It takes time to clean the netherdrake to Naralex's satisfaction.

~ ~ ~ ~

He has hours to himself, and he spends it mending tears in his favorite cloak, and scraping down skins gathered outside for working. Once cleaned properly, even a centaur hide could be useful, and though these are just zhevra hides, the pattern was striking and he had something in mind for it already. It wasn't the most exciting way to spend time, making thread from mane hair and smoking bits of meat over a small fire to preserve it for later. Inevitably the smell draws raptors, and he winds up feeding most of the meat to them, rewarding obedience to simple commands with treats and pats, until even the chicks are struggling to imitate their elders but unable to stop their gape-mouthed begging when a hand draws near. There used to be more druids here to keep these sociable creatures happy, and though Naralex was devoted to maintaining their health and care if nature's balance fell out of skew, he didn't ... linger with them, to play or teach.

He doesn't know why, and never thinks to ask.

For a time he has company, the only other druid in these halls settling cross-legged on the other side of the fire to do his own mending, and the silence is companionable enough. "Naralex--" The look he's given is wryly amused, and he quickly amends. "Teacher, why were the druids of the Fang all wiped out?" Except for a few. He knows there were two, maybe three others besides himself, that hadn't gone deep into hiding.

Naralex doesn't respond immediately, so he focuses on cutting already cured and prepared leather, punching tiny holes along one edge to allow it to be stitched together with a small awl. This was one of the few things he was good at, really good; leather goods, leather clothes, patterned and sewn for appearances or defense. Very few of his works ever found their way onto the market, but sometimes they did, noteworthy for their bright colors and intricate tooling. It kept him busy, and was something he was proud of.

"Most of the druids of the Fang were corrupted," Naralex says eventually, and he looks up at the sound of regret in the older druid's voice, and something that seems almost like pain. "By my nightmares. They ... were all good students, until I poisoned them, unknowing. There was no cure for that madness, Ayrionthar. The most merciful thing anyone could do was send them to Mother Moon. Only a few were untouched by it and remain today. You're one of them." This seems to turn Naralex thoughtful. "I suppose because you acted little different from they after they went mad, though you don't have an excuse of madness, since I can't sense the taint of the Nightmare on you."

He feels vaguely offended. "I'm not crazy."

That earns a smile. "No, you're not. You're ... ambitious, selfish, cowardly.."

"Look, I'm not a coward." He points his bevelling tool at his teacher, frowning. "I'm simply not stupid enough to throw myself in the way of danger without damn good reason." Hard to deny he was selfish though. He preferred to think of it as self-focused practicality. The goblins appreciated his good sense, though why everyone else didn't, he had no idea. Maybe he should have gone to Ratchet instead of here. "There's plenty of other people in the world clamoring to be able to play the hero, and I see no reason to stop them." He returns to his stitching with a will, setting aside the bevel and plucking up thread and needle instead, scowling. It's not cowardice.

Silence reigns for a time, and he thinks that maybe he had won the argument. Until Naralex speaks up again. "Do you have a problem with fighting for the things we hold dear, Ayrionthar?"

The thread is snapped off, the eventual-vest turned inside out to re-seam. "No. I've told you before, I do fight. I have a problem with getting killed, or mangled into a bloody wreck."

"And yet you chose to take up Pythas' favored fighting style?" There's definite laughter in Naralex's voice, and it makes him bristle. "If you don't like putting yourself in that kind of danger, why in Elune's name are you fighting like he did? Why aren't you fighting like Anacondra? She rarely ever engaged in physical combat, and was one of the most capable druids I'd ever taught spellcasting to."

He blinks.