have jerky and tack if sharing is a problem. Though, I can share too." stepping in after the invitation and finding a place to take a seat. He tries to move out of the way, but staying close to Cryosanthia and Svarshan. "I didn't come this way to make issues. I had hoped to solve some. You have my apologies for my disruption, but... are all egg-tenders so..." making a soft growl and baring his teeth in mock anger, even making a clawing motion with his hand. "I do not doubt they would of eaten me."

The white-scaled sith slips into the space offered for her. She is watching Svarshan now, with a little confusion, there was something she should remember. In the meantime she says, "It's wise not to tick off any warrior watching the young, especially a female. I'll still go ram-rod straight if any yell at me. Mine were pretty strict."

"It's not an issue, Ezil. There are... reasons I can't elaborate, but everyone is being more careful, right now. You are so lucky to have seen them, Ezil. The Egg-watcher is likely upset they found you before she did, and she can't get mad at them for that. So, you, then us. I hope you enjoyed meeting them. I had the best time as a hatchling. Oh right, I told you that!"

Then the coin finishes plinking down her mental pachinko board. There was something she was told. "You have hatchlings! Grand-hatchlings? Those were them? Oh Ezil, that is luck if so!"

She takes up a bowl of the breakfast stew, and two sticks and starts winding up some of the ramen and grabs a vegetable chunk.

The warrior sets the bowls down--in front of Cryosanthia first, and then the softskin, and then himself. Steam curls upwards, warm and smelling of rich broth and the food inside.

And...some things just /don't/ translate. Not well, anyway. Like the respect for the egg-tender or the--fact that the fierceness of that person was absolutely--

--Stunning.

It's enough to take a male's breath away for the moment. Svarshan concentrates, very, very firmly, on getting those bowls into place, and then settling down, at a crouch.

"Ssa," he says instead, to Ezil's inquiry, instead. Yes, yes they are. The speaker's words though, make him smile. A grin threatens, but paladins aren't supposed to, are they? No jokes, no smiles! He regains some of himself, and resettles. Cups his own bowl in his claws. "One has. Sseven. They have casste, now," he says to her and oh.

One could puff-up two, ten, twenty times with pride.

Like a lizard-rooster!

Ezil nods once to Svarshan, his musings gone as he looks to that stew of noodles and eggs. "Sith secrets, I know. I am not one to pry, and I do not want to ever be seen as a threat." he notes, looking between the two. He misses those subtle cues of emotions, being oblivious that some of the Sith 'talking' is in posture and body language.

Ezil takes up the bowl, smelling it before sampling the broth. A brow is raised, taking a second sip. "That's pretty good...." surprised, and a bit shocked. Setting the bowl aside he seeks his spoon, taking up his satchel and digging for a bit of rolled leather, letting the two discuss Svarshan's clutch/not-so-youngling. It's funny, pride seems to be the one thing he can see, offering a smile at that puffing of Svarshan. "Seven is a good number."

Cryosanthia is eating noodles. She has the sticks in her mouth as Svarshan's pride washes over her, feeling both overjoyed on his behalf and goofy. His happiness is unmistakeable, and like a wave in the ocean sweeps her up in it. She is very envious. One day, one day. She swallows her mouthful down and ask with a playful lilt, "Is one of them a Speaker...?"

Not that she's likely to have inspired a youngling she's never met. She can pretend.

She takes another mouthfull of noodles, then follows by sipping from the bowl, "We do cook properly. I am the one that will eat almost anything."

Well. At Ezil's words, the warrior listens. Listens and...falls quiet. Quiet again.

He begins to open his muzzle. Then...closes it, slowly.

"One lived among the Myrrish for a time," he says. The opening to a story and yet--words.

Words.

"Thingss do not always...transslate," he says, because words. Because he is not, often, good with them. And...some things just do not translate. They do not. "A khazadi iss not a sildanyari. Ssith-makar are not ssoftskin. ...nor are we dragons," he adds, with a warm sort of humor. "We sspeak their language with different ...accents. Accentss? Ssome of the words are. Different. Gesstures...different. Our...," he says, and looks to the speaker in a way that says:

OhgodI'mwarrior-castethisisspeaker-casteohgodamIgettingthisrighthalp.

He lifts the bowl to his muzzle, takes a deep gulp of it. And, "One iss proud." He so is. To Cryosanthia, a...his expression changes. Goofy. "I...one thinkss sso. One...one wass just sso glad for them to /live/." And yet for a statement like that--he appears so happy. Stupidly goofy. Goofy puffchest lizard-rooster.

Ezil looks to Cryosanthia, his smile broadening at her words of food. "I meant you could open a food card, like the ones in the Alexandria's market." he muses, finding his spoon, a knife and two-pronged fork also being contained in that bit of leather. He eats, sipping a bit of broth after each bit of noodle.

