What Ascians Do In The Shadows - CLOSED

[notbert]

Who: Elidibus, Lahabrea, Emet-Selch
When: Ieneuer, somewhere near the 12th's new moon, but before the Circle events start ramping up.
Where: Lahabrea's House, Aefenglom
What: The sort of meeting fit for the cutscene subtitle: 'Meanwhile in the Aetherial Rift another part of Aefenglom...'
Warnings: Ascians. Probably dismissive and specist comments about all mortals. Insects. Lots of FFXIV references and terms. (Feel free to PM if you want definitions.)


There it is, one day. A audio message on their watches from the unimaginative username of 'ardbert'.

"It is time to meet. We shall use Lahabrea's house."

There was no warning whatsoever. And one should not expect the 'voluntold' nature to be intentional. Not from Elidibus, who has simply calculated the best meeting place, given their situation and restrictions. The summoning method too, should be expected. It is at least a crude, stagnant echo of how they have operated for eons. No rift, no stanchions. No roiling darkness limned by a purplish light. No nearly silent arrivals, lacking in shadow.

Other than the time and place, each is left to prepare in their own way. The only thing expected from the Emissary is that they comply, as they had countless times in the past.

The only nod to mortal needs is the fact there is a time designated which would, if Emet-Selch did not have his teleportation spells, give him time to arrive via foot traffic. Elidibus knows where both Ascians have set down a place to rest their mortal bodies and thus it was an easy matter to calculate the travel time.

It also gave Elidibus time to arrive to the Speaker's domain. Though he has been over several days since their Bonding and participating in some manner of this business of cleaning up the building- and establishing what will one day soon be his place to rest- he still dutifully returns to his benefactor's home afterward.

There is one small chest of possessions which Elidibus leaves at Lahabrea's house these days, however. In one of the newly clean and in relative good repair rooms that are slated to be his, are clothes. The cut and color scheme of white and brown are the only similarity to this mimicry of his robes and other attire. No embellishments, no glittering metal finger pieces. There is only so much spare cune have been able to attain. But the Emissary had arrived with his mask and that was enough. Fancier, proper robes can come later. The mask was the most important symbol. When he arrives, he travels upstairs (carefully) to put these on, before looking for his Bonded.

Lahabrea has probably seen him don these before on his visits. Mostly for conversation or debate on their limited experiments with the Bond so far. When cleaning up the building, he'll remove the robe- lacking the self-cleaning enchantment as it is- because for Zodiark's sake, could white be any more annoyingly prone to show dust and grime? But hey, there's simple pants and the brown shirt underneath. And given the heat in the building, there was certainly no downside to less fur and leather that the warrior gear offers.

Oh yes. In case anyone one wondering why there wasn't a self-cleaning enchantment, it's simple. He could only afford one at this time. And he chose to make the chest these items are kept in very thoroughly cherry bomb proof.

Elidibus: 1
Cherry Bomb: 1

Comments

[fuelingfire]

Dealing with dragons is not quite as easy as simply making demands and being obeyed. Upon being told he will give up his territory personal space, Lahabrea had taken the time to make it absolutely clear that he does not in fact accept orders from anyone short of Lord Zodiark, which Elidibus was not, and in the future he expects it to be a request, one he may in fact deny and defend violently if he so chooses. Degenerate in form and lacking in power he may be, but he would not be treated as one of the sundered, or worse, so long as he could still string two words together and call it a sentence. Not while contending with a firebreathing monster's delicate sense of pride, at any rate.

So; for the forseeable future.

Of both Elidibus and Emet-Selch has been made a request that also doesn't sound much like a request and might be downright bizarre sounding: bring some article of clothing, not one's smallclothes, that has been worn for a while, but also has not been washed yet.

Explanations have not been forthcoming.

But he's taken the time to at least make some measure of welcome available, by way of snack or drink or even comfortable places to sit (the bean bag chair has made a vengeful return, as have several other cushions, but there's no sign of a single backed chair anywhere), and that would have to do. There's no metaphorical rolling out of the welcome mat, and there's only a single light left on upstairs. The downstairs lights however, are on, as are the stairs - clearly they're not meant to stay upstairs, which is still under renovations. The basement, cleanest and most lived in of spaces currently, is better suited.

And somewhere around eighty degrees Fahrenheit. But it's a nice, large, open space if one ignores the gargantuan steel and wrought iron cage taking up the entirety of one corner, complete with throw carpets, a low table, and things closer resembling comfortable bedding than just a lump of blankets in a corner. There is slow and obvious progression towards something that looks suspiciously like favoring luxury, but not quite there yet. It's there that Lahabrea himself waits with a book, still in dark robes and mask, having thoroughly taken over one of the more comfortable cushions. It has more tail room.

[unsundered]

It had been a meeting he'd known would be coming. Ascians did so love their meetings, usually tucked away in that dark, depressing, empty place in the aetherial rift. A place only for them, that only they could reach and linger. How many years had he slept in that space, between tasks? Hundreds at a time, even if it was an area where time held even less meaning than usual.

Emet-Selch never particularly liked any of the meetings, and took it as a minor blessing that he was often unavailable for them. Occupied as he was running one empire or another, pretending at yet another mortal's life in order to advance their work, their cause, their plans. It gave him a good excuse for not turning up, and should anything important enough be discussed that he should know about it, well, someone could just turn up and tell him. It wasn't as though the average human would even be able to see his dark-robed visitor.

But some meetings could not be avoided, and this was one of them. Receiving the simple message (and the proof in evidence that Elidibus was: 1: alive; and 2: had figured out how to use the watch for messaging), he'd merely sighed at it, had lounged around in bed as though he could continue to put this trouble off by going back to sleep. That they were trapped upon a foreign star, shades of their former selves, incapable of continuing their eternal work (which he had no interest in continuing regardless); was it was altogether too much to hope that he might be spared this nuisance? Even in death he couldn't escape meetings.

Lahabrea's additional response, a request, gets more of a frown. This expectation (a demand, really, there was no point in pretending otherwise) wasn't one he particularly cared to follow, but the Ascian had to admit to a certain curiosity as to what it was about. Certainly not some draconic desire to do a very select amount of laundry for them. But he finds a simple, black, button-up shirt to take with him that fits the criteria. Nothing that he would particularly care to lose, given that he had no idea to Lahabrea's intentions; there's also possibly a hint of blood on it that he hadn't gotten around to transmuting away.

At least there was no need to rush; Elidibus had given him enough time to walk there, and now that he'd been to Lahabrea's residence, Emet-Selch had no intention of stretching his legs more than required. Teleportation saved so much time. And it wasn't as though he was altogether against seeing his fellow Ascians. Granted, since Lahabrea had ordered him in a fury out of his house, he hadn't seen the man since, but he also hadn't heard of him causing particular trouble, so he assumed he was getting on as well as he could, and perhaps might appreciate the privacy for his disturbing, beastly changes. And it wasn't as though they weren't accustomed to going long periods of time without any contact between them; a handful of weeks was nothing. But these were unusual circumstances, ones they would have had no way of predicting or preparing for; even if the man was just as likely to turn him away again, perhaps he should have tried harder (or at all) to get in touch. But he'd been annoyed at Lahabrea for his aggressive response, an anger he'd felt irrational, and with all else going on, it had been easy to dissuade himself from bothering.

Already, their Emissary was doing his job of simply... bringing them all together again. Whether they liked it or not. No matter the protest, stated or silent.

So it's around the appropriate hour that Emet-Selch arrives, worn shirt draped over one arm, dressed in appropriate garb for a concurrence of Ascians. It had been some time on this world before his conjuration magic had improved to the point where he could recreate for himself the black robes with sufficient accuracy. He was nothing if not particular about things he chose to bother with, and there had been no rush; he hadn't exactly had any need for them. And the person who he did commission clothing from was Tataru, who- bless her for having friends who've yet to explain who he is- yet believed him to be a depressed Garlean man with an unusual name. Even if commissioning Ascian robes from the Scions' seamstress and accountant would have been an amusing request to make, it would somewhat give the game away. So he had refrained, and created them in his own time, for... sentimental reasons, he supposed. A reminder of what he still was, even here. The only concession currently was a lack of clawed glove on his right hand; it was still broken, bandaged, and it wasn't worth the discomfort in trying to work a glove on over it. But if he was going to meet his compatriots- well, was there a more appropriate occasion to dress traditionally?

And Emet-Selch had to admit, as the flickers of his teleportation magic recede, and he finds himself standing in Lahabrea's yard- that there was something nostalgic about it all. Hood up, mask in place, there was a familiarity here that he couldn't tell whether was good or bad- but it was familiar, in a world where so little was.

Inviting himself inside out of the cold, his eyes (well, his working one), take a moment to adjust to the limited light in the upstairs. But there was no movement, no one in sight that he could tell of; only a space that, he could tell, had seen significant improvements from his first visit. Not that he'd been there long, but the impression was different now. A far more open of a layout (he was sure some walls had vanished), with more projects yet underway. But for all that it was clearly a work in progress, it felt about as tidy as a renovation could be.

But with no one there, he doesn't linger (though his eyes note peculiar twistings in various beams and doors- details that he realized were deliberate carvings, and he tried to remember whether they'd been there on his first visit, or whether they were something Lahabrea had apparently added himself), taking the fragile-looking stairs down into the basement. The sound of his steps alone he knew would be enough of an announcement of his arrival, if the front door opening hadn't done it. And with every step the feeling of heat grew stronger. Emet-Selch hadn't been outside long enough to get particularly cold, so it almost immediately felt a touch excessive. That was the first point of note, the first complaint.

Yet it goes initially unspoken as he completes his descent and takes in the space around him. The sight of Lahabrea lounging with a book upon cushions, his tail bright and noticeable; the way this space looked lived in, even- nice in some ways, if one cared for a basement-lifestyle. Comfortable (apart from the heat), neither sparse nor overcrowded... except for that giant cage. Not yet bothering to take a seat, Emet-Selch's gaze can't help but fall and linger upon that construction, and when he finally addresses his fellow Ascian, it's with a gesture of his left hand towards it.

"I'm not certain I even care to inquire," and yet, he continues. "Has our prey escaped, or are we still waiting for it to arrive?"

For that matter, he didn't see Elidibus anywhere; leave it to the one to have ordered them here to be the last to arrive.

[notbert]

Lahabrea would have found himself the recipient of a quiet reply from Elidibus.

"My apologies. I will seek your permission in the future, should I feel your domain is the appropriate place to meet."

Odd though the first demand may have been given their past, Elidibus did not question it, or sigh or simply note it and move on (with appropriate correction of the error for future encounters). Maybe that was unusual in itself. And quite possibly might be attributed to the Bond they now share.

