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the 𝒜𝒻𝒻𝒶𝒾𝓇𝓈 of 𝒟𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑜𝓃𝓈 (sloth+blue)

BrotherSloth

BrotherSloth

Super-Earth
Joined
Mar 20, 2022
[Non/Dubcon]

Iliro del Vaughn would bear this injustice with his head held high, and with all the bearing and dignity of his title. He was the Archmage, the Wielder of Life and Death, the Singer of the World Spirits. He was not some terrified peasant being sacrificed by desperate villagers who didn't understand that the dragons wouldn't give a damn; he had agreed to this exchange with the explicit understanding that he would be extracted as soon as possible, after doing his work to sabotage the dragons from the inside. He had been somewhat miffed to be placed on the same pedestal of the silly, ridiculous princess--he was the Archmage for pity's sake!--but the king had been inconsolable and unable to command his armies while he worried about her fate.

So he Iliro would endure this because he certainly could. He would putter around the dragon's horde and be a model of diplomatic civility. Then he would burn the alpha from the inside out take his horns back to Quiruset and become the most celebrated Archmage in their history.

One of his escorts touched his back to hurry him along, and Iliro jerked his shoulder away, turning to glare at the monster. "I can walk perfectly fine by myself, dragon. Please keep your claws to yourself." The dragon-man snarled at him, but Iliro turned his head away with a haughty sniff. "This silk is as fine as anything in your horde so if you damage it I'll expect an immediate replacement."
 
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Lorsan’s dragon clan had been at war with the nearby kingdom for ten years. An agreement over hunting territory had crumbled in the face of greed for more land. For centuries, his clan had left the kingdom alone, living deep in the mountains and only coming out to hunt the forests surrounding it base in the summer months, when prey from the mountains would travel to greener pastures. Greed drove the kingdom to start moving in on the forests, cutting down trees, expanding farmland, and driving prey away. Lorsan’s uncle at the time, Clan Elder, didn’t take kindly to the breach of territory agreement and declared war. Five years in, he’d been slain in combat, and with Lorsan being Clan General, this also left him as acting Clan Leader.

Recently, an ambush had successfully captured the human King’s only daughter. The intention had been to force the King’s hand into signing a new territory agreement; unlike his uncle, Lorsan didn’t want this war, but he would fight it as long as needed to protect the safety of the Dens. But the King had proposed a trade - another prisoner in exchange for his daughter. Lorsan would only accept another human as valuable to the King as his daughter. The human Archmage was offered up, and Lorsan accepted. This would put the King at a disadvantage, to lose his most powerful mage. So Lorsan sent a party of four dragons to make the exchange, and bring the Archmage back to him.

The exchange was made relatively peacefully, with only insults thrown at the dragons, who maintained human form during the process. Three returned to their natural form and took to the skies on the way back to the mountains. One remained in human form, walking with the Archmage the six hours back to the base of the mountains. It takes all his restraint not to shove this man into the dirt when he makes the remark about his precious silks. “Unfortunately for you, we don’t file our claws down like humans and their perfectly manicured hands.” The words are growled in irritation as footsteps come to a halt behind the Archmage. There’s a sound like crunching bone, followed by a heavy thump, as the man takes his natural form - a silver dragon with pale blue tipping on the edges of his wings and the spikes down his spine. His voice while kept quiet, is much higher above the Archmage’s head. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” In a single motion, the claws of one front foot wrap around the Archmage’s midsection firmly, and in a leap, the dragon takes to the sky, pulling the human from the ground.
 
"Perhaps you should try a little maintenance." Iliro quipped. "It can soothe even the foulest of tempers."

The transformation stunned him into silence as he leapt back, away from his escort. Of course, academically, Iliro knew of the transformation--everyone did--but he had never seen it this close, not outside of drawings. It looked painful and freeing in the same breath, and he was too stunned to answer before the dragon suddenly snatched him up. He let out one undignified screech of shock and fear, his mind panicking and telling him he was about to be eaten before he realized they were heading to the top of the mountain, to the dwelling of the dragons that only a few humans had seen and lived to tell the tale. He sent a prayer that he might be one of them.