"Yes, but we still talk." swallowing before he speaks, and waggling his spoon to this small point. "Misunderstandings happen, Sunblade. It is up for words to sort the minor ones out. It is up to your caste when words fail?" Ezil asks of Svarshan.

A good speaker knows when she's needed. Cryosanthia is good, and Svarshan needs, and wants her help. She steps in. Before she elaborates, she must honour the greater concern. "They /live/. That is a blessing incomparable. This one is proud for you. The entire feeling."

She looks over at Ezil, "We speak Draconic, but as Svarshan explained, ours has a lot that is different. Dragons, don't really have any words for community. They are for the most part, solitary. There is some socialization. Bronze dragons like talking with non-dragons. Talking down, mostly. They enjoy conversation but they're not good at it, very one sided. Also, they usualy won't leave. Brass dragons only talk to other Brass dragons. And Coppers, I think, like to test human morals, but I believe they're trying to understand them. They don't exactly pass or fail their subjects, just see what they do. Also, Dragons are very direct, almost all of their phrasing is giving orders, even to other dragons. There's no polite way really to say, 'I'd rather not' as a dragon. You... simply try to claw the other dragon's face off, and they get the message. So, the Draconic we use is a lot 'softer', perhaps. We have words that have developed from words they use, but have a different context for us. You've, well you see how we talk with each other and how it's not 'friendly' by human standards? Dragons speaking draconic, is rather the same experience for us."

Cryo looks over towards Svarshan for approval. She believes this is what he wanted her to say. "The softskins have novelty ears. Human, elf. I shall get you a pair, then you can stick them on, and when your youngling speaker has said enough, you can make them fall off and say 'You talked my ears off!'. It's a human joke."

Another loud swallow of the stew's broth, and she picks out more chunks with her sticks, swallows those and adds, "I hear it a lot."

"Are those the notes?" She points sticks at the unrolled leather.

The words. So many words. The warrior's pupils restrict to pinpricks at the flow of them before he can relax.

But words are...good.

They explain. He looks to the female with gratitude and then--ah. The leather. "There are...the ssignals are wrong, ssoftskin. Sscaled. The...insstincts. One is /grateful/ for the sspeaker-caste," he says then, with heart.

And then, sets the rolled up object inbetween them. They are at warrior-house, near its front. There are warm, steaming bowls from breakfast. A sort-of ramen like effect, between the rich broth, shocker-lizard eggs, and the vegetables within them.

"Notess...and images. Images. Much iss here," Svarshan says, and taps the side of his skull. "Not everything could one bring ssafely." To them both, "Pleasse sshare words. Of what thiss creature looked like. You ssaid it ussed fire?"

It is the sight of familiar faces; the sound of familiar voices which draws Zeke toward the group consisting of Cryosanthia, Svarshan, and Ezil. Though some are more familiar than others of course. Regardless of their familiarity Zeke nods a corgil greeting to the three. As of late, his cloak is thrown back, revealing his crystal limbs in all their glory, and he even is carrying a bag of books and scrolls hoooked over his left arm. The limb seems not at all weighed down by the effort of carrying them. "Peasssce on your nessstsss." He offers solemly. "May thisss one join you?" There is clearly a conversation going on, and Zeke does not wish to interupt.

Ezil raises a brow to Cryosanthia's words, nodding as he continues to eat through her explanation. When she's done, and Svarshan asks of the demon, he sets the bowl aside. "Peace on your nests." he says to the sudden arrival of Zeke, though his next words are for Cryosanthia. "I will try an mind my tongue then." her words seemingly heeded, though another glance cast to Zeke and his limbs. "This one must be Zeke." having heard of him, well of his appearance.

"As for the demon." Ezil continues, clearing his throat, and setting his soup aside. "It was large, biggest one I have seen. I had two massive horns, and wings like thick leather. It carried a jagged sword, one as big as I am tall, and commanded fire on a whim." glancing to Cryosanthia to see if she will confirm that much at the least. "It's blood boiled and sputtered like a dying flame as we fought... and burned as so."

"Please! Yes!" Cryosanthia is standing straight up now, there in one sudden fluid moment and looking very formal. Her weight equally balanced, tail low and still, arms mirroring each other. She makes a small bow. "This one is glad, that you have caste, that you display. Your last words to me... were true. This one is grateful."

She's apologizing, in a sith-makar way, which is acknowledging something happened and getting ready to fight again about it. Or perhaps that is a Dragon's way, and this is some additional demonstration for the human.

