The benefits of possessing a drakonid physiology—whilst not as efficient or hardy as a manticorid—can never be overstated.
Bodily functions are returning, and I can still feel my liver efficiently filtering and expelling the genali toxins from my system. At least there's that.
A perverse comfort.
That gas, whatever it was, won't be as potent when next used on me. My body has already begun building immunity.
It has been a while since the pink-covered insects made a toxin that took this long to purge from the body.
It would seem that their scientists weren't avoiding their duty.
Though I suppose no one would with Shentrea cabal in power.
From all accounts, they are just as likely to kill their own as their enemies from other species. It might also explain their newfound interest in us if they are testing out another round of biological weapons.
If they think they've perfected new compounds and weapons, it will make them more reckless. If they can conquer us, then they can subjugate almost any species.
They must feel the need for more efficient tools for their expansionist plans.
I could guess why.
Leave a pest running about your cave long enough and the seemingly helpless creature will develop a system to makesure the actual owner would be hard-pressed to eject the new proprietor.
Perhaps I'll write a feed about it in the future? A compendium of how the various sentient species of the mapped universe exert dominance?
An odd topic to write about, but I hear the reading tastes of the more refined drakonids in the richer systems are vast and diverse.
Too bad my clan wasn't exactly equipped in terms of philosophers and anthropologists.
I mash the errant thought as the last vestiges of my nausea subside and push myself upright to survey my surroundings.
The contrast is clear even before I can take in the finer details.
Gone are the harsh, irradiated plains of the khufulle grounds. Instead, I find myself nestled amongst the thick undergrowth of a lush semi-tropical forest.
The air, thick with humidity, is cleaner than anything I've ever breathed back home.
The sickly pink rays from the waning sun hang high in the sky, casting dappled shadows through the dense canopy overhead.
A lush welcome.
Not a terrible place to wake up in, but even I, placid as my brood-draks have countlessly accused me of being, know not to trust the universe to grant me such a thing as fair providence.
When your last conscious memory is being knocked out by gas via an aerial vehicle, anything fair seems well out of reach and a fool's hope.
This was no accident.
The genali scum has shipped me off-world, most likely to one of their notorious hunting grounds. It's the only explanation for why someone isn't sniffing my dried and ground up cartilage so they can stiffen in places their extravagant lifestyles have left hopelessly soft.
I suppose a hunting ground is the better option.
I've heard of such places in passing from off-worlders. Entire planets terraformed. Or left as they were, entirely dedicated to the commercial hunting of exotic, but lethal creatures.
The bloodier, the better.
Apparently, the mucus bugs decided it was about time a drakonid made his debut.
A low growl rumbles out of my chest, a visceral concoction of anger and an affront so deep it stings sharper than the anger of being captured and shipped off to be hunted against your will.