Both Iliro and the dragon were lucky that the Archmage had willingly taken that magebane concoction to suppress his ability to access his magic. The dragon because Iliro would have put holes through his powerful wings, and Iliro because in doing so he'd certainly fall to his death. Still, it didn't stop him from struggling for a moment, wincing at the claws that crushed his ribs. Once the panic had subsided and his face had lost its green tint and instead went pale, he merely clung to the beast's leg and stared at his scales, ignoring the landscape rushing beneath them.

Whenever they landed, Iliro's legs would be wobbly and his face would be pale.

What a terribly mortifying way to be brought to the dragon's nest.
 
The screech brings forth a rumbling laugh from the dragon as his wings beat the air, lifting them rapidly up along the side of the mountain. The entrance to the Dens is through the top; inaccessible to all but the most insane of humans, as the last hundred feet at the top is a sheer cliff. The other three dragons in the party join them at the top, and together the four of them dive down through the open top of the mountain. the opening turns into a tunnel just wide enoughfor two dragons to glide side by side - massive by humans terms, but narrow by dragon terms.

The tunnel opens up into an extensive cavern, a huge blue crystal hanging from the ceiling. It’s glowing, refracting the lights of small fires dotting the caverns walls a thousnd times over. It heats the cavern, lights it like midday. In the cavern walls themselves, at closer inspection, it can be seen that each fire marks the entrance to various smaller caverns carved into the walls. Some are hung with tapestries of varying designs, others with animal skins stitched together. Others still are left open. These open ones are tunnels, leading further into the mountains.

The party of four lands on the cavern floor, where larger fires and pits of hot coals are burning, each surrounded by circles of large stones. Communal basking nests, places for dragons to socialize. At one end of the main cavern is a raised dais of stone, with enough space for six dragons. Currently, only two are lounging there. One is a deep green dragon, with deep amber spikes around the jaws and collected at the end of the tail. The other is a larger than average, solid black dragon with silver eyes and matching silver claws.
 
It's... eerily beautiful. The fires and the gemstone cast thousands of glittering stars across the cavern, but Iliro can only watch for a moment before the speed with which the walls rush past him make him nauseous again. He gulps and clings and wishes he could feel the warm flow of magic in his veins, but the magebane is still bitter on his tongue.

One day, he thinks, he'll fill this cave with multicolored flames until it melts into slag.

When they land, it jostles Iliro and makes his teeth clatter together. His hands push at the clawed fingers around his middle and his feet kick above the ground. "Let me go, dammit." He orders, his face pale, just as he predicted. Iliro doesn't bother looking at the dragons on the dais just yet, focusing more on the task of getting free. When he isn't set down, though, he huffs and looks up, straightening his glasses as he glares over at the pair. The green one looks more frightening with those spikes, but the black one is far larger. Unsure which one is in charge, he addresses them both with a glower. "I am the Archmage, not some creature being brought in for dinner! Tell him to release me immediately."
 
The green dragon laughs quietly, scales moving into a look f what can only be described as amuseent. The laugh is soft despite it coming from such a large creature, hinting that this dragon is female. Her wings flutter, stirring up a bit of stone dust from the dais floor. Claws curl, scraping the stone, but she says nothing choosing simply to watch.

The black dragon stares directly at the Archmage, seeming more attentive to his angry ego. This is what they’d traded for? A spoiled, self-centered aristocrat that could use magic. This would be a lot more difficult than he’d imagined. The hope was that this Archmage could be taught that dragons weren’t the monsters they’ve been hailed as over the course of the last ten years, and that all they wanted was the privacy of their territory and hunting forests. That idea had come when the King had asked for the trade.

The black dragon blows out a slow breath, the heat of it washing ove the Archmage. All it takes is a flick of the end of his spike-free tail to signal the silver dragon to drop the Archmage. He does so unceremoniously, letting the mage fall four feet to the dais floor. A nod, and the party of four dragons are dismissed. The green dragon speaks up, voice high and soft. “Lorsan, you’ve got your work cut out for you, I fear. To change the mind of a human so set in hatred will be a challenge indeed.”
 
Ridiculous. Unacceptable. Being treated like this, like some low-life criminal instead of a noble and warrior sorcerer of the highest caliber, simply will not do. Iliro had landed in a tangled heap of limbs and robes. It was deeply undignified the way he had to clamber up and brush himself off, straightening his glasses yet again. If the fall had broken them, he would have raised hell with or without his magic.

