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By the time the first smaller cluster of vispirii managed to make it around the first khehora and come at them behind, Detraeus had managed to steady his pulse at least enough to think, and when the little one — ayrala, apparently — made use of his magic to stall them up, Detra didn’t waste time hoping that the larger one would turn and notice in time. As soon as the force of his miniature wind gust slowed, Detra sliced out at the first one to sweep in close enough to be hit. Unfortunately, their exoskeletons were apparently not so easily damaged as the gaili khehora’s magic might have made them look.

Their glittering, armor plated abdomens — which cracked like egg shells under the spikes of violent earth — only made a dull scraping, clacking noise when the worn edge of Detra’s knife skidded uselessly across it: like trying to stab a stone. Worse still, attacking it did, of course, draw its full attention, and Detraeus scrambled as it jabbed at him, snarling when it brought in its sharp, insectile legs in an attempt to grab him instead. Thankfully though, he soon found that its legs were thin and fairly brittle in comparison to its armored body, and focused the attention of his knife there with far more success.

Finally, finally the noise seemed to be dying down.

The gaili khehora fought impressively, slamming and cracking through more bodies than Detra could count, and though it had seemed virtually unimaginable at first, the horde looked — more or less — defeated. A few insectile bodies twitched every so often, stray legs or wings giving a post-mortem jerk as though their measly souls, if they had any, were still lingering briefly in their mangled shells before giving up and petering out.

Detraeus surveyed the damage. The broken exoskeletons, seeping ooze, and strange, semi-translucent wings torn and bent, the entire scene covered in jutting spikes of earth and dust. Then, as though triggered by the drop in danger level, his stomach growled again, giving him a sharp stab of pain to remind him what he had been doing — or trying to do, anyway — before the khehoras had showed up.

He frowned, thinking back on the elder khehora’s words. Poison himself. That’s what he’d been about to do. He rubbed his throat, and glanced to the two creatures he’d shared this ‘experience’ with. What had they been doing coming up to see him in the first place? And what of their bonded? Were these free khehora? What would they want with him now that the fighting seemed to be over? Should he run…?

They hadn’t seemed aggressive before, and had protected him, to some extent. But Detraeus wasn’t ready to take any extra, unnecessary risks at the moment. Then again, the older one had known about the poison. Perhaps it also knew where he could find food?

No matter how he tried, however, Detraeus couldn't convince his tongue to ask.

Detraeus eyed the youngling — Carrion, it had introduced itself as — and watched it carefully as it approached, belly to the earth. To his personal surprise, he found himself — well, not precisely relaxed, but certainly no longer so wary as he’d once been. Something about having considered himself dead for sure not so long ago and facing up against a hive-swarm of vispirii made the little khehora seem less of an issue by comparison.

Rubbing his own shoulder where he’d been yanked out of the mouth of the cave, he nodded in answer to its question. His attention, however, kept flicking back to the larger one — its Magescian-esque form and bleeding shoulder in particular. The body confused him most. Was he some kind of hybrid between khehoras and a Magescian race? What allowed him to assume that shape? He still maintained some khehora features, but overall, the look made Detraeus wary, and he considered that perhaps it was time he got out of their way, regardless.

This in mind, he fastened his weapon back at his hip and stood. No sooner had he turned, though, than he saw yet another dark shape blotting out the light of the sun as it emerged over the cliff face. Not an insect, no. Much larger. Detraeus felt his gut knot even as his pulse picked back up. Today, clearly, was not meant to favor him.

Detraeus paused at the mention of hunting spots. No, not only hunting spots, but food. Later. Obviously they currently had a good bit more important, immediate dangers to worry about. That in mind, he cooperatively tucked himself behind the protective span of the large gaili’s wings, his attention rooted on the approaching dragon.

Detraeus had yet to build up much personal experience with dragons himself. Point blank, he had yet to fight so much as a measly ysali, and so going head to head with something that could probably fit a hundred of him in its belly was more than a trifle intimidating. Its scaled body was dark, cracked like the earth itself, and reamed with deep scars of battles past — clearly aged beyond the years of most — and when it closed in on them, Detraeus could see its nostrils flare and gargantuan wings pull in closer to its body as it prepared to dive.