The second request was not mentioned in his brief reply. And yes, he is quite curious but Lahabrea has a reason for it and so there is no real issue the Emissary takes with the matter. On the other hand, the request suggests that he has in fact, prioritized obtaining more clothing than the cloak and the ones he came to this world with... and the vaguely office robes. Especially since smallclothes are out.

Fortunately, he has Tataru. Elidibus has learned an interesting piece of mortal habits which is they often have specific clothes for bedwear. Thus he will show up with a neatly folded, but not yet washed, unadorned nightshirt. White of course. It was probably comforting in a way.

These are necessary meetings, Emet-Selch. Clearly. Perhaps more so now they had much less resource at their disposal. There is no little merit in this venture to gather the three together in one place, however tedious it was to arrange. It is correct to see this as the Emissary's work of keeping them from straying too distant. After all, they had only each other, here.

Just like in the beginning after the terrible aftermath of Zodiark's battle with Hydaelyn.

There is no quiet arrival of the last Unsundered Ascian. They had mortal bodies. And with those bodies came an impact on their environment. The weight of footfalls, the distinct creak of old floorboards. These Elidibus had heard from upstairs as he finished readying himself. And these would be heard as he descended to the ground floor again and further, as he winds his way down the basement stairs. He is certainly on time, if nothing else.

Even without the full embellishment to his robes of office, this figure is by far the closest picture of Elidibus yet to be seen since his arrival to Aefenglom. After all, with the hood covering the brown hair and his facial features being relatively similar to Ardbert's own, it had been... a mix of their traits which comprised this mortal shell. With mask in place, there is little to pick apart as a difference now. There is certainly no signs of the act he puts on in public.

"Neither, should matters proceed as planned," is his first remark, spoken with the effort to manifest his true voice. Elidibus had obviously heard the caustic question regarding the cage. The Emissary turns his head, looking over the basement's presentation. Sitting down... still an oddity, as the Emissary would have expected them to stand. To the arrangement of cushions and table of snacks and drinks, he tilts his head and regards it with an analytical state of mind. There is a slight downturn of the corners of Elidibus' mouth. One can only imagine the furrowed brow, particularly as his gaze slowly shifts to the settled dragon. It takes a moment for him to finally offer a query.

"...Lahabrea. Is this perhaps some mortal ritual?" Had anyone really expected Elidibus to remember that sometimes meetings had refreshments?

[fuelingfire]

And whatever is to be kept captive in that cage, it's apparently rather highly regarded, for several items of blatant comfort lie within! The creak of boards is a betrayal he makes a note to fix - not because it might be convenient to others but that now he's thinking about it having people squeak up and down his stairs was in fact rather annoying. Stealth was preferable to a steady squealing of loose boards.

"It is mine." The reponse is almost unemotional sounding, a remarkable effort all told, not long after Elidibus' comment. But it hides the sudden blistering reminder that he and he alone had fallen to this depravity, and humiliation is quick to bubble back up. The masks hid much, as much of a blessing that was. How long had Lahabrea been in this city? How long could a monster go before going mad, without a bond? A handful of months, ordinarily, and Lahabrea was not particularly stable to begin with. Though Elidibus had spared him from such a fate, the ominous reminder of the steel bars was still, as far as he was concerned, utterly necessary until proven otherwise. And it hadn't yet been proven otherwise. He'd know better, towards the end of the month, when the moons grew round and their influence strengthened.

But Emet-Selch hadn't yet been told of that change of fortunes. Maybe the presence of that cage would be even more ominous. Would it even hold a feral dragon intent on escaping? Surely it must have by now, given the lack of rampaging that this particular part of the city has endured. Surely he could have indeed figured that out himself and was pressing the question just to ruffle Lahabrea's no longer metaphorical feathers. "Whether I have escaped or not depends on perspective."

Carefully, deliberately, he tucks himself up a little better. The masks hid much .. but so too did the robes, and in spite of the length and feathery fluff of that tail, he can quite nearly hide it all beneath sturdy black cloth. It's almost, almost enough to disguise any changes at all. But not quite. He should have rejected such a thing as a meeting out of hand, the reminder of their continued recognizability and his emphatic lack thereof was bitterly shameful.

"If you have brought what I ask for, feel free to ... set it aside in one corner or another, it matters not." They may, or may not, get their things back.

Maybe Elidibus doesn't know the meaning of snacks! Certainly Lahabrea wouldn't ordinarily bother and if Emet-Selch knew he hadn't warned the other two, but it seemed appropriate to him that if someone's going to be in his lair he should at least offer something to keep them distracted so they won't go looking for his hoard. Though none of it qualifies as an actual meal, none of it is particularly objectionable either.

Except maybe to delicate Garlean sensibilities and the honey-roasted crickets. They were fairly expensive for him to purchase, impressing further on his certainty that it was in fact a rare treat the harpies had clued him in on once upon a time, and neither he nor the dragon had any objection to bugs. Even if fish or fruit is vastly preferred.

There is a bomb nestled amidst the bowl of strawberries, cool enough or asleep enough to not have set the things aflame.

For now, Elidibus' belongings elsewhere are safe. "A ritual? Do you see diagrams inscribed upon the floors or walls? It's merely food, think not too far into it. If you don't wish to have any, then don't. More for me later."

[unsundered]

A coming together in a world unfamiliar, the only three left who knew, who remembered it all (More or less, even if, with Elidibus, that had become less true over the years. But it was in a different way compared to those sundered.)- perhaps it was that aspect that called to him now. But this wasn't a world changed, rent asunder, shattered into some pitiful wreck, but a place disconnected from them all. And this time, they were the ones changed, made helpless and fragile and weak, in comparison to what they should have been.

Certainly a mixed feeling of nostalgia.

Elidibus' arrival is given with the same lack of fanfare as his own, though his head turns as he watches the Emissary on his mundane descent into the sweltering basement. Right on time; he's unsurprised. The comment about- oh, Lahabrea had set out snacks, what a charming host, he had decided to be- the refreshments being some kind of mortal ritual has him swallowing back an amused sound. His tone, though, is simply idle.

"He's not entirely wrong, Lahabrea. A ritual without inscription or power, mayhaps, but something hosts are expected to do when faced with the entertainment of guests. To complete the ritual, we should have brought something more than some worn fabric." Fabric which he's already assuming he won't be seeing again. But as he speaks, he drops his on one of the more out of the way cushions- though before he sits down, he wanders closer to that iron cage for a better look.

A cage he's careful not to touch, not knowing whether it was enchanted or not, and for all that it looked about as comfy as a literal cell could be, that it was apparently meant for Lahabrea himself... though Emet-Selch's expression remains neutral, it was a thought unsettling. Sure, Lahabrea had become increasingly reckless, temperamental over the years, but to think that any of them could be reduced to this (especially one of them, unsundered, unbroken, eternal), and it was hard to not despise this world at times. To feel the need to lock himself away, to not trust his own control.

But Lahabrea was looking almost normal, apart from that hint of a tail and this new love of caging himself and heated dens. It's something that he refrains from commenting on, as he looks back to him. And in the end he decides not to ask further of it, this voluntary imprisoning, whether it had seen use or functioned as desired- instead drifting back and settling himself heavily down on one of the cushions next to the gathered spread of snacks.

Not that he makes any move to take anything yet, eyeing their white-robed Ascian instead (there was something strange about them sitting down like this for a meeting, rather than standing/floating, but what was one more thing to adjust to?). "But you've called us all here, Elidibus, and I imagine for reasons other than indulging in Lahabrea's repast."

It was an eclectic spread set out before them, Emet-Selch decided, something that was almost charming in the circumstance. Was it a result of limited supplies at hand, or a lack of understanding in what went well together, what made sense to present? Strawberries (Where had he even gotten those? The work of a faun, he assumed.), that were busy being used as a nest for a bomb (not something he'd be inclined to move). Some sort of... insects. Those were definitely insects set out as a snack. Even though he knew they were a perfectly normal (as in, not something resorted to only in cases of starvation; these in particular had the air of being fancy) edible item, for both humans and monsters, they do earn something of a skeptical look.

[notbert]

A custom, then? Elidibus brings a hand up to his face, the side of his index finger almost touching his lips as he considers mortal custom versus mortal ritual, which Emet-Selch is outlining the possibility of a correct context after all. There's no gratitude for the support. As expected. He finally decides on what to say.

"Lahabrea did this by his own choice. It was not asked for, but it is considerate considering our current needs," Elidibus lowers his hand and nods at the Ascian in question. "If I have not yet come to live here, I will be certain to presume a provision is in order."

Two of the three have decided to settle on cushions. In this, majority rules it seems. Emet-Selch and Lahabrea have claimed cushions suitable to their comfort. It leaves choice between cushion or the bean bag chair. He remembers the bean bag chair. Under the mask his eyes narrow before pointedly moving to claim one of the cushions. Today, he will spare his dignity. The neatly folded nightshirt had been left in a conspicuous place near Emet-Selch's own offering, when it was passed by.

He remembers the use of a personal plate in this sort of setting from his lunch with the harpies and so when he sees some, he claims one for his own. With no show of disdain, a little of each food is placed upon it. Including the crickets, some snacking cookies. The strawbe--- Gloved fingers pause briefly before reaching to pluck the cherry bomb out of the strawberries.

"Lahabrea, you seem to have misplaced this." Elidibus seeks to set it gently on the Speaker's side of the table. One can only hope he has succeeded in his task. His reward will be a few strawberries added to his plate after all.

There is no need for him to wait and see the results of his efforts.

"Yes. I begin to have an understanding, limited though it is, of this Star. And while I have no intention of letting us remain any longer than we must, it is nonetheless clear to me that I am sorely lacking in the resources..." Elidibus frowns, then admits, "...and the capacity to do barely more than exist, day to day." At least, in terms of what he once had.

He would never have admitted weakness, had it not been extremely necessary. Had it not been these two in this situation. His mouth is once again neutral and few would have little reason to expect the Emissary had just spoken such words.

Impassively, Elidibus continues. This, mind you, regardless of what the bomb would be attempting to do at this point. He simply deals with it as it occurs. "I wish to take advantage of your superior experience of Aefenglom, Lahabrea. Emet-Selch. And... your aid. In training, practicing the use of this body and its fighting style. Eventually, magic." His gaze turns to Emet-Selch momentarily. "If you could take the trouble to repair your body, I would wish to confront you in as top a form you can muster."

Yes, he noticed it still seemed to be quite ragged. But it is only a mild curiosity as to why Emet-Selch had let himself go.

[fuelingfire]

The bean bag chair sits forlorn and unoccupied, but it knows Elidibus' secrets.