His robes were ruffled and dirtied from the hike to the base of the mountain, but they still looked very fine. His hair, as was his usual way, was tied up in a messy tail to keep it out of his face. It gave him the harried look of a scholar which was only magnified by his current predicament. His back was straight and stiff, his glare defiant. He wasn't so stupid as to think he could take on all of these monsters at once, especially not without his magic, but he did not seem cowed by the size of the beasts around him. Even as he was buffeted by the draft from their takeoff, he didn't seem intimidated.

"Hatred?" He bit out. "I do not hate you, no. That is a base emotion claimed only by the foolish and the weak. If I hated you, I would not have agreed to this farce." He ignored them for a moment, resuming the brushing off and straightening of his robes. Settled, he glowered up at the dragons again. "Lorsan? Then you are their leader. You are the one I am meant to parlay with?"
 
The green dragon laughs again, and this time, Lorsan gives her a dismissive look. She ducks her head, then stands and walks off the dais, leaving to join a pair of blue dragons in one of the basking pits. The black dragon’s silver gaze returns to the human before him. “Hatred or not, you hold no respect. And no humility.” He pauses to fold one front leg over the other. “You are not here to parlay, Archmage. You are a prisoner of war, a sacrifice exchanged for the life of your king’s daughter. You will be allowed certain freedoms, and certain comforts. A cavern has been arranged for you here on the ground. It is no palace, but you will find it’s more comfortable than a prison cell.”

Lorsan turns his head toward a cavern entrance some fifty feet to the right of the dais. The entrance does have a deep purple tapestry hung over it, but it’s currently tied to the side. It’s dark inside, no fire yet lit within. “Your base needs will be provided for, as will daily doses of magebane. We cannot trust that you will not use your magic to bring harm to these Dens. If you need something, you will come to me. If it is deemed a requirement to your survival, I will have it procured for you. Keep in mind, frivolous things such as meaningless decorations and extravagant comforts will not be considered.”
 
Respect? Respect for what? A horde of murdering beasts that had laid waste to the humans that needed to expand into the dragons' 'territory'? And humility? Who was this creature kidding? If Iliro had not been under the effect of the magic supressing concoction, a fight between them would have been well-matched at the very least. Still, he held back a sneer and merely huffed in annoyance.

Learning that he would be delegated to a cave like some animal only made his growing ire worse. He hadn't been expecting another palace but he had been expecting something.

It had been a long time since he had slept in such terrible conditions.

Clearly irritated by this conversation, the Archmage folded his hands together in front of him and eyed Lorsan with distrust. "What am I to do while I am imprisoned here, if not parlay with you for a ceasefire? Do you expect me to languish in this cave you have provided me while my guards 'tend to my base needs'? Simply stare at the stone wall and waste away?"
 
The Archmage’s reply has Lorsan swinging his head back around abruptly. “I should bite you in half for your insolence and-“ Lorsan cuts off and snaps his jaws shut barely more than a couple inches in front of the Archmage. He’s just gotten a good inhale of the human’s scent, and his reaction is not what he would have ever expected. The dark pupils in those silver eyes dilate, nearly hiding the silver. Several deep breaths are taken, nostrils flaring and hot air rushing past the Archmage, who stands between them. There’s silence for a moment before Lorsan pulls his head back, seeming to compose himself.

”You are here to learn, Archmage. To see what most other humans never will. That we are not monsters.” Lorsan stands then, one claw reaching out to give the mage a gentle push. “Go, explore your new domicile. I will follow should you have questions.”

Lorsan does indeed follow the Archmage to the cavern. Inside, all furniture seems to have been carved from the stone itself, including the bed, equivalent to a human’s queen size. There’s a thickly padded mattress atop the stone, as well as several pillows, and soft cotton sheets. Not silk, but not cheap material either. A wooden chest sits at the end of the bed, filled with various articles of clothing, also of soft cotton, and multiple colors. Table and seats of stone are at the opposite wall, as well as a shelf carved into the wall beside it, to act as a counter of sorts. A steel box is set into the wall, frost along the bottom edge. Inside is an ice enchanted crystal, keeping a variety of foods cold.
 
Iliro has faced demons, hordes of men, and yes, he has faced dragons. His back remains straight and his glare holds its place as Lorsan snaps at him; he is startled, but uncowed. The puffs of air that gust around him smell like a forest fire.