Doesn't let her words hang long in the air. Zeke has heard. He will respond, somehow. So she confirms the human's tale. "Yes. The blood was dark and hot, flowed like oil between scales, and it seared. Any wound invited a spray. Wounds would swiftly close too, after we struck. It regenerated or mere weapons were inconsequential. Only when holy light surrounded our weapons, did our strikes stick. It was served by small flying, hissing things, which had terrible poison. Hugh, a softskin with us, nearly succumbed. This is not the only one, the demon with the Chalice, he was much smaller, man sized, and here seems like a man. Beyond the veil, his appearance was more fearsome, with horns, more bulk. Somehow he managed to capture a claw of the Death Singing Dragon. Ezil has seen, two others? Which do you wish to know more of, Svarshan?"

"Shaman," the warrior says, warmly. He lowers his muzzle, the words warm and glad. Surprised but--move. Do not let the moment linger. After a heartbeat ot time, he moves to make space--yet, whatever movement, keeps him nearest the softskin. Ezil being paladin or no, it becomes a matter of a a lifetime within warrior-caste.

A lifetime of having chosen that caste /because/ of one's instincts.

Warrior-caste protects. Three words. One.

He resettles and after a moment, places the rest of his bowl in front of where Zeke might sit. There is half enough left. Some vegetables. At least an egg.

"...a devil often possesses minions. A demon may, through forsse of will. The firsst...a blood ability iss unique. Ssuch ability narrows the field on what you fassed. If it did not dissplay elementss other than fire, it iss likely it wass vulnerable to cold."

"...many demonss, devils, sshare a ressitance to fire. They are weak to the divine, and otherss to cold iron or ssilver. It iss often it iss cold iron." Then, sorrow, "Among the more powerful, it iss not uncommon to change sshapes, or assume guises. Demonss, more than devilss. Both, dangerouss. Both...usse thesse abilities to walk among ssoftskins. To build--" and here, he loses the words again. Svarshan cups his hands, the claws curled as though to say someting and--loses it.

"Conspiracies. Confusion. Dissent and distraction, networks of humans helping them." Cryo interjects.

Zeke meets Cryosantia's gaze briefly, then nods his head low. He is embarrassed that his shift in demenor has been noticed, but the acknowledgement is nice. He accepts her apology in his way, with a quiet nod that indicates perhaps they will share words at a later time on the matter. Now, with this talk of demons in the air - is not the time for such things it seems. He takes the spot that Svarshan makes for him, settles into place with care and a motion as if he might cover himself which is habitual but is not followed through with. Settles his books off to one side and accepts the bowl with another fond nod to the warrior-caste. He hasn't eaten yet today and the food is welcome.

"Thissss one thinksss perhapsss the lassst more than the othersss, but for the workingsss of the otherssss. Thisss one hasss heard of many demon movementsss of late, all of them ssseeking to appear... benificial to sssoftsskinsss. To sssome purpossse that remainsss yet unssseen." He peers at Cryo and Ezil, the latter more curiously since a softskin is uncommon in Mictlan. "You have encountered another sssuch?"

"They disguise themselves, I have seen it. Jerboba does this, and looks human. None would be the wiser if we did not know what he looked like with horns." Ezil's offer of words coming with a furrow of his brow. "The demon we faced does not worry me as much as who it worked for. There is a Duke of Hell on the loose, and the one we faced supposedly belonged to a different demon than the Duke. It could be Yukia, or it might not be related to the plague or Shard Tower." motioning then to Cryosanthia. "I was already told that the White-One has spoken some of my situation." giving the sith-woman a glance. "The hissing ones were just lower demons. Known for poison and noxious clouds. It depends on the kind, but until that night all the demons and devils I met didn't fly."

Svarshan thumps his tail as the speaker provides words. "Ssa. Alliansses, anchors. To the mortal realm. Power. Promisses of power. Aid and. Help."

"They do not belong on thiss realm. The disspelling of magic can. Return them." The warrior's tail flicks, flicks. "Ssome, freshly ssummoned, a ccircle drawn against evil may work. But sshould not be relied. On." To Ezil, "One hass--drawn ssuch circles in dessperation, quickly. To protect ssmall ones or another warrior. When there were few. Optionss."

He takes a deep breath then, and...focuses. The feeling of kinship. Strength. Calm. "That you know their namess. If thesse are known perhapss--one may find ssome history. There are...there are wayss to begin looking."

"...of your. Ssituation one ...heard some words," the other warrior says. His own words are tight, though he keeps his voice low. Underpitched. He is in the middle of his people and...there is not much use in panic. "One would check the nature of the. Promisse. Perhapss--" and here he leans forward, rubs at his forehead. The muscles are tight, tight--tendons against bone.

Deep breath. Auras. Calm.

"...you sshould have the words reviewed. Carefully. ...one knowss of an...of ssomeone who may have sstudied ssuch contracts. One might call in ssuch favor. Onsse." Ask them to read it. At least--perhaps, find if there may be loopholes.