"I suppose then it is good we are not indulging in mortal rituals of entertainment." He sits back a little, studying what he'd come up with. None of it would do much to fill anyone up without some really determined efforts, and it certainly wouldn't help Emet-Selch's growing list of obvious injuries and inconveniences. But taste was relevant, wasn't it? At least sometimes. This wasn't a meal, designed to be nutritionally complete and thus taste wasn't important! "The fabric is more useful than other things you may have brought, besides." What else would they bring? Pointless little presents??

Although it was in fact a comfort that both of them were dressed properly for once, it didn't help him get a better idea of exactly how much Emet-Selch's managed to get himself injured this time. The pre-imminent mage among them, with access to every spell this world has, and the man still hadn't bothered to pick up Cure. "...It locks from the outside, but is not designed to stop magic if you're concerned it might trap you." The cage, presumably. That's not what it's meant for. Containing mages is an entirely different thing than containing beasts.

Beasts don't get to teleport around, if nothing else.

As his bomb is picked up out of its nest of berries, it stirs awake and immediately begins a tiny-armed windmilling protest until it's set down on the table - whereupon its' simply plucked up and stuffed up a sleeve by Lahabrea before it can find more trouble to cause. It's a visible little bump moving around under the sleeve but they're not really made for keen intelligence and it's not easily finding its way back out.

"I wonder at such raggedness," is added after a moment of quiet. "Surely what passes for magecraft here does include some form of restorative spell, learning one or two might have saved you a fair bit of pain and scarring." His tone is disapproving but he's not going right into outright mocking. "Wasn't there something you'd said some months ago about taking care of our vessels..?"

Which someone clearly is not doing, here!

"Though I would thus suggest the same to you, Elidibus. There may come a time where I intend to do serious harm to you, or merely by accident in this ... training you desire, and it would be for the best if you were able to actually repair that."

[unsundered]

There was no way to settle into a bean bag chair and maintain any kind of aloof dignity. Emet-Selch wasn't entirely sure why Lahabrea even had one. Had it been there when he'd moved in and he'd been satisfied to leave it, or had he deliberately acquired one? The witch wasn't sure which option amused more. But cushions it was for them all, and what comfort they could provide.

"Yes, amongst us, there's little need for mortal pretense, traded instead for the indulgence of peculiar requests," he says. He knows Lahabrea must have a good reason for wanting their clothes, but it's not unexpected that he wouldn't volunteer it. "But I'm relieved to know that you've no intention of locking away any mages in your- construction."

But Emet-Selch listens, almost surprised at the admittance- unnecessary as it might have been- of Elidibus' lack of resources, of strength. Even if it was something they all knew (and shared something of the experience of), it was something else to outright state it. But there was a certain pragmatism in acknowledging it, he supposed. "Nevermind finding the ability to return home," which was already a huge task in itself (and one he had no interest in, even were he alive, but, well, no reason to mention that), "our points in time are all different. From my perspective, returning now would do me little good at all, a resumption merely in death."

While he was about to offer some willingness to assist in Elidibus' familiarity with this star and its magics, that was a lot of shade thrown by the both of them at his maintenance of his host. Emet-Selch did have to admit there was a certain amount of irony in being the one with the greatest experience in mortal upkeep, yet having sustained the most damage. But he'd also been there the longest, and a lot could happen in a mortal year, it turns out. "This body is as repaired as I can make it," he says, with a certain amount of testiness. "Like all magic on this star, its capacity for healing is limited."

His eye hadn't been gotten to in time to salvage its sight (and having been busy being captured and tortured, it had made it difficult to see a doctor straight away), and his hand... there was only so much magic could do for an impaling. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Emet-Selch looks down at the injured hand, resting passively in his lap, expression falling into something more distant. At some point he would have to start rehabilitating it, get back what use he could of it... but that was a thought for some other day.

Sighing to himself, he finally claims a plate for himself with his left hand and sets it before him, before eyeing the food. If nothing else, it seems as though he's gotten used to doing everything one-handed, and years of practice with the claw-gloves makes it simple to pick out a few (gently warmed) strawberries without accidentally impaling them on a finger. "But I suppose I might consider picking up the recovery side of evocation, though there's little it would have done to spare me most of this," he grudgingly admits. But another thought has him blink, though it's hard to tell underneath the mask. "Ah. I am learning transmutation. 'Tis not a permanent cure, but it would allow me to shift any damage sustained into something more functional, when necessary. Amongst other things."

Mid-strawberry-picking, he gestures to Lahabrea with it and a flick of metal claws. "So should you grow tired of looking ever more like a beast, Lahabrea, and would prefer to reclaim some measure of your dignity, I could hide some of those... appendages you've decided to grow." A statement accompanied by a disdainful look towards that bit of tail he couldn't quite hide.

Yes, he knows Lahabrea didn't have any choice about turning into a lizard, but he's certainly going to pretend as though it's clearly some moral failing on the Ascian's part. Especially when everyone else is critiquing scars he (mostly) had little say in obtaining.

[notbert]

Strawberries secured. And quite literally a bit of every other snack on the table. The precise selection and small quantity of each suggests this is not merely a task of sustenance but one of experimentation. Some he already knows, certainly. Others will be new experiences. He hardly has reason to suspect the strawberries are something out of season and thus quite a treat. A small measure of drink is pour and, perhaps to the relief of Emet-Selch's sensibilities on the matter, he seems to have some knowledge that pouring a bit of each in the glass would not produce the results he desires.

But the thought can cross one's mind that Elidibus might have, if he wasn't experimenting. Or perhaps this too, is an actual lesson he's picked up on his own that such actions can prove disastrous.

The Emissary starts with a thin, fried slice of popoto- potato to the locals before he speaks again. *krskh* His efforts had given his contemporaries more than enough time to exchange words and so his first comment is on the matter of body care.

"Enough," he speaks simply and blandly. There's another *krskh* as he decides that the sound is to be endured so he can finish off the crisp. "I did not bring up the matter to denigrate Emet-Selch. Nor allow this conversation to be swayed toward an exchange of criticism." Clearly, Elidibus does not need to indicate whom each statement is being directed toward? Though it might be a wonder that he interpreted Emet-Selch's usual manner of mocking speech to be something worth censure before Lahabrea could retort, rather than be ignored unless the two started to truly derail the topic. After all, he'd not remarked on the banter about the cage.

"It is enough to know the limits of the magic here are responsible, rather than lack of upkeep. Though I will endeavor to study restorative spells on your advice, Lahabrea. I had, after all, not intended to look into them quickly."

He does not tackle another crisp, for the time being and gives the first strawberry of the representative sample, which had seem safely crunch-less. It is given the same delicate two... no, three bite treatment. Because if the green bit is still attached, it goes in too.

Moving on, Elidibus then offers, "I am aware of the nature of this Star's ability to pluck us from varying points in time. Else, given our varying circumstances before... capture, our arrival may have been more fixed in order." And thus, it is not simply the world's personal flow of time being much faster than their own. "In fact, given the... variety in which our memories of just whom the Source's Warrior of Light actually is vary..." At least between Lahabrea and himself, the former to whom the Ascian glances briefly to indicate this, "It is not just a matter of differing points of time, but different timelines altogether. Thus, the difficulty in studying this phenomenon increases."

There is no mention of whether he intends to address that study or if it's just mild observation on facts he has already uncovered. Just that the task if any pursuit of it is to be had, is indeed a massive one and thus likely low on the list of immediate tasks. "Out of curiosity. Is this 'Irhya', the Warrior of Light you know, Emet-Selch?" That much at least, it seems he would like to establish.

The pause to wait for a response to the inquiry is an advantage to eat a honeyed roasted cricket. Yes, he does know that one. But he only silently considers whether Lahabrea had 'borrowed' a supply from his neighbors or gone shopping himself. Probably the latter. But it would be interesting to find it was the former.

"For now, I wish to focus on improving our general strengths. And exploring how these bodies we are imprisoned in can utilized. I would value your time, experiences and discretion on the matter."

Though the last is certainly directed at Emet-Selch, for Elidibus is looking his way. Though why on earth would he targ-- Oh right.

Mettaton.

Surely Emet-Selch has heard by now that Elidibus has indeed identified and encountered Mettaton? Possibly the loudest, most talkative gossip in all of Aefenglom?

*snap*. Ah. It seems the cookie too, had a hard snap to it.

[fuelingfire]

It's the silence that's the warning, not a surge of emotion or cutting words in retaliation.

Utter silence, and complete stillness.

Nothing interrupts Emet-Selch at all as he chooses to provoke a dragon in its own lair, nothing interrupts Elidibus as he speaks either, first on restorative spells and then on time. Even across the fragile link of their bond there is nothing of warning that would speak of imminent threat - no flash of rage, no sudden surge of hatred. Just a slow, uncoiling rise of determination that really doesn't suggest anything of its own.

After all, Elidibus had said 'enough'.

Elidibus, who was not their leader and held no more authority than the other two had, but has been of late thinking he has the right to levy demand and orders. Obeyed, clearly.

The stillness is broken as Lahabrea sets the bomb back on the table, with a cookie to work on. It sets to work burning it to a crisp first with all the studious determination of any bomb anywhere. Apparently if it's not charcoal, it's not good enough.

And then he pounces in a sudden flash of black cloth and red-gold feathers. The table is small, the distance between each seat comfortable but not vast, and the gap between himself and Emet-Selch is not particularly large. Small enough perhaps that the sudden flurry of movement will be a shock, and put his new alarming strength to sudden and brutal use; he aims to outright knock the other Ascian over and onto the ground and there pin him by one taloned, reptilian foot at the belly and one hand for the Architect's much-abused throat and jaw, the goal nothing more than to render him immobile - and silent of any potential spellcasting without risking being gutted in the process. Had he thought about it, he'd have struck the already injured hand, but he doesn't - it doesn't occur to him. It's not the first time that Emet-Selch has likely dealt with sharp claws, given a certain lapine bondmate, but chances were pretty high Mettaton also wouldn't seek to hurt him just to hear him scream.

Less so, Lahabrea. He spent an awful lot of time watching people suffer simply because he liked it. And only now that he's actually done something, moved out of the stillness and silence, does emotion boil up - strong enough to be felt over that fledgling bond. Bitter, vicious resentment, fury and indignation. But it's not feral. He's perfectly, utterly aware of what he's doing.

But Emet-Selch has been a master sorcerer for longer than many species have had civilization, and much relies on whether or not Lahabrea can catch him before some retaliatory spell can be cast.