The dragon's sudden reversal of attitude confuses him, but he keeps his glare set in place. And though he is angry at being nudged like some errant child, he goes.

It is both less and more than he had been expecting. Iliro steps into the middle of the room and frowns as he takes in the wide bed and the bare bones accommodations. He, suddenly, missed his home in the capitol with his shelves of books and scrolls, his maps, his workshop. He missed the gardens, and wondered if he would ever see him again. And if he didn't, what would happen to his belongings? He hadn't been allowed to bring anything, the meeting had come up too quickly. An angry sort of despair filled him and he sat abruptly on the edge of the bed, glaring at the floor.

How was he supposed to do this?

After a moment, he glared at Lorsan again. "I suppose you are to be my teacher then? To show me you are not monsters? And how do you intend to show me?" He asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. "I have to say, it will take more than words and cotton sheets to change the kingdom's minds. For every one of you that we have taken out of the sky, fifty of our own have been buried or disappeared into some dragon's gullet. That is not an easy thing to forget."
 
In his current shape, Lorsan cannot fit into the Archmage’s new quarters. But he can stretch his neck in, great head taking up most of the open space of the floor. “I am not a teacher. I will answer questions as they arise, but you are to learn on your own, through observation. Watch our culture, see what other humans do not.” He huffs a breath, ruffling the sheets of the bed. “Dragons fight to protect ourselves. Our patrols guard our territory, nothing more. We destroy your king’s efforts to move further into our forests, tear down your buildings to chase you out. Yes, we kill more humans than you kill dragons. But you humans also breed like pests. Dragons are not simple minded beasts, Archmage. We are lucky if we get to bring a handful of newly hatched dragonets into the Clan each decade. The more of us you kill, the closer we are to annihilation. Yet your kind receives a thousand new babes every year.”
 
Iliro narrows his eyes at the insult. He can't fathom how this dragon can claim not to be a monster when his kin can happily burn a peasant village to cinders, however quickly the humans can reproduce. Soldiers, Iliro could understand. The masses, he could not. Instead of arguing further, though he chooses a different tract. "I will need books." He declares, reaching out to straighten the bedding that has become disturbed by the beast's breath. "Blank pages, as well as writing utensils. I prefer ink quills, but I can make do with charcoal. If you want me to learn, I will need to take notes." It's a simple explanation, and not the entire truth, but it's what he gives this Lorsan. "As well as drying sand if you can procure it. Again, I can make do without but I prefer not to wait for the pages to dry when I am caught in my thoughts." Iliro turns his glower on Lorsan again, eyeing his massive face. "The ones you sent to the parlay, they came in human form. Do you have one as well, or are you too mighty?" It's a question and a challenge, and Iliro turns to face the dragon fully, showing no fear despite the fact that he is very much trapped and Lorsan could incinerate him easily right now.
 
Lorsan snorts when the Archmage starts listing off items he wants. That didn’t take long, for him to start making demands. At least they are reasonable. Still, this spoiled man will learn very quickly that not every demand will be met. And would it kill the human to let his pinched features relax?

When asked about a human form, Lorsan chuckles, the sound a deep rumble that reverberates around the small cavern. That same cracking of bone can be heard, as well as the sound of scales sliding against each other, much quieter and easier to miss. Lorsan’s form shrinks, morphing, changing into a far more human shape. He’s standing in the entrance tunnel now, but he’s forced to duck his head to avoid scraping a pair of black horns against the ceiling.

Previously, the cavern had been dim, Lorsan’s head blocking most of the light from the main cavern. Now, it’s brighter, giving purpose to the purple tapestry pulled aside at the entrance. Lorsan straightens as he comes fully into the cavern, a good six and a half feet tall. His horns add another eight inches more. Pointed elvish ears poke through thick black hair, which hangs to chest level and frames the sharp features of Lorsan’s face. He’s barefoot, and shirtless, but dragon magic means he can shift one article of clothing with his form, and so he’s at least wearing a pair of firmly fitted black leather trousers. Black onyx scales decorate his collarbones and hip bones, residual from his natural form. More decorate the top of his forehead and the outer corners of his silver eyes. “Every dragon has a human shape, Archmage. Even your human scholars should know that.”
 
