Welcome to Gaia! ::

Detraeus breathed out, shutting his eyes as Araceli’s weight lifted off of him. His next instinct, he knew, would have been to shove her off himself, and why he had even hesitated in that venture, he wasn’t entirely sure, but thankfully, she’d been quick about moving it, saving him the effort. As soon as the dragon roared, however, his tension — though, admittedly, of an entirely different sort — leapt back up, and he rolled sidelong, out from under the flame.

Gusts of heat rippled over the cavern floor, fire driven aside by wind, but still hot enough to fill the room with its wake. The slow burn of it seeped through the thick leather of his boots, through his tunic, and the protective hide of his gloves to make beads of perspiration build up beneath his clothes. Detraeus reached back, and drew an arrow as Ara fought, keeping it stringed tight and taking a step back, out of their way.

But the arrow was, apparently, never needed. Instead, he watched with focussed attention as the dovaa at his side buried the dragon’s own magic within it, burning it from the inside out and giving it more air than its lungs could carry before it burst into dust before them. In the aftermath, he tossed her a glance. Curious. Calculative.

She was more than he’d originally taken her for, and with that in mind, he lowered his bow slowly, tucked his arrow back away, and stepped up beside her to fetch his half of the prize.

Detraeus blinked, startled into a momentary state of no-reaction by the offer. His attention then caught, though, on her lips, and her smile, and he felt his pulse stutter in his throat. His brow pinched. She had drank from the canteen first, and although his instinct said to distrust it, something in his gut told him otherwise. He was thirsty. Thus, hesitantly, he reached out, gripping the flask and drawing it to him. He smelled it before he drew it to his lips, and took only a tiny portion on his tongue at first, testing it before he drank more. He supposed there were still dangers, overall, but in this moment, he let them slide by the wayside, drinking because he was thirsty and because Araceli was smiling.

After sating his thirst — and, thankfully, feeling no immediate adverse side effects — Detraeus offered the flask back to her with a murmured, “Thank you…” barely loud enough to be audible, and started towards the next tunnel. Upon making his way most of the way through it, he sighed, pursing his lips as he spotted the next dragon, and slouched his weight sidelong, propping a shoulder against the tunnel’s edge.

“Come quick, Araceli,” he muttered boredly. “I’m sure we’re both in grave danger…”

At the giggle, Detraeus’ attention darted sidelong, a strange flicker of warmth teasing his gut at the sound, and he felt the corner of his lips threaten to twitch upwards. He coughed instead, mouth flicking oddly but not quite making it into a proper smile. When Ara took care of the dragon as easily as kicking aside a bothersome insect, he choked around a half-bred chuckle, and hummed before stepping into the room.

“Terribly ferocious,” he agreed. “I’m scarred for life…”

Thinking of the very real scars marking his body — particularly the glowing etchings of old orderite magic that would never, apparently, fade — Detraeus’ temporary mirth faded in a wink, and he grimaced privately, stooping to retrieve his orb.

“Admirable performance,” he said. But by then, his sarcasm had faded, leaving something else in its wake that, intentionally or not, came out sounding far more genuine as he started off towards the next tunnel.

He stepped gingerly around the growing pools, his night vision making up for the lack of light effortlessly, even without the glow from the fungi above, and as he closed in on their next target, he slowed his pace, surveying the room itself. Rocky. Wet. Several large, protruding boulders, some covered with the same glowing fungi, suggesting that they had been in place for an extended period of time. Then, the subject of their next task made its appearance, and Detraeus smiled, readying an arrow.

At least it wasn’t another ysali.

Detraeus watched the interplay carefully, holding his arrow nocked and at the ready, waiting for an opening. When the dragon surprised Ara, though, coming out from behind an unanticipated boulder and sending a rogue fireball her way, Detraeus grimaced and fired. Two shots towards the dragon’s head as Ara’s wind guided its blast — mostly — upwards into a heated billow of light and shadow across the cavern ceiling. Singed rock and dust rained down on them, filling the air with a dingy, charcoal-scented smoke as Detraeus moved in. Unfortunately, though he did not need light to see, smoke and debris were another matter entirely, the miniature particles of rock and ash distorting his sense of shape, and as the dragon backed away, wounded in the jaw and throat, it took advantage of that, snorting out additional billows of black smoke with its retreat.

Detraeus snarled.

Unused to having his vision out of play under virtually any circumstances, he fired three shots into the smog. Blind, testing shots. When he heard nothing back, he pursed his lips, eyes narrowed, and crouched low, pulling his cloak around to cover his mouth and keep his lungs clear of the burning soot. Sooner or later, the beast would make a showing again, but Detraeus did not want it to be entirely on the dragon’s terms. This in mind, he stepped towards the cavern entrance. At least if he drew its attention, that would keep the next surprise attack from being aimed at Araceli.