[unsundered]

Elidibus had told him (told them) to desist, and though it gets the man an irritable, if slightly puzzled look in his direction, Emet-Selch would have been fine leaving his needling at that. At least for the moment. That their Emissary would choose to intervene in this matter though- that was worth more thought. Though he didn't consider it yet worth particular insult, if it was a pattern that continued (and more importantly, a pattern that interfered with his affairs), that would be something worth censure. Complaint. Or at the very least, a demand for an explanation. They were yet all equals here. Who had the right to tell any other of them to stop?

But he allows it to lie. And the Emissary's questions are enough to gain Emet-Selch's attention (as was Elidibus's strange method of eating; if this was how he consumed everything, he supposed it was for the best that very few in this world would have any idea that this would be unusual Ardbert behavior). Enough to distract him. There were things he had considered- that the three of them, most likely, were each from their own versions of their star- and things he had expected. He'd heard about Elidibus' encounter with Mettaton, and had assumed he'd have to provide some manner of reassurance there, and that no, he hadn't told, nor did he intend to tell, anyone else of the Ascian's nature. But that there was no reason to be concerned over his puca Bonded knowing anything of them.

Replies were forthcoming. Several, even. Until he notes something. Or rather, the absence of something. That Lahabrea had, somehow, refrained from interjecting during this whole affair. The careful crunching of various foodstuffs, the commentary, the questions on Elidibus' part. And yet the dragon had been notably silent, without even a huff of frustration or disapproval, a grudging settling of self. There was a small movement, calm as anything- Lahabrea setting his bomb pet down. Nothing worth particular recognition or alarm, and all Emet-Selch has a chance to feel then is the smallest disquiet, at the realization that this is the first action he'd noticed from Lahabrea since Elidibus had begun speaking.

He was, Emet-Selch would note later, worryingly offguard, when it came to this possibility. But when had an Ascian actually attacked another of their own kind? No matter how distorted Lahabrea had become by time, and now, by draconic instinct- to be actually assaulted by him- it was unthinkable. Unconscionable. He would also realize soon enough that there was nothing even feral about Lahabrea's behavior, that this was deliberate choice.

Had this been their original star, there would have been no chance of Lahabrea getting the jump on him like this.

But then, had this been their original star, there would have been no reason for Lahabrea to resort to something so crude as to lunge bodily at him, in a flurry of claw and cruelty, spite and resentment expressed through brute, bestial strength.

But this was not their star.

Elidibus' cookie snaps, and so does Lahabrea.

The table is shook, plates clatter, glasses fall, as Emet-Selch reacts to being harshly pinned down by lashing out, by struggling, at first, through physical reflex alone. A poor choice for any mage caught by a dragon, but a perhaps understandable one under the circumstances. That table might well be getting kicked as he's shoved back to the floor, limbs doing their ineffectual best to free him, but striking only objects. Lahabrea's grip may as well have been a vice, his talons threateningly sharp.

And so Emet-Selch is caught, furious, and in a not inconsiderable degree of pain. His throat is considerably bruised, even bitten- something that's ever more obvious with his head pressed back like this, an area naturally tender only made more so. A pained noise does try to escape despite his best efforts to restrain it, and is hushed instead by the restriction on his voice. But if Lahabrea's concern was to prevent magic use, he would have been better off pinning his good arm rather than torturing his throat; his casting was gesturally based, rather than verbal. And after the initial panic, the instinctive reaction to the threat of unwanted and unplanned strangulation, his response settles into one of sharp and cutting focus. He had to be quick; if Lahabrea chose to choke him to unconsciousness or death, or tear his throat open, he had precious little time to stop him.

It didn't matter that he was in danger. He was offended, insulted, that Lahabrea, that anyone would dare to try such a thing on him. He'd felt the same when he'd been captured and tortured- and all of that rage returns now in an instant, that utter despising of this lack of control, of being forced into anything like a corner.

His good hand claws in a instant for the dragon's wrist- not to (futily) try and push him aside, but to direct a surge of energy through it, in a bolt of something like dark-colored electricity. Something to try and stun, to force the muscles of Lahabrea's hand and arm into non-compliance, into temporary uselessness. Moreover, even, because he knew it would hurt.

How susceptible Lahabrea's sort of dragon even was to electricity he didn't know, but he'd heard of at least one fire dragon who had been stopped by lightning.

[notbert]

Elidibus reaches out...

And saves his plate and drink glass before they spill from Emet-Selch's ungainly kick of the table surface. Fortunately there's only a small amount of spillage, perhaps some overturned bottles of the different beverages, but those had been capped. The table is still upright. Other treats may now be scattered on the table, but those could well be seen as 'fair game' by the bomb.

He continues his delicate consumption of that first cookie while regarding his fellow Unsundered tussle. Despite his earlier spoken intention of demanding order be kept, Elidibus is surprisingly silent in his contemplation. It's interesting, the Ascian thinks. The Bond had, momentarily, sent such a powerful wave of emotion that was not his, that Elidibus had actually felt his own lips peel back and teeth grit. He did control his expression thereafter before continuing his clinical observations of both food and the argument between Lahabrea and Emet-Selch.

He's certainly not inclined to immediately rise to aid either Ascian. First, Lahabrea is clearly in control of himself. Which is a sign that their Bond is certainly working to keep him from feral, instinctive action. It is also interesting to observe the difference between intentional ire and that which had been experienced and faded when he and the Speaker first Bonded. That roiling, feral instinct and this draconic 'nature'- Elidibus decides to describe it as for now, though with note to compare it to his memories of Lahabrea in the past later- is certainly night and day.

The Emissary moves onto a cheese cube as the scent of ozone suddenly hangs in the air. Gives it due thought for the first bite. Maybe glances at the Bomb as if seeing what it thinks of the current warzone. At least he doesn't go so far as to address it like a companion at the table during a bar brawl they're both ignoring.

Second, while he recognizes the fury, resentment and the complicated emotions that none but another Ascian going through the same transformations could really understand are not his, there is a slight bias in favor of Lahabrea. At least, to let them sort it out between themselves as a thoroughly warranted attack. Elidibus certainly reasons that this something he half expected to happen even before the Bond... so it is likely not unduly influencing his choice in remaining an observer. It would be helpful anyway, to let Lahabrea release some of that pent up despair, would it not?

A small part of him is rather disturbed that the transformation is so far in that the Speaker would attack a fellow Ascian on the other hand. So Elidibus carefully begins to balance the value of observing the measure of their skills and actually stopping Lahabrea before the despair becomes greater, outweighing the benefit of letting the Ascian vent his frustrations. It is something to be carefully watched for.

The matter of the emotion itself... some parts are new, some parts are familiar. Elidibus knows anger and fury at least. The rest.... sadly, he has no time to think upon other than note that yes, it was an emotion. A sip of the juice is taken before plate and glass are set aside for later. This two has become secondary.

Third, there's a matter of self-introspection. The unwashed clothing aside, some of Lahabrea's demands and actions of the last few weeks are being given context, both by emotions felt and observed. A consideration of Lahabrea regaining some stability meaning he might be worth more than a dismissive attitude, now. So much damage done, over the eons, to the Speaker's mental state. And didn't he think before, of that fragile wire that marked the Ascian's control?

And just the slightest notion that if Lahabrea is asserting himself, even if it is just the formulation of draconic nature, should he then not have more standing, in Elidibus' own eyes?

Well... no. Probably not the latter. But it is certainly noted that he can no longer afford to treat Lahabrea without due consideration for this new (or regained) assertiveness amongst the three. And if Elidibus himself wants to whole-heartedly support Lahabrea's control on what he once was, then it is doubly imperative he dismiss his attitudes of the past. He nods to himself briefly.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the table (more or less), as far as his reactions seem to indicate, a 'small scuffle' rages on.

It's not as if it's really a problem. Sure, Elidibus might drag the bodies to the Coven to be 'resurrected' for show, but it's not as if they can't simply, once free of these shells, simply seek out another host.

Right?

[fuelingfire]

As far as Lahabrea knows, given his favoring of increased temperatures, dislike of the cold and obnoxious difficulties with getting the shower to a temperature he can even tolerate without feeling hypothermic, fire is his only inclination. It's reasonable, he'd always favored fire, most of his exemplary creations were fire-aspected, he preferred the element for his spellcraft, and even the color of his feathers and scales suggested an affinity for flame. Not that it made any of it tolerable, but it was at least understandable, lightning on the other hand is also reasonably not something he's been considering as a possibility any more than he thought he might suddenly take up with ice.

Which means he rather thoroughly expects rictus agony to follow when his wrist is grabbed and dark electricity snaps to life. So much so that he immediately moves to ground himself in such a fashion where the same shock would surely pass through Emet-Selch as well as himself before striking the ground and guarantee they both suffer for it, releasing battered throat long enough to seek the floor with that hand and theoretically discharge the voltage through that and the grip on Emet-Selch's stomach. It's a reasonable move, not exactly practiced but familiar enough with the element to know how to harm another with it even while suffering its lash himself, but ... nothing happens.

The spell crackles and arcs exactly as it should up Lahabrea's arm, but the taloned fingers don't seize with muscle spasms, nor does it even discharge as he wishes it to, into the ground and through Emet-Selch. It simply dissipates instead, as if absorbed harmlessly or counterspelled or something, but he wasn't a mage and Elidibus didn't know this world's magic enough to do it, and dragons are only immune to their own elements and he is so obviously fire--

There's a brief moment's hesitation that suggests this is in fact astonishing news to Lahabrea. It doesn't show on his face, those masks hide so much, but there is certainly a deep and ugly shock at ... not ... being shocked.

No, there is exactly one sign of any potential electric alignment - the stripes that mar a path down the wide-fanned tail do look awfully like white-hot lightning..

He recovers quickly, all told. Questions to be answered later.

The bomb, with the table and its cookie dinner now at risk, valiantly tries to float away with a treat that probably outweighs it. It's not really getting that far, but it's doing its level best.

"Try that again and I'll bereave you of your mutilated vessel as slowly and painfully as I know how." A threat that's punctuated by the slow tensing of foot-talons. Not enough to actually cause more harm than painful little pinpricks of promise and difficulty breathing, not yet, but that could obviously and effortlessly change in an instant, and disemboweling is surely not a very pleasant way to go. "We'll see how much dignity you can muster with your entrails strewn across my floor. You dare try to shame me in my own lair with that pathetic farcial superiority while half-blinded and crippled by mere mortals?" ...And bitten. Bitten? Are those bitemarks? Since Elidibus certainly hasn't been biting anyone lately as far as Lahabrea knows, that leaves more mortal marks-- "Choose your words carefully else I leave my own mark alongside all these others you already bear."