Now Iliro does snort, the sound every bit of derisive he can make it. "Reading in a book and hearing by word of mouth is far, far different than knowing it for yourself." He holds one hand up, palm flat and facing the ceiling. "All the dragons in the world." He lifts the other hand in the same manner. "All the dragons I have personally met." He lowers the first hand and raises the second, mimicking a scale that weighed heavily on the dragons' side. "The amount I've seen casually shift between forms is even smaller." Satisfied with that, Iliro looks Lorsan up and down with a critical gaze, eyes lingering over his bare chest and horns. "A shame we couldn't meet with you in this form. Lesser humans are rendered stupid by a pretty face. You could have fleeced them all into agreeing with your outrageous treaty." It was a compliment but delivered in the rudest and most underhanded way possible. He stands and unfastens the high collar of his cloak. It was warm in here, whether from the dragon's breath or from the many fires that burn in the cavern beyond, and if this is to be his new home for the time being, he may as well be comfortable. So Iliro sweeps the cloak from his shoulders and drapes it over the nearest chair. With it removed, his arms are bare to the shoulders, and his intricate tattoos are visible. Much like polished silver, the tattoos occasionally catch the light and shimmer over his skin, like the molten metal has been poured into the grooves. His arms are strong, but slender. Graceful like a dancer's, not bulky like a soldier's.

Iliro turns to Lorsan again, eyeing him with distrust. "Just how free am I? Can I just traipse around wherever I please, or are there restrictions I should know about now before I step on any tails?"
 
“Dragons are vulnerable in this shape. I am doing you a courtesy by standing as such before you.” The words are growled, dark eyebrows pulling together in a scowl. Lorsan’s skin itches beneath the Archmage’s gaze, but he makes no move to rub away the itch with his hands. A pull in his chest makes him want to move closer to this obstinent man, but he stands his ground. The Archmage’s scent is still fresh in his memory, and his instincts are not happy about the distance between them.

Now it’s Lorsan’s turn to look the Archmage over. The cloak had hidden the shape of the man’s slim form. And those intricate silver tattoos along his dark skin are fascinating. Lorsan crosses his arms over his chest to hide the curling of his fingers, hands just wanting to grab that slender waist. “You have access to all the caverns you can reach without wings.” Lorsan smirks a the fact the Archmage cannot fly. “Your icebox will be kept stocked, and fresh foods will be brought to you every other day. There are tunnels leading to bathing caverns, and tunnelsleading to other sections of the mountains, which you can reach on foot. You are free to roam the main cavern, but I suggest you keep a safe distance from the basking pits. The coals can produce heat exhaustion in humans. Dragonets, what few we have, often bounce around the floor as they learn to fly. Perhaps you can entertain yourself playing with them.”

Another pause, with Lorsan once again looking the Archmage over. “Magebane will be delivered every morning, and you will be supervised to ensure you take it, Archmage.” Lorsan hums, tilting his head. A strand of inky hair falls in front of his face. He makes no move to push it aside. “What is your name? Or would you prefer I continue calling you Archmage?”
 
Lorsan doesn't look very vulnerable in this form. He still looks like he could take on a full squadron with those horns and claws and steely gaze. He's probably a skilled fighter in this shape as well, and if he isn't then he at least exudes that energy. And Iliro doesn't like the man moving closer to him now that that thought is in his head, so he disguises that by folding his own arms and striding away to circle the room, frowning at how... dreary it is.

He'll be lucky if he avoids going mad in here.

He opens the icebox, his eyes drawn immediately to the crystal, but he closes the door before his gaze can linger for any amount of time. The description of his freedoms draws a sigh from him but Iliro doesn't comment. Instead, he sits in the same chair he had draped his cloak over and lifts his left leg to cross it over his right. Talking about their spawn as if they are innocent, frolicking children that I might entertain with a story or a game of catch, and not future peasant killers. "I agreed to the magebane, didn't I?" Iliro sits in the chair as if it is a much more regal piece of furniture, and not a terribly uncomfortable one. His hands are folded on his knee and his back is stiffly straight again, but he looks mostly at ease. "You don't need to bore me with some threatening spiel." Lorsan's question gains only a suspicious look from the Archmage, who eyes the other man up and down with deep mistrust before, very suddenly, he is smiling. "You're an exceptionally powerful and wise individual, to be leading all these dens." The smile is dripping with mocking and sarcasm, but it still brightens his grumpy face. "So let's make a game of this. If you can figure out my name any means, you win. If you win, you can ask me anything. Anything at all. If I know the answer, I'll tell you truthfully. And if you can't, which I assure you is the most likely outcome," For many reasons, the number one being Iliro was the name he had chosen, not the name he was born with, "Then I win, and you return me to Quiruset and hear out our version of the treaty." Iliro continues smiling up at his jailor, pleased as punch. "Shall we give you a week? Two? What do you think is a fair amount of time? What do you say, your Grace?"
 