"He didn't sig..." The white-scaled Speaker starts to say, then corrects herself. "No, with blood, you sealed it, and it was words. The battle was cooling off, but he was armed with a weapon of a Claw and would not release it."

Cryosanthia had nodded a return to Zeke, remained standing while he found his seat, then took her own. There was no particular reason, she was listening to Svarshan and didn't want to interrupt his words with motion. She hooks her ankles on her seat, taking up her bowl again. "I would have to think to remember them, and I tried to forget much about that. I dislike saying its name. I fear Ezil would honour the spirit as well as the words. From what I have heard, this demon behaves, stays in the room, has caused no trouble. It claimed it feared reprisals, wished to serve another lord. This one has no idea if the others appearing are likewise motivated, or it is some grand farce to lure in the softskins."

Cryosanthia smiles somewhat toothily at Ezil, "Sith would simply kill them, and any sith that sought power with them. That gives them little to bargain, with us."

Zeke flashes his own sharp teeth at Crysoanthia's words. "Indeed, demonsss have little luck bartering with the People. Too much ill done with magicsss for usss to be fooled." His green eyes turn on Ezil. "Issss thisss the one you sssspoke of then?" Like Svarshan he is trying to be subtle, to say without saying so that if they are overheard it will not be something that upsets the one hearing it. His tail flicks behind him. "Thisss one thinksss you are being lured into a trap by thisss creature. Thissss one doess not know you, but one would guessss it meansss to ussse your own kindnesss and generosssity againssst you."

"I asked a mage named Mikilos for his help, but he's gone missing. I haven't seen him about these days." Ezil's words coming as he ponders the two warrior's offers. He responds to Cryosanthia and her explanation, and also answering Zeke. "Yes, he held a celestial of Vardama captive, and was in possession of it's scythe. They had suspended death itself, but the balance was restored. I had encountered Jerboba before, and... I only made the pact because the first time I dispatched him. I let others make me feel bad for his attempt to surrender that I declined." he notes, shaking his head at himself.

"As for help, I can remember my words well enough, but I promised to send to demon home safely, without pain." smiling weakly. "And to protect him from those that would inflict pain, as long as he did nothing to provoke it. He wanted protection from Eclavdran, this Duke of the Hells. I have been seeking a faction of the Temple of Daeus, and suspect the old Sunguard might be of their ranks. I am at a loss without Mikilos, but The Iron Book did not inspire much confidence."

"A Claw of the... Svarshan looks on to Cryosanthia with a growing sense of horror. "..."

"...one would hunt them," he says, roughly, not denying it. And for a while, he says nothing--the speaker-caste's words roar in his mind. Overwhelm it. White, white--white thoughts, noise. One calms the body, one calms the exterior--the roaring inside but--not outside. Do not panic, or react. Do not risk those around you.

When he can find words again, it is rough at first, and slow. "Ssa, they will usse guilt against you," he says, voice raw as though from a living memory. "A hellion iss composed of corrupted ssouls. An act of the gods, Ssentinel, to reform them. Your companionss may not have. Known."

He looks at nothing, nothing save the space between the four of them. "...one can ssend the creature home without pain, Hearthdragon'ss Warrior--but that would not fulfill your contract," he says, words hollow. "...we sshould review your contract. Today. If you can ride a sswiftclaw--one will call in thesse favors." He says nothing regarding the old man.

"This one would do it today." Cryosanthia says, holding her bowl. She's mostly finished. She slurps the rest of the broth then winds the last of the noodles. "Once the eating is done. Zeke should take his meal, this one can ask for the swiftclaws."

She stands, leaving the bowl, checking her gear and weapons which is mostly: touch her hip, ok the rapier didn't fall off, done! She has a happy grin, all teeth, when she says, "This one is not well skilled at riding swiftclaws, but I hold on real well. It's fun, you'll enjoy it."

Zeke nods his head, this is in fact an urgent matter. One best taken care of right away. He dumps his food down his maw in a slightly unseemly manner, but he is in fact - quite hungry. Besides its only a little food remaning. He licks his chops and collects his things. "Thisss one will come with. To sssse what can be learned of the one who began thisss." He nods once but seems to grow nervous at the thought of swiftclaws. "Thisss one isss not a good rider, but thisss one will keep pasce."

"..." For the first time in the last few, the warrior smiles. A hint of teeth. "Then we will. Ride," he says. He stands as soon as they are ready--and it is off to hunt swiftclaws. The giant raptors. With teef.

He will find an extra-toofy one for Zeke!

Ezil stands, looking to his half-empty bowl and motioning to it for Zeke. "Eat that too. I don't have the time it seems." collecting his belongings, and rolling up his utensils. "I don't know anything of riding, but I can drive a cart, or hold on." looking then between the three Sith-Makar. "I am glad I found my help." ready to go.

And the four get their raptors, mount up, and ride off into the sunrise.

Youngling colourations

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