Granted high pressure water attacks wouldn't be a great way to go either, and he's fairly certain that would be the next go-to now that lightning has failed, if they were known, given his ... potential alignment. Elidibus had yet to interfere, which was.. noteworthy, in only that Lahabrea fully expects him to come to Emet-Selch's defense and hasn't yet, but that ridiculously oversized axe also wasn't present so what was there that he might make use of?

Defending kith and kin from a marauding monster was exactly what heros did, after all. It was only right and proper that eventually he would, bond or not, for a beast daring to lay claws on an Ascian was an intolerable insult that could get entire continents razed to ash.

The idea of attacking his own kind was abhorrent. Killing one even moreso, so SURELY it's an empty threat - even if just a vessel.

But they weren't the same kind anymore, were they? Elidibus had been horrified to see him. Emet-Selch's scorn was well known. No, soon he would not be worthy of even a blank white mask and the plainest of robes, for no Amaurotine was an animal..

[unsundered]

On one hand: the spell technically did as was intended, as it got Lahabrea to release his throat. It was also clear in those instants that the dragon expected the same thing as himself to happen, and was taking measures to ensure they were both hit by the electricity. That was fine. That was also expected, and if Emet-Selch hadn't been a mess of tension from adrenaline, the expectation of shared pain would've been enough to cause it. But Lahabrea would get the brunt of it, and that was all that mattered.

On the other hand (his far more useless hand, even, perhaps, fittingly): the spell had no effect. And if there was one thing that Emet-Selch knew about dragons, it was that they were immune to magic of their own element. And if there was one thing that he knew about Lahabrea, it was his affinity for fire. Lightning, though a related element, was not fire. Was the Ascian, against all sense and reason... actually a thunder dragon? Of course his luck would continue to be so poor that he would strike the man with the one thing that wouldn't hurt him.

So they were both shocked, if not in the way as originally intended. Even with the masks hiding much, the mutual pause, the hesitation, confusion, reassessment- they were all things that took place in a handful of instants between them. It certainly solved nothing, didn't remove the insult of Lahabrea stepping on him, restricting his breath, and threatening to do far worse than that.

That Elidibus was clearly watching this unfold before them and doing absolutely nothing to interfere- it registers dimly, but it registers poorly. Yet no matter what the Emissary did, it had the chance of being interpreted negatively. Were he to get in the way, try to separate them, Emet-Selch would have been offended; how dare he interfere, did he think he needed help to put this beast in his place? And yet, by standing by... did this count as tacit agreement with Lahabrea's actions? Did he not care that two Ascians were fighting in front of him, risking injury and threatening mutilation and death? And the dragon had clearly started it, which made it all his fault, after all (never mind that Emet-Selch could have avoided inciting him, mocking someone who he knew was already a bit unstable). How dare he sit by and do nothing.

But it's not something Emet-Selch can spare much attention towards, not with a dragon still in a position to disembowel him and actively threatening to do so (Surely he wouldn't- that Lahabrea wasn't so far gone as to actually murder another Ascian? But he wouldn't have expected to be attacked by him either, in a way that was far too measured in its fury to be unthinking ferality. So he couldn't be sure.). Yet even amongst the anger he could concentrate- his thoughts fed by continued insult, that Lahabrea would seek to judge him for the condition of his body, as though it was anything he was meant to feel shame for. He was no lesser for his partial blindness or his bites, for wounds suffered through or wanted.

(But being trapped like this. Thought of as someone who could be killed on a whim, expected to be helpless. Emet-Selch could barely hear outside of the call of this anger, and it was getting harder to not outright try and kill Lahabrea in turn. But he refused to be made to feel this way again. The presumption. Were this a mortal, there would have been no hesitation.)

"Get. Off."

Those are all the words Lahabrea is spared, given in a low, rough hiss, edging into a snarl. It was hard to breathe with the pressure upon his body, but he was certainly not about to back down, to do anything other than retaliate. And with his arm still free, and a thought in mind, he gestures with a flick of his wrist- a quick, jerk of a movement.

Conjuration instead, rather than the risk of an element: something much like a bear trap manifests underneath and around Lahabrea's taloned foot. Wickedly sharp, steel points surround him, ready to snap shut in a instant around his ankle, impaling it on a ring of metal, should he even try to press down with that foot, should he move carelessly at all. Should he do anything other than carefully retract his foot.

(The only reason he didn't summon it with the trap already closed, was because this was Lahabrea, this was still one of his own.)

[notbert]

Wait. Not a problem? This isn't about their mortal shells. This is about their fight coming to blows. And even the Sundered Ascians would think of attacking one another. Much less those who had survived with their souls wholly intact. Why had he let himself get distracted so? Could he really have been so enraptured by emotion? Influenced toward standing down by Lahabrea's ire toward Emet-Selch?

How had he allowed himself to let this attack continue without intervening to try and calm them? It seemed to make mockery of his conviction to wholeheartedly support Lahabrea in reclaiming and keep his self as an Ascian. He fights against closing his eyes or taking a moment to feel dismay at his failing. Lamenting or hesitating further will do none of them any good.

Elidibus does not quickly rise, but this is calculated. He would not wish to further provoke Lahabrea's ire, nor Emet-Selch's. At the moment neither are likely to react well to a swiftly moving, white robed target approaching.

"I ask that you both consider setting aside your anger." Elidibus circled the table and approached carefully, his gaze upon both of his fellow Unsundered. It is from behind Emet-Selch's head, in visible sight of Lahabrea, who is highly territorial. The left sleeve of his robe briefly shifts as the Emissary allows a glimpse of his hand, no longer gloved and palm out, before it disappears back into the sleeve. It is subtle, but trying to show Lahabrea touch is there. If he thinks he needs it.

"I am remiss for not speaking sooner. For all we have been trapped in these mortal shells and consigned to the limits and cruelties imposed upon us by Mirrorbound," Elidibus acknowledges what they are, if only to voice a touch of his hatred of the badge imparted on them by the city. "I believe there is one thing which should remain a truth. We are Ascian. The last of the Unsundered."

Emet-Selch is gazed upon, an impassive expression that doesn't seem to acknowledge the tense stalemate between the Speaker and the Architect. "What is happening to Lahabrea is no fault of his own. It is this world which seeks to warp his very aether. Should we not then, act to use our knowledge and be certain it does not cement its claim on one of Zodiark's own?"

To Lahabrea, "Emet-Selch has his own choice to make. But I give you the same promise I have made before. I will not abandon you. If I must wrest you from this place and drag you before Lord Zodiark Himself, you will be revived as you should be, in your proper form."

There is a quiet moment. Finally, behind the mask for all it cannot be seen, the Emissary closes his eyes.

"We have only each other. Let us not let this Star take this absolute from us," when Elidibus speaks these words quietly, there is a sense of emotion. Of course his expression can't be seen; he had not taken his mask off. But something that could be called an ancient ancestor to the fear of loss. It is fleeting and flickering and disappears quickly once he finishes speaking. What does remain behind, is the absolute sincerity behind his words.

[fuelingfire]

He had already provided a warning as to what would happen if Emet-Selch tried another spell, and as far as he's concerned that gesture, in intending another spellcast, is tacit agreement that yes, the Architect should absolutely be gutted like a fish and left to die slowly in a pool of his own blood. Self defense? Meaningless. As far as Lahabrea's concerned his assault has been thoroughly and repeatedly earned, and thus whatever he chooses to do is perfectly acceptable, even if it means injury in return. With a resistance to lightning, that opened up every other possibility by way of retaliation, and some of them most certainly could kill. The loss of one crippled vessel was hardly a setback for those who could simply snatch up any passing body they chose, and mayhap it would be best for both of them. He could claim one not turning into a beast and Emet-Selch..

... Well, who cares. If Lahabrea has his way, he's going to snatch for securing the undamaged arm in a painful grip and go for the throat again, leaving the already broken arm to do whatever, it's surely no threat.

Get off.

"Where is your PRECIOUS warrior of light now that you need saving?!" Although clear and concise words, it's all in a rumbling, furious growl, perfectly willing to brace against the steel forming around his talons and drive those sharp claws down in an effort to puncture right through cloth and into flesh even as the trap snaps closed - wounds for wounds is perfectly, utterly acceptable to Lahabrea. It didn't matter what happened to him so long as his enemy bled for it, a certain habit that would one day see him dead should he ever get off this wretched planet. The steel utterly fails to puncture through where there is scale, the crimson surfaces scratched but unbroken and sliding the entire contraption sideways, but unfortunately for him, scale does not yet cover everywhere and the steel teeth bite deep everywhere there's merely hyur skin and bone instead and there locks into its grim purpose of holding fast painfully and securely. It prevents him from getting deep enough to see through his threat and rip Emet-Selch wide open. Adrenaline does wonders for making pain a side concern at best, and it's for the moment ignored. Ignoring something grinding its way into one's foot is not particularly a wise thing to do but it is, after all, merely a vessel. What did it matter?

Where is said precious warrior of light?

... Well, there's one right there. Even if it's not Irhya. And it seems he's intent on interfering.

The encroachment of white instead of the placid continuation of snacks earns bared teeth and a gutteral sound humanoid throats don't produce very easily, as much threat as warning. Set aside his anger, as if this were a mere mild disagreement and he had not had to endure insult after insult, deliberately and willfully--

Did it help at all, or merely make it worse, that Emet-Selch only echoed the constant thoughts tearing at the back of his mind instead of bringing up some new doubt to worry about? That nothing that could be said wasn't something he'd already worried over like a dog with a bone for weeks, months now? It wasn't as if he'd never considered it, as if these accusations and insinuations were new and unexpected and thus shockingly infuriating. But there was surely some truth in the fact that the things that enrage the most are the things one is already guilty of..

Was it true at all, that what was happening to him wasn't some fundamental failing in personality or spirit or ability? Did he even count as one of them anymore?

Although nothing is said to Elidibus' words immediately, there's something suspiciously like a tremor through the almost-dragon's frame, easily felt in the rattle of trap or any further grip he'd managed to get on Emet-Selch. Some internal war? A fight between the decision to continue this to its bloody conclusion - or something else? It's hard to tell, and no explanation is forthcoming from Lahabrea, who wrenches suddenly away, taking the trap with him in a jangle of chain. It's neither graceful nor easy, still not used to walking on mostly-changed feet even normally, and now moreso than ever with steel wedged between his bones. It's certain he must feel it, as surely as Emet-Selch feels any such wound left behind, with his weight on the trap and crimson a few shades paler than the scales that mar his skin running to collect in little pools across the floor, but it doesn't seem to actually register. The tail helps balance, feathers splayed flat and wide to make it look several times larger than usual, a slow agitated lash of vivid color.

"You should have accepted my abdication when I offered it."

Lahabrea was, after all, acutely unworthy of that title as he was. This surely simply proved his point.