Staying well behind his unasked for protector seemed by far to be the best of all possible courses of action. Perhaps afterwards, if he lived, he could drill the littler one about the aforementioned food.

Detraeus made himself as small as possible, well beyond trying to ‘aid’ in the fight. He knew that his greatest chance of survival was to stay out of the way and let the experienced khehora take care of the dangers for him. If the situation proved too much to handle and the khehora fell victim to the dragon’s claws…

Well, Detraeus would tackle that hurdle if or when it came. He did watch, however, peeking out from his curled position with narrowed eyes, taking in the way the khehora’s body moved as it manipulated the earth, grappled and fought with the dragon. The smaller one must have been out of its mind. Did it want to die? Or was it already so full of pride as to think it could take on the creatures its father could?

Whatever the case, Detraeus was not about to join in its foolery, and he kept himself small and out of the way until, at long last, there was quiet again. Only then did he dare push himself up slightly, and turn his attention to the next question: ought he run? Or could these khehora truly take him to food as promised? Under better circumstances, Detraeus would not have taken the risk in trusting them and lingering any longer than absolutely necessary. But currently he knew that if he did not eat soon, even the miracle of surviving all this would be wasted: he would starve.

Thus, he stayed. Hesitant and still wary, his attention flicked back and forth between his company as he waited for a sign from one or the other on how they intended for things to proceed from here.

Detraeus stared, wide-eyed and unmoving other than to take a single step back and out of the way as the little ayrala came careening towards him, and only watched with incredulity as it lay there. Evidently, it had had a death wish. What in Soudana’s name had it been expecting? Foolish little thing. It could hardly be much stronger than Detraeus himself; how did it see itself as a contender against such a massive dragon? Of course, watching the orakoir be slung about like a battered sack of meat did nothing to calm his nerves, and even after the dragon finally disintegrated, Detraeus watched Samael’s approach with narrowed, wary eyes, his pulse beating hard and fast in the cage of his chest.

After the large khehora finished shaking the smaller one — still alive, apparently, by some miracle of the goddess — he turned his attention to Detraeus, and Detra tilted his head at the question. Eventually, he gave a single, wordless nod in answer, though he couldn’t begin to guess why the khehora cared to ask. What was Detraeus to him?

Attention flitting back briefly to the small, mewling ball of half-unconscious orakoir, Detraeus had to admit one thing: the little creature had spirit. Stupid, dangerous enthusiasm. It was a wonder it had managed to live this long.

Then, his stomach roiled, sending a pang through his gut powerful enough to make him dizzy, and Detraeus winced, touching his stomach before he could curb the instinct.

Detraeus’ eyelids pinched closer together, watching him warily. He didn’t want to come any nearer than absolutely necessary, but the persistent gnawing of his stomach reminded him that he also couldn’t ignore that eternally. So, he held his distance but did not retreat any further. He would let the khehora decide what to do. Follow it, maybe, if it seemed to be going somewhere with food, as it promised, and if he managed to get any of the meat spoken of, he could make the fire necessary to eat it himself.

Admittedly, if it turned on him at this point there was little he could do regardless, so there wasn’t much to lose. After letting the large beast make up its own mind, Detraeus trailed it, still cautious, but too hungry to risk letting it out of sight, and blessedly, meat did eventually come. By the time it did, he was too hungry to worry if it poisoned him, to weak limbed to find anything else, and too exhausted to put up any sort of struggle. He fit what he could into his mouth, downed everything his stomach could hold, and fell asleep as young things were tend to do.

The khehora, due to whatever strange habits or mentalities it entertained, let him have more meat than he could eat in that sitting, of a dried, portable sort. It was better than most of what Detraeus had managed on, and he kept it with him, treasuring every piece and guarding each bite jealously when he continued along his way.

Khehora, he decided, were a better breed than any two-legger not born of Soudana.