Every movement the Archmage makes has Lorsan’s eyes following, tracing the lines of his frame. He’s almost too attentive to everything the human is doing. The man’s voice pulls those silver eyes back to his face. Words of a game, a bet, are heard, but Lorsan isn’t stupid. He’s also not going to risk letting this man leave here. As he speaks, Lorsan walks closer to the Archmage. “Tell me or don’t, the choice is yours. I will not play this silly human game. There are no questions I have to which you have answers.” Now, Lorsan is looming over the mage, staring down at him. With this proximity, the heat of his skin can be felt in the air. “Do not think I am some wild beast easily tricked. You will not be leaving these Dens, Archmage.”

Lorsan has leaned down to make his point more poignant, but the Archmage’s scent fills his nostrils again. It’s all he can do not to shudder, but he can’t hide the way his silver eyes dilate again. Lorsan straightens, baring teeth that look relatively human, with the only difference being exceptionally sharp upper and lower canines. With a final glance, Lorsan turns and leaves the small cavern. One outside, he takes dragon form and pushes off the ground. The beat of his wings sends a rush of air into the cavern, knocking loose the purple tapestry and plunging the cavern into darkness. There’s only a thin line of light around the edge of the tapestry.
 
He hadn't been expecting Lorsan to agree. If he had, it would have been a sign of exploitable weakness. And what he had proposed had been intentionally low valued. Meanwhile that look Lorsan had given him there, right at the end had been... strange. He couldn't quite decipher it, that flaring of the nostrils and dilation of the eyes... had he been smelling Iliro?

Whatever had happened at the end, all the rest told him a lot about the dragon, though, and he files his observations away for later. For now, he stands and strides over to the cold box, throwing it open and ducking down to examine the crystal.

A small piece, a simple spell, but it would suffice.

Satisfied, he moves instead to the curtain and twitched it back far enough to examine the surroundings immediately outside of his cave, trying to determine the immediate lay of the land, and see if he could spot Lorsan.
 
The main cavern is roughly three hundred feet across to the other side, and six hundred feet left to right. There are eight basking pits, each about twenty feet in diameter, even spread across the floor. Several dragons are enjoying the heat of the hot coals. Three dragonets, roughly the size of large dogs, bound past the opening to the Archmage’s cavern. Leaps and hops, flapping of small wings. It’s clear they’re learning, but not yet ready to fly.

The green dragon has returned to the dais, laying with front legs crossed. Two others have joined her, one an ashy grey with white wings, the other a very pale blue with darker blue spikes down his spine. Both are half her size, teenagers. The green dragon is speaking, though she speaks softly, her voice not carrying the fifty feet to the Archmage’s doorway. Lorsan is nowhere to be seen.
 
There are so many of them in here, and the little ones playing so close to his prison chamber--for that's what it was, however moderately comfortable the accommodations were--makes him nervous. That will be something to contend with, and worry about. In his experience, children have no respect for privacy and he imagines that counts for little with dragon children either. He longs to explore, to plot out the inner roads of these cave systems so he can plot his escape, but with all of these giant, hungry lizards around... He's loathe to leave the privacy of the curtained-off alcove, minimal as it is. This Lorsan wants him to engage with the other dragons, observe them. Learn from them.

Well, he's certainly going to do that.

The first step is to get the lay of the land. He would rather wait for his notebooks to be delivered, so he can map things out on paper, but he has an eidetic memory and will certainly be able to remember the paths. So out he goes from the cave he has been relegated to and into the main cavern, and towards the nearest tunnel, giving the dragonets a wide berth and resolutely not looking towards the basking pits. Certainly they are all suspicious of him, but he has permission to wander around. So wander he shall.