[unsundered]

When he had manifested the trap as he had, it had been the offering of a choice... for all that he also knew that Lahabrea wasn't the sort of person to temper his anger now, to do the clever thing and pull away. But as far as Emet-Selch was concerned, he had been restrained, utterly reasonable and even merciful in his choice of defenses. He had given Lahabrea every opportunity to withdraw without harm, and even should he find himself with a trap snapped around his ankle, he'd hardly die from it (and should he be left with any lingering marks from the affair, well, shouldn't he be pleased that they were at least not wrought by mortal hand?). Emet-Selch was being kind, no matter how much this wretch of an Ascian didn't deserve nor appreciate his benevolence.

...Is how he sees it, in any case, having done absolutely nothing to warrant attack, nothing worth even a verbal protest. What had Emet-Selch ever done, but speak the truth? But as it turns out, Ascians don't like that any more than mortals do. And it surprises him not at all to hear the hard snap of the trap clamping shut, with an unpleasant-sounding scrape of metal-on-scale, and a more unpleasant-sounding muffled thunk, as at least some of those sharp points find their mark, sinking deep through muscle, around bone.

But he realizes quickly the flaw in not attempting to go for the kill: if Lahabrea was willing to sacrifice his foot, there was little holding him back otherwise, nothing keeping the dragon from tearing at him with clawed hands and monstrous strength. Arm immediately moving again to conjure, cast something, Lahabrea is quicker, restraining his functional arm this time, and keeping him from getting anywhere with it. His bandaged, broken hand twitches, as Emet-Selch tries to force himself to use it in its place (but he remembered too clearly, the crunch of bone, sick and wet, the downpour of rain upon him, his fear, his grief--) but it's uncooperative.

His throat as well is caught, gripped, but there's less Emet-Selch can do about it now. Or more precisely, he can do nothing at all, as claws sink in, as bruises blossom from the pressure of the holds from both of Lahabrea's hands. Damage for damage- though a few punctures were less than wearing a bear (or more accurately now, a dragon) trap around one's foot, and Emet-Selch had little doubt that Lahabrea would settle for anything less than that promised slow and painful demise.

And when the dragon mocks him once more, this time for his connection to the Warrior of Light, there was a hazy awareness of just how much of his emotional state would be transmitted to all three of his Bondmates, this mess of spite and fury and increasing pain. Emet-Selch does nothing to keep it from them, because he never did. Mikasa- well. He imagined she'd be confused more than particularly concerned at this. But he's certain Irhya would defend him; she'd helped rescue him before, cold and fierce and ruthless. Vague as those memories were, he remembered that much. And Mettaton... he knew exactly how possessive he was, how protective. The moment Lahabrea had begun his attack, the puca would have been on him in a flash of feral madness. There would have been no stopping him, and no desire to.

But neither of them were here. No one would be able to reach him in time.

...Yet there was one Warrior of Light, of a sort, directly on hand. Though when Elidibus rises, circling behind him where he can't see his position, Emet-Selch's first reaction is one of dread; that despite his words, this was the beginning of some sort of dual attack on him, an outright siding with the dragon. Later on, he'd realize the importance of ensuring that Elidibus never left Lahabrea's field of vision, that placating the monster took precedence over the reassurance of the witch. But it unsettled. And it was hard to tell what effect it was even having on Lahabrea, whether the Emissary's words would be able to pierce a decision already made. But the dragon pauses, stills, apart from something like a twitch- rather than continuing his attack, and Emet-Selch feels almost impatient, willing him to do his worst, and refusing to feel fear.

--But then Lahabrea lets go, pulls free of him, stalks aside with a clang of steel, a drag of chain, and lash of feathery tail. With the pressure and hold removed from his body, Emet-Selch immediately pushes himself into a sitting position, scrambling a short distance back from him with kicks of legs, putting more distance between them (as though an extra body's length would accomplish anything, should Lahabrea choose to close it again). Clutching his better arm across his midsection protectively, he fixes the other Ascian with a glare of mixed wariness and defiance, as he tries to catch his breath now that he has more space for it. There would be bruises for sure, and he could feel the pain of skin punctured by brutal claw. Blood stickied the dark fabric, though he knew not all of it was his own, the rest having dripped there from Lahabrea.

It was worth further recompense, of that much he was certain. And part of him wanted to use this opportunity for a preemptive attack, to press an advantage while he had one. But he hesitates, bites it back; clutches his wounded torso as he struggles to get his own temper under some kind of grip. Elidibus... was right, after all, on at least some accounts. They were still Ascians, despite it all. Lahabrea had no control over what he had become (even if he'd had every control on this attack of him). Even if Emet-Selch still felt eminently justified in mounting his own defense--

No. If Lahabrea was capable of reigning himself in, draconic instincts and eons of existing madness all, then he would certainly not be the one to press an assault now.

Taking a breath to speak, he hesitates again, then bites that back as well. Words were what had gotten him into this mess, and more words, made only of spite, would just fan the flames that had barely begun even thinking of settling. He could metaphorically lick his wounds for the moment, and hope Elidibus had better luck continuing to settle Lahabrea down.

[notbert]

Under the mask, Elidibus' eye twitches as the bear trap snaps. He doesn't feel it. Their Bond isn't that deep. But with blood drawn and the teeth of the trap digging into Lahabrea's leg, it must certainly cause discomfort for the dragon. It is still regarded as secondary. Bodies can be mended, the trap can be removed. The important part was to see if his words had any impact.

The show of teeth and inhuman noise lets Elidibus know his briefly proffered hand is unwelcome. And that this is the place he would pause before speaking. He had not meant offense, nor offered it because he thought Lahabrea was acting upon feral instincts. He knew this was different. But there is no room to really explain.

The Emissary keeps his bare hand hidden in his sleeve, switching his attention between Lahabrea and Emet-Selch as they separate. It is with no small relief that they choose moments of silence, for the most part. The Speaker has something to say, after all. First, Elidibus turns his attention to Lahabrea.

"I believe we were in agreement before, regarding due preparation, but otherwise maintaining your role until we are certain you would become nothing more than a beast." Though a general statement, there is a subtle lilt of query to the end. "I have no more interest now than I did then in your abdication before your time." Why else did they attempt the Bond, but to keep Lahabrea from succumbing?

Elidibus moves, setting himself in a place at a halfway point between the two. He looks at Emet-Selch. "I doubt not one of us are disgusted with the body this Star has seen fit to afflict upon Lahabrea. " He, Emet-Selch and Lahabrea. "But it is a matter of fact, currently. And I hope you and Lahabrea may speak to one another and come to an understanding," maybe apologies where they're needed. But that is asking a lot from most Ascians at the best of times. "That we may turn our collective experience on the matter of ensuring no one of us is lost through neglect. Or repudiation."

He doesn't offer to depart so they may talk in private. If they don't suggest it, he's not going to risk leaving the two alone in the same room. Elidibus does, however, address the matter of the bear trap. "Would you like me to remove that for you, Lahabrea?" Of course it's a serious offer. And yes, he probably does realize the Ascian is more than capable of handling it himself one way or another.

[fuelingfire]

How much is it for the best that neither of them quite seem to realize that none of it had been the dragon's instincts demanding retaliation? ... Probably strongly a good thing. Lahabrea was a prideful and arrogant creature on his own. That the dragon's instincts tend to drive towards wanting a secure position in its dragonflight, wanting a safe lair and warm bodies to share it with and defend it alongside ... well, they don't need to know that either. The Coven warned strongly and constantly against resisting the monster's instincts, and that doing so could drive one into terrible bouts of temper and rage or outright ferality as the dragon sought its outlet and he was perfectly content to ignore that. He'd gone this long without such things, without it and more - he would not begin now. The beast inclined towards reconciliation, because there was security in numbers and comfort in the pack ... he did not. If one could not stand alone, one did not deserve to be standing.

It's easy to simply slot his behavior into yet another aggressive, territorial dragon, enhancing the problems he'd had for centuries upon centuries through compatable natures turning a fire into a conflagration of unpredictability.

If he resisted less, if he let the dragon have its way.

None of this would be happening.

But now there's blood on the floor and souring the air, and Lahabrea's gone deathly still again save the barest of quivers through the trapped talons still patiently adding to the slowly expanding puddle of crimson. The assault isn't renewed - with distance comes Emet-Selch's clear upper hand, Lahabrea wouldn't be able to close on him again without meeting a wall of spears or ice or worse, and he lacked the breath weaponry or shapeshifting other dragons enjoyed to balance out the danger. If he COULD get close he could do tremendous damage, but kept at a distance..? And with Elidibus certain to interfere to save his injured contemporary, against what is so obviously simply a beast in civilized clothing..

Dragonblood had its own power, and that trap is a tiny bit more durable than it had been before it bit deep. As was anywhere it touched on Emet-Selch. The trap is ignored. It's painful, but not distractingly so if he ignored it.

... Not yet it wasn't, but it would be if he focused on it too long, so he doesn't. So determined is he to not make it worse and show further weakness that the issue of the trap is simply waved off as if it were nothing. He's still standing, it can't be that bad. Even if it is. But it can't be, so it can be disregarded. Emet-Selch says nothing, but it's on him that Lahabrea's gaze remains as Elidibus speaks, still expecting the lash of derision for having been so weak as to become such a thing as a monster at all. A revolting creature, certainly; he can't disagree with that (misheard) assessment - why this world thought it a rare and precious thing he didn't understand and didn't care to. And now assaulting their own kind, which should be a firmly ingrained taboo even after all these millenia..

What would they have done, had one of the beasts of the Source dared raise its claws against even the Sundered? There was no understanding to be reached here. It was over. It was over as soon as feathers grew from his skin, and unless they suddenly had their power stripped .. a second time .. and had it replaced with naught but a future of animalistic violence to look forward to, that's how it would stay.

"Long ago, when horses were still an experimental idea, I found it useful to forge the stallions and lead mares with fractious and combative temperaments, for the plains they were designed to inhabit were full of swift and clever predators, and I wished them to be able to protect their herds from what they could not outrun and thus, thrive." What. did any of this have to do with anything at all? "They were not by their design meant to be held at the hands of man as pet or friend or workmate, but in short order that was how things went. Some racing the plains, others content to bow to the hands of those who held them. Save the lead mares and their stallions, who rejected out of hand anything that was not their herd and would lash out with hoof and teeth whenever the opportunity arose, for those reaching hands were outsiders, not of the herd and not to be trusted."

He still hasn't actually moved, beyond words and speech, and that had gone badly not long ago. Slowly, carefully, his stance changes, tail draped along the floor in a long bright coil. Though shoulders hunch slightly, the masked and hooded head bows slightly, gaze tracing the floor instead.