Without a second thought to why it mattered whether or not the beast went for the dovaa girl, Detraeus called out into the smoke. “Coward. And here I thought those born of fire were among the proudest and most ferocious of all dragons. Not the kind to slink between the rocks and cower in their own shadow like ysali snakes…”

Thankfully, the one thing reliably larger than a dragon’s wingspan was its pride, and in a matter of seconds, Detraeus’ prey roared, and he immediately leased an arrow in the direction of the sound. Just in time to watch its great, glinting body emerge from the black smoke. The sneering, garbled snaps and slithered syllables of dragon dialect filled the air, but only long enough for Detraeus bury another two arrows in its belly, and a throwing blade in its throat. The creature’s last words were a croaking cry as its body disintegrated into dust in the pools at their feet.

Breathless, hot in the face, and sweating from the combined assault of soot and distant fire, Detraeus rubbed his forearm across his forehead and eyes, grimacing. Bath. He would need to wash thoroughly after this. First, though…

Detraeus moved over towards Araceli, stooping to a crouch at her side and eyeing her arm critically. After having spent so much time on his own, all of it without any magic to manipulate to his aid and an extreme distrust of letting anyone touch him, Detraeus had picked up a good bit of information on treating himself and his ailments. That knowledge had multiplied quadrafold a after his time with Martrae’a who — though not outright ‘schooling’ him in the matter — had subtly continued to drop information to him every time the opportunity arose, and he put it to use now.

“It’s shallow,” Detraeus said. “You’re lucky. Not burnt to the bone, only through the first layer of skin. Best, though, if you can cool it first before cleaning and wrapping. Do you have sterilized water?”

Detraeus shrugged, moving over to take up the pack in question and retrieve the flask mentioned. It came in a small, dark bottle, faintly glowing with markings apparently meant to keep it cool, from the feel, and likely sterile also. “I’ve never been obligated to come to your aid,” he said, pouring just enough water onto a clean cloth from the bag to cool and wet it before watching her reaction as he layered it gently over her burned skin. It must have stung, he knew it, having suffered his fair share of burn wounds in his own time, but she took it well overall. “I have chosen to aid you, when I felt it appropriate. You’ve no need to apologize for my choices. They’re not yours to regret.”

After letting the washing rag rest long enough to cool the burn as much as he thought they had time for, Detraeus pulled it carefully away and began helping Ara to wrap the area loosely in cleaned gauze bandaging. He kept his fingers light, avoiding contact with her skin as much as possible and training his focus to the wound and the wound alone.

“Whether or not I think you incompetent is irrelevant,” he said as he worked. “So long as you aren’t, we should make it out of here alive and better trained.” When he’d finished wrapping her wound, Detraeus tucked away the remainder of her supplies, corking the bottle of spelled water, and offering her the pack back. “Will you be continuing on with me, or turning back?”

Detraeus frowned, moving up beside Araceli and then past her to crouch and look down. He’d never been afraid of heights, but all the same, the sight was dizzying. Eventually, he said only: “I see no bottom. It just keeps going down. Blackness at the base.” He had never experienced blackness that he could not see through, and little as he liked to admit it, it left his stomach uneasy. He stood carefully, and frowned back at Ara, who was even more disadvantaged than him.

She could not even see the way around.

Frowning, he scoped out the area, studying the narrow ledge around the pit’s center and the tunnels beyond it. Fortunately, the ledge looked thick enough all the way around that it shouldn’t cause them any issues, but he could see it being intimidating for someone who could barely see by anything but the faint glowing light of the fungus. He rolled his shoulders, tense all down his back at the thought of the offer he knew he ought to make, and a small ache at the base of his spine pulsed with pain. Grimacing, he offered a hand stiffly.

“Come. I’ll lead.”

Detraeus’ palm burned, the muscles in his arm rigid as a plank and back just as stiff. His pulse felt like a machine lodged in his throat, thrumming away louder than his thoughts, but he forced his feet forward, step by step. Araceli’s hand in his felt ridiculously hot and he willed himself not to sweat. If he did, that would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it? When she slipped, he yanked around on instinct, tightening his hold to a vice grip and stilling her waist with his spare hand, posture like iron.

It took several long seconds for her words to sink in, and then several more before he convinced his body to move again. Stupid. It was just a hand. What did he have to fear from one young dovaa woman’s grip? She wasn’t incompetent as she claimed she feared to be, he knew that. But he also knew himself to be stronger, and more practiced. So why his body’s reactions? Why the base, crippling terror of something he couldn’t name simply because her skin was in contact with his?

As they reached the other side, safe from the yawning maw of the bottomless pit and into the next tunnel, Detraeus concluded it was not about fear of Araceli. Her fingers dropped from his, her words gentle, and he knew he didn’t fear her. He feared himself, and his capacity to hurt her. Wincing at the thought, entirely unsettled, he drew further away from her body heat, and buried the thoughts as deeply as they would go into his subconscious. He had more immediate concerns to take into consideration, and for now, they had made it safely across the pit.

As the made it closer to the tunnel’s exit, Detraeus watched his breath steam, forming small, translucent clouds, like the spirits of winter coming to dance, and he knew before they saw it what awaited them in the next tunnel. What he didn’t see was precisely where his foot was headed when he made one of the last few steps towards the tunnel’s opening. He felt it, though. The soft crunch of a very thin layer of outward ice and then the heat, foul gush and stench of something unmistakable world-round.

He froze, and then cursed beneath his breath. Of all things…