The first tunnel, large enough for Lorsan to fit through, is long and winding. It leads to another cavern, in the center of which is a gleaming pool of steaming water. The rocks and wide pathways around the spring are littered with a thick growth of moss and brilliant white flowers which he recognizes as a somewhat rare ingredient in powerful medicines. A few dragons are lounging on the rocky outcroppings, and one is paddling around in the massive spring, so he doesn't stay very long. There are other huge tunnels leading out of here, but Iliro goes back the way he came. The next few tunnels lead to clusters of smaller caves like his, a few with abandoned furniture, which makes him wonder if these are the dwellings of previous prisoners, or if some of the dragons sometimes reside in these dwellings in humanoid form. He probably had not been given one of these more private clusters because they wanted to keep an eye on him.

Finding himself irritated, he searches the next tunnel, but after twenty minutes of exploration he still doesn't come to the end, so he returns to the main cavern and notes that tunnel to try again later. In the next tunnel he finds another huge, sprawling cavern, this one with a much lower ceiling. There's not enough room to fly in here, but a dragon could still stand on its hind legs. The cavern is a series of cascading pools, filled from somewhere deep within the mountain with clean, hot water. The water is constantly changing and filtering, so even when he kicks a clod of mud into it, it disappears. Most of the pools are massive, worn down deep into tubs to accommodate multiple dragons at once. A few are smaller, and Iliro picks one of these to sit on the edge of. He yanks off his boots, his socks, and rolls up his pants as he sits with a huff and dangles his sore feet in the water.

Alone, he thinks. He thinks hard, his hands braced on the pool's edge while his feet kick in the water.

He estimates he has about three weeks before the dreary little cavern and the heat drive him insane. Three weeks to plan and escape. Three weeks to pretend to be a sullen but cooperative prisoner, taking his magebane dutifully and wasting away from boredom in his little cave.

He needs his books, he needs his workshops. He needs his garden. Iliro has a brief, foolish thought that he might ask Lorsan for a plot of dirt and some seeds or buds to tend to. Imagines the dragon hauling in clawfuls of dirt.

It's a stupid thought, but it makes him sigh all the same; if he wants to experience any joy in his life again, he will need freedom first. So he stops thinking wistfully of his flowers, and begins plotting.
 
When he’d left the Archmage to himself, Lorsan had gone up. High up, to one of the topmost caverns, one hung with a burnt orange tapestry. Thick black embroidery marks out a laurel of thorns encircling dragon’s skull. Inside is Lorsan’s private quarters, a ten foot tunnel leading to a cavern some thirty feet in length, relatively bare. There’s a stone bed carved into the wall opposite the entrance, and a shallow bowl shape carved into the floor, twenty feet in diameter. This leaves five feet of floor all the way around the bowl. The bed holds a firm mattress pad and a quilt of furs, no pillows. The bowl is empty. Carved into the wall nearby the bed is a shelf containing a collection of old, leather-bound books.

Lorsan takes human form and heads straight for these books. His fingers trace the spines, tenderly, before selecting one titled Ancient Draconic Histories. Lorsan has suspicions of his reactions to the Archmage’s scent, but he can’t be certain of the reason. He’s hoping to find something in his books. However, after spending an hour flipping through this one and others, he’s no closer to an answer. With a sigh, he returns the books to the shelf, returns to dragon form, and leaves his quarters. He should go check on the Archmage.

Gliding down to the main cavern floor, Lorsan looks around. The green dragon on the dais, while speaking with the teenage dragonets, had been watching which tunnels the Archmage is exploring. She catches Lorsan’s eye and points with her tail toward the bathing pools. Lorsan nods a thank you, turning to head down that tunnel. Halfway down the tunnel, he can hear splashing. In the kindness of not startling the human, Lorsan purposely brushes his tail against the tunnel wall, creating the sound of scale scraping on stone.
 