Understanding.

What was the point? "But they relied on scent to identify what exactly their herd was, and that scent could be blended, with a little care and effort, with those who had an interest in handling those difficult horses. With a little time, the stallions and lead mares could no longer distinguish the differences between the scent of their herd and the scent of the men who wished to keep them, and so the men became the herd, to be trusted as any other horse and to even accept these new parts of their herd as the replacement for their own lead mares and stallions, and submit to new authority. The best way to accomplish that was simply to ask for the robes that had been worn most recently, before they could be discorporated or stripped for their aether for some other project, and leave them with the troublesome horses until there was no clear distinction between the odor of original herd and the new one. Strangely enough, it proved effective later similarly with wolves, coeurls and bandersnatches."

He'd asked them to bring some article of clothing, unwashed--

[unsundered]

Moments tick by, one after another, each longer than any second had any right to last.

Caution remains (his limited gaze barely flicks to Elidibus as he speaks, remaining otherwise on Lahabrea), but his breath gradually stabilizes, and while his pulse remains elevated, it's not with the same degree of alarm, of having every sense primed for aggression. On his place at the floor, Emet-Selch is nearly as still as the dragon, listening to the Emissary's more reasoned approach to this... situation. A situation that extended for more than this specific incident.

While he could argue to himself that it had not only been self-defense, that Lahabrea had chosen the option of injuring himself- it was truly no different in the end from an attack that would harm directly, instantly. And that Emet-Selch had, in some way, wanted the other man to make that inevitable 'choice', wanted him to be hurt in repayment for the insult of restraining him. But it shouldn't have gotten to that point in the first place, and as he slowly collected himself, it was harder to miss one, specific reason that it had.

Emet-Selch knew the damage words could bring, where honesty was a tool to harm, not to enlighten. But wasn't that an Ascian's way, to sow discord amongst the lesser races, incite them with carefully chosen truths so that they'd turn on one another, again and again? But hadn't he also learned, after the experience of his death how- futile, how pointless it had been, that he had no cause to keep resorting to that behavior? And there should have especially been no need to use those old methods on his own kind, no matter how much his pride whispered to him that he was justified.

He'd torn apart- or tried to- several relationships on this strange star using the same, reflexive methods. And where words did not suffice, violence filled the gap, the only way he ultimately knew how to solve anything (When he'd caught Mettaton attempting to return to his mirror- if not to depart, it turned out- his impulse had been to tear him apart in order to stop him. He hadn't, in the end, though he had attacked, had damaged him. But he'd realized once more then that there was something... wrong, with always giving in to impulses that so leaned destructive. How worse it often made everything. Yet how difficult it was to stop.). It may have been the practice and habits of the years, but what excuse was that? Was he so beholden, helpless to indulge traits he no longer wanted? No longer needed? It had been careless to think he had changed so easily, so readily, just by being aware of the problem.

As Lahabrea was certainly... inciting. Inciting at the best of times, and while he was dealing with... all of everything that came with being stripped of magic and made to turn into a reptile- probably not in the most stable of minds. Even if his words hadn't warranted an attack, Emet-Selch felt, bristling at the memory of undesired helplessness (the last time he'd been caught like that, he'd been tortured, half-blinded, scarred, and nearly killed; it wasn't... the best of associations to hit upon, that lack of control), they weren't exactly the wisest thing to say. And there should have been ways to restrain Lahabrea that didn't involve satisfying his own want to penalize him for the assault he'd provoked. There should have been ways to indicate his own offense without needling Lahabrea on an aspect he knew was a painful one, and one that he had no control over.

(It was a situation they'd both made worse. How frustrating, to not be entirely justified.)

When Lahabrea speaks, his topic is... unexpected, and a frown crosses the Ascian's expression, if one of confusion. But the dragon's manner had also changed, had become less- threatening. And it didn't at all feel like an attempt to lure him into false security (and for that matter, it would be harder for the Speaker to close the distance between them again, with his foot so captured; there was a safety there, if one that he wasn't entirely pleased with wanting).

A story of horses, of training, of the way, at least some animals, recognized an in-group versus outsiders. And Emet-Selch knew of the importance scent held for many (if not all) of the monster types here. It was a point of fondness, even, an association positive (his puca certainly marked him frequently with scent, something that he'd come to find reassuring). And there was something hypocritical, contradictory, in accepting other monsters without scorn, while reserving it towards an Ascian. There shouldn't have to be shame in this transformation. He'd used it as a point of verbal attack mostly because he knew it would be effective.

So he doesn't tell Lahabrea to hurry up, or to get to the point. Gradually he settles down, his posture less defensive, less in assumption of attack. It's a process by degrees, and as he watches Lahabrea's gaze seem to turn towards the floor, it was- not hard to find the connection between this story and the strange request he'd made of his unsundered brethren. "So you feel this method might...." Emet-Selch's words are slow, carefully neutral, as he glances deliberately aside to where he'd left the shirt he'd brought, where Elidibus' also lay. With his limited sight, he had no way of keeping an eye on Lahabrea with his attention turned elsewhere. "--Have a similar effect on yourself, perhaps."

[notbert]

Elidibus knew Lahabrea was not acting with feral instinct. He did not know whether this was Lahabrea the Ascian in its entirety... or if it was the Lahabrea the Speaker is becoming. And while that remains a debate, it is ever better to remain silent on the matter, lest it be made worse. Whether it would be false assumption or truth come to light. There will be no censure for this, that much is at least certain.

Yet he did also take into consideration that a Lahabrea turning into a dragon, while in an act of aggression, might well slip into an instinct while in the middle of his lair. Thus is care in approach.

Elidibus had also spied the explanation for for their offerings. The pragmatic side certainly had value. But there was more about it too. Something that causes the Emissary to tilt his head to one side, then look toward Emet-Selch and Lahabrea before seeming to relax a bit.

He was not the only one who wanted it. This place of belonging and the company of their own. In particular, the two others he is with. There was no need to remark upon it. Conversation between Emet-Selch and Lahabrea right now should be the most encouraged. And as long as they are slowly calming and something more important doesn't come up, there is no reason to cause distraction simply to acknowledge understanding.

But there is more to the story beyond an overly detailed explanation of why Lahabrea had asked for their unwashed clothes or wanting a place to belong. When Lahabrea continues to address the results. That the addition to the herd was a success. That man had taken the place of lead stallion and mare, who had in turn submitted. This matter gives Elidibus a bit more self reflection as well.

His own actions had been out of character and not because of his Bond to Lahabrea in any way. He had stepped up to a more direct role when the last of his fellow Unsundered fell. Alone and unable to call on support from someone he could trust to handle it, and living with the knowledge that he had sorely underestimated the Warrior of Light and essentially caused their demise because of his error. Or so he believed.

When he arrived in Aefenglom and found both present, it had only caused a desire to see the Warrior of Light- now oft called Warrior of Darkness- to become amplified. Elidibus now wanted to be sure neither were to leave a second time. To say he had been cruel about it was a gross understatement. Elidibus had taken time to make observation, certainly. But then he had made demands. Given orders. Had not given due care to listen to the voice and opinion of his peers as was the Ascian way. Their way.

Moreover, he had not truly been performing his duty the way it was meant to be. It was still correct to consider that he could no longer simply step back to his own observations and periodic interferences and leave the others to their 'lives' in this prison of a Star. To seriously weigh that none of them could afford to perform with full autonomy and be capable of remaining connected.

"I have made an error." In the strange tension and quiet air after whatever response Lahabrea gave Emet-Selch regarding the clothing and scents, the Emissary murmured these words. There was a short pause then, as if Elidibus makes sure the two are focused on him and the statement he just made. How could they not?

"As long as you are Emet-Selch." A look is given to the Architect, "As long as you are Lahabrea." Once more Elidibus regards the Speaker. "And I am Elidibus," the Emissary raises his gloved hand to rest against his chest. "We are equals. And should ever be treated as such by one another." None of them had truly resigned their titles. Elidibus was his title. Emet-Selch still used his. And Lahabrea.... Lahabrea had the Emissary's opinion on that matter already.

If they fail and Lahabrea becomes no more than a feral beast, that would change, just as if Elidibus had made this statement as part of the agreement he had made when the Speaker had tried to resign his post during their first real conversation. It may not change the Ascian's intentions to drag Lahabrea to Zodiark if he has to and get him changed back. But that is an entirely different matter.

[fuelingfire]

"It isn't an unreasonable assumption, though I have no actual evidence yet." The dragon had its own ways of doing things, and its insistance the best way to handle this, faced with superior opponents even in his own den, was to submit, bide its time and retaliate later ... but this, like everything else save a small precious hoard, is inevitably completely ignored. But it is a thought. If he were becoming a mere monster, then why should he still demand the respect due a station he no longer deserved? "There are ... some similarities between what I have observed and what I had written into my own creations to suspect it might have at least been worth an attempt. That fight some weeks ago over the city between two dragons; they considered each other friends and it did not stop either of them."

So he'd thought to step beyond that; if the dragon's instincts insisted on a pack or flock or whatever, then he could at least abuse those drives for his own ends. It was unlikely either one would ever be interested in the tiny collection of jewels and precious metals he'd acquired, so that inviolate single issue shouldn't be a problem.. but apparently ferality in general was still a risk. The cwyld's infection also still a risk, and its inevitable desent into utter madness.

It's harder to ignore the trap with the adrenaline high beginning to ebb.

No sudden attack comes again with Emet-Selch's one good eye turned away, but there's definitely an instant change in Lahabrea's demeanor, a touch of a perk-up before he shifts in a rattle of chain to balance on one foot, braced with his tail as a convenient extra limb and immediately start working on getting his claws around the edge of the trap. There at least he has a full compliment of durable scales, and the edges don't get through much, but it's going to take a bit of effort to free himself simply from the incredibly awkward angle required. He had the strength to do it, but blood makes metal slippery and getting a grip isn't easy and he's going to keep at it; now that he's acknowledged the damn thing, pain and injury have decided to reassert themselves as important and needful things he should focus on.

Lahabrea did in fact have Elidibus' opinion on the matter already, which might be the precise cause of the low sound he makes, almost but not quite disgust. It isn't, really, but it's close - he had some serious and fundamental disagreements, which he had outlined in detail already.

But there hadn't been a third there at the time and he's reluctant to bare that particular train of thought a second time for Emet-Selch's perusal. "I suspect ... it is foolish to attempt to pretend nothing has changed." So much has. Lifetimes of lessons, lifetimes of changes - and how long has it been, really, since Lahabrea was their equal at all? That had slipped by the sidelines long ago, as he blazed a path of self-destruction across star after star. "Or that we stand unified on anything save our final goal."