Iliro has very few options for escape at this point. The crystal in the ice box is small, but it stores some magic within. And if he times it just right, he can siphon his magic into it bit by bit every morning as the magebane wears off, before they bring him a fresh dose. If he can store enough energy, he can use it in place of his own natural well of magic. Being without it is like having his entire soul ripped out of his body, and the longer he goes without feeling that familiar glow, the more tired he is becoming. Feeling irritable and achey from his hike to the base of the mountain, and by being manhandled by that silver dragon, Iliro stands and strips, folding his clothing and laying it aside. Bare as the day he was born, he sinks into the heated water and floats out to the middle of the smaller (though still quite large) pool he has chosen. His feet can't touch the bottom here, so he takes a deep breath and bounces, then sinks below the surface. He exhales to lose his buoyancy and lets himself float down to the stone bottom of the pool. Counts, forces his muscles to relax. Just shy of two minutes, he kicks off the floor of the pool and surfaces with a gasp, then tilts onto his back so he can float. The hot water feels good, and he basks in it.

Iliro has never cared overmuch about his appearance. He wears none of the makeup many of his colleagues decorate their face with, and only combs his hair when he has to appear before nobility or the council. He takes care of his body because it is the first and most important tool in spellcasting. So he is long, lean, and graceful. His skin is sun-kissed dark and there are a few beauty marks scattered over his torso, as well as one on his hip. Naked like this, it's easy to see that the tattoos cover his chest and back as well, and the ink still seems to refract light when caught at just the right angle. As he floats there, eyes closed, arms out to his sides, his hair floating in a halo around his head, he hears the scraping sound of one of his captors in the tunnel beyond. Irritated, Iliro frowns, keeping his eyes closed, and decides to ignore whichever one it is.

He has permission to be here, and doesn't give a shit if one of these beasts sees him naked.

Let them get an eyeful. Maybe he could take the low road and seduce one of them into helping him escape.
 
Lorsan rounds the corner of the tunnel to a sight more alluring that he’d been expecting. The Archmage is floating naked in one of the bathing pools. The water dampens his scent, but Lorsan can’t deny the sight of him is attractive. Yes, dragons can find humans attractive. After all, they do hold their own human forms. He can see the man is set on ignoring him, though, so Lorsan settles at the edge of the pool, hanging only his tail in the water. Silver eyes watch the man, the dragon having years more patience than the human.

Lorsan is content to sit in silence, just observing the Archmage. His thoughts are wandering, even as his mind is memorizing the image of the human before him. Though he found no answers to his questions in his books, Lorsan’s suspicions give no other theory. More testing would have to happen to confirm, but certain signs are present.

Dragons mate for life, and find their destined mate by instinct, through scent. There‘s no way of knowing who one’s mate is until they are right there, standing close. Proximity is key as well; just picking up the scent at a distance isn’t enough. Some might think eye contact, as humans call the eyes the windows to the soul, but it’s the natural pheromones that carry the distinction of destined mates. Signs consist of sudden feelings of calm, as well as the pull to claim. The only obvious physical sign is pupil dilation, but so many things can make the pupils dilate, that unless a dragon voices their claim, finding their destined mate goes unknown to others. Destined mates are also fiercely protective, and possessive, of each other.

Eventually, Lorsan lays his head on the stone floor, breathing deeply. As he breathes out, air rushes across the water, fanning over the Archmage’s floating form.
 
He can feel the dragon's presence and his frown deepens, but he ignores it and concentrates on his floating. Tries to distract himself by reciting Aazahari's Principles of Alchemy in his mind. The prickling feeling of someone watching him is unexpected, and unwelcome, and he half-hopes the creature will grow bored and leave or just eat him and be done with it. Instead there is a gust of hot, suffocating breathe that ripples the water and startles Iliro enough to have him splashing as he starts to sink. With an indignant sputter, the Archmage rights himself in a truly ungraceful manner and finds his footing on the stone floor of the pool, standing up to glower at the dragon.

"Do you mind?" He asked, more scandalized by act than by the dragon seeing his nude form. He recognizes the dragon immediately, and his ire only grows.

Had he not insulted this one enough? Had he not driven this Lorsan away with his clear disregard for the dragon?

"A dozen pools to choose from-" His musical voice is dripping with irritation, "-and you choose to come disturb my meditation for... what reason?" He demands, turning and striding away towards the lip of the pool furthest from Lorsan. His back is straight and strong, marred only by a single scar on his left shoulder blade, remnant of a misfired spell. Above his round, toned behind are two perfect dimples. Iliro strides from the pool, still uncaring about his nakedness because in what realm would it matter, and sits on the edge to wring out his hair. "I thought I had permission to use these bathing pools? Do I not have permission to use them without some rude individual staring at and breathing all over me?"
 
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