.. And even that's gone awry, though he doesn't know it. "Once, the strength of the Convocation, of all our people was our ability to cooperate, to unify to accomplish the impossible in the face of the inevitable. I wonder when that unity died and withered away, forgotten in the dark and lonely places between moments and stars."

It doesn't sound like an accusation, at least, not against the other two in the room. It just sounds like dull and distant pain ... which may be the truth of the matter, or the result of the trap.

[unsundered]

Elidibus' first comment gets a sideways glance (though with the mask, it'd be somewhat difficult to tell- though Emet-Selch has to tilt his head a bit more than he would otherwise, because of his faulty eye), curious, and a touch surprised as to what he might mean by it. The Emissary was ever the keeper of his own thoughts- but who among them was not entitled to a revelation or two?

But with his attention duly gathered, he nods once at Elidibus' following statements. It was something that should have been obvious, but it was an important reminder to have. For some more than others, perhaps. When Lahabrea had first suggested to him the thought that he should have to be put down eventually, and a replacement for his role found, Emet-Selch had essentially refused. In retrospect, his response, manner facile, hadn't exactly been the most politic, and Lahabrea's ire was understandable. In truth, it hadn't actually been the Architect's intention to mock or offend at that point, but to demonstrate his belief that Lahabrea could handle whatever draconic changes the city threw at him, without losing himself (any further than he already had) in the process. It hadn't quite worked, and the Speaker's response, ordering him out of his house, had only roused his own irritation, which had lingered, undealt with.

And perhaps it would have remained, their resentments, if not for Elidibus. But then, one didn't get to be Emissary without being good at this sort of thing, Emet-Selch mused, and that much, despite all else, remained true.

Lahabrea's confirmation of his statement about the intent for those used clothes gets a quiet, thoughtful sound. It spoke of forethought, of using instinct to their advantage. And who knows, perhaps it would work; even the most well-managed monster could have bouts of feral behavior if the world was determined to make it so. If they, at least, would be viewed as something of Lahabrea's, it could at least help to protect them from him in future. "I see... there's no harm in the attempt, in any case."

Though it wouldn't necessarily have prevented what had just occurred from happening, so it wasn't an excuse not to manage his own temper better. The result of that still lay around them: Lahabrea shifting awkwardly on one foot that still had a literal trap snapped shut on it, while trying to work it free, with Emet-Selch silently hoping he hadn't actually lamed him; dragons were sturdier than that, weren't they? The table and its set snacks were in disarray, Elidibus' sampling had been interrupted, and the bomb was off doing Zodiark-knows-what, unwatched. Hopefully not setting anything important on fire.

Lahabrea continues, despite the growing obviousness of discomfort, and Emet-Selch listens. That they weren't aligned even on their final goal- the Ascian's manner doesn't waver, though he sighs internally that even this one trait that should've been inviolate- wasn't. It wasn't as though he regretted the Rejoinings they had already accomplished, the mortal lives they had taken. And he still loved Zodiark, for all that he wasn't beholden to Him in the same way, and despised Hydaelyn more than any other. But it wasn't the same, because nothing was the same.

When had everything changed? When had their fabled cooperation been lost? They were thoughts with no comfortable answer. Shifting slowly forward- movements of general heaviness and unending exhaustion, rather than ones of hesitation, Emet-Selch scoots himself back to his abandoned cushion, rather than remaining half-huddled on the bare floor. The dark of his robes at least hid the blood; black was a convenient color. His voice reflects that fatigue, one that was ever more of spirit than body.

"From the moment our Convocation dwindled to three. Or before then, when our people stood divided, in the wake of our scarcely diverted destruction." Yet even Elidibus' miraculous return to them had failed to heal the rift that had developed in their people, a difference of view that could not be bridged. And so Hydaelyn had been born, and their god broken.

He remembered those first moments in the new, sundered world. When it had just barely begun to sink in what Hydaelyn had done to the star, to Zodiark, to their loved ones, to everything that lived. Only the three of them, somehow, had escaped unscathed. The only ones able to remember the truth, the only ones who could bear witness to those horrors the sundered peoples wrought on one another in their ignorance. They had come together then, to decide what to do- but what choice had they, but one? Emet-Selch could remember his own words with uncomfortable clarity, his grief and anger a chain that would drag him down to the very end. 'Gone is the brilliant radiance of life, replaced by the sickly glow of malformed creatures. Is this to be how it ends? For we who loved the star with all our being? No. I will not suffer it to be so.'

They had been unified then, but what a terrible unity it had been, and how useless the suffering they had inflicted and endured. No... that true unity, the one they had so long ago lost, had been what they had in that peaceful time before the faintest whisper of the Final Days had reached their shores. When they had each still been themselves. It was foolish to think he could have any trace of that here, considering how much had changed. But this was the only chance he would have; this was the only place where the three of them yet lived, even if they were all but shells of what they had once been. Even if they weren't all on the same path. It was absurd- especially when he still felt the sting of claws where they had pierced, when Lahabrea still had metal embedded within his ankle- but what other chance was there, than this?

(His downfall had ever been sentimentality.)

"More has changed than whatever this world has chosen to inflict on us. Perhaps we worked too long in isolation." Occasionally they utilized one sundered or another for a task, but how often had the three of them been together as the years had passed? Lahabrea left to his recklessness, Elidibus to his oversight, and himself to his apathy and sleep. Igeyorhm had at least accompanied Lahabrea at times... but none of the sundered could ever be as consistent of a presence. And now, when there was ever more need for their cooperation, they had fallen into conflict.

('I will not suffer it to be so.' Could that stubbornness ever be utilized for something better than spite or despair?)

[notbert]

Fragments of Amaurot remain in Elidibus' memory. Those of which Emet-Selch speaks are amongst them. What Lahabrea brings up is.... mostly a knowledge to the Ascian, instead of distinct examples. What remains of those days are tiny pieces. A phrase from his inauguration. A moment's teasing by co-workers. A hint bordering on faith that things had been better before the Final Days began.

"Though it has ever been my role to sometimes act against my brothers, would it not be best to consider it too become tainted by our growing isolation?" Elidibus murmurs. It may be rhetoric to himself. But perhaps it is said to all of them. Just because he had fewer memories of the past and a duty to act independently did not make the Emissary exempt from all blame.

Lahabrea's struggle with the trap becomes obvious. Elidibus steps toward him, "Allow me to draw the release down for you." This is given in a tone that suggests an offer, rather than order. He will help the dragon if not warned off. It would be eminently practical to expedite the procedure, wouldn't it? And muted as it might be, he can sense the pain increasing. Perhaps this too drives him to act, however subconsciously. Releasing the trap was a matter of its weight and tedious presence. Not about preserving the mortal host, right?

And they spoke aloud what the white-robed Ascian had thought. Then Emet-Selch had been the first of them to return to the seating and it had given him a brief moment to hope. Elidibus would be next and as he circled the table, back turned to the two, the Ascian took out his glove and put it on again before settling on his cushion.

If he had been allowed to help with the trap there may be blood that is ignored, regardless of the boosting sensation it gives.

He waited quietly, not returning to his food and ignoring the table. It wasn't with expectation that he watched Lahabrea. He would do no discourtesy to his fellow Ascian's choice. He merely seeks to witness what it is.

And perhaps deep down, dared to hope.

[fuelingfire]

"Would that the work did not require hands on multiple stars to see it finished, that might have not been a necessity." Hardly useless suffering, with the ongoing (presumed) goal of seeing it all undone. Problematic in the short term, but in the long term - oh, to see the star whole again made the price more than reasonable. Certainly Lahabrea had no worries about paying it, up to and including a final cost of his own life if necessary, for it would be no less than what millions had done before him, without hesitation. How could he do no less? And to see them returned .. would make it all worthwhile. Even if touched by the echo of these strange, fleeting mortal lives, the irrevocable mark of thousands of years of malformed lives ... there would certainly be a reckoning, for even their own God loved life and found it precious, but it was, in the end, for the greater good.

Nothing's going to ever be able to dislodge that certainty short of a command handed down by Zodiark Himself, and since that isn't likely to happen any time soon, if ever, it continues. Surely it's still shared between them, that one unifying beacon. Surely. Surely.

There's a sharp glance at the offer for help with the damn trap; accepting help would be admitting he can't manage it on his own and he absolutely COULD, in time, with enough effort -- but Elidibus already knows that weakness, and can likely feel it. Accursed bonds, it would undermine his efforts in the future, he's certain of it. "...Very well," he says eventually, as if granting the Emissary some boon instead of seeking aid. THEY had stood united against the idiocy that was the idea of Hydaelyn, but in truth the Convocation had been broken even before Zodiark, hadn't it been?

Azem did not deserve consideration for long and his mind abandons the thought before it can continue long, in favor of the trap - easier by far to remove with some assistance - and trying to keep a precarious balance. He'd have fallen over by now had he remained in the exact form he'd arrived in, an ordinary and uninteresting hyur. If he leans briefly against Elidibus in such an effort to get rid of the thing, surely it's just a balance issue and nothing more. It's mixed bright agony and relief to finally have his foot freed, and at some point he would likely have to see about finding himself a bandage or a healer or just cauterize the wounds shut if he figured out how to, but for now...

For now he pretends it doesn't bother him at all. It's a pointless effort, there's no way it wouldn't and they're both already going to be aware of that, but certain things had long since become ingrained before now, and he's not letting go of it that easily, and he's quite good at pretending even when it's obvious he's doing so. As Elidibus seeks to regain a seat, Lahabrea considers for a time.

Emet-Selch had already claimed one again. Would they, could they simply resume where they had left off before he'd decided his best possible option was to turn the Architect inside out? He hadn't succeeded in that, either.

Hadn't succeeded at much at all, lately.

Eventually, with a grace born of careful precision, the dragon flicks one of the unbloodied cushions a bit closer and settles upon it in a slow coil, tucking up under those all-obscuring dark robes again. Tail, battered limb, scaled hands folded into his sleeves, neat and precise. The blood trail remains, the stink of mayhem and adrenaline lingers, but aside from a trap and the spotting of crimson on white now that Elidibus has interfered, one might be inclined to think nothing had happened at all.

Silence, for a long, long ten or fifteen seconds.

"...."

A handful more.

"WHY in the name of Zodiark did this wretched world decide on LIGHTNING??" On the bright side he manages to strangle it down to a muted shriek of fury; the neighbors aren't about to hear. "First it denies me my power, then my species, then it denies me mine own practiced and favored element! What am I supposed to do with lightning??"

Oh he can, it's certain, think of plenty of possibilities, they're just not the ones he'd had in mind.