Nauxha wrinkles her nose against the strange smell and sensation of the air this deep within the bunker. Beyond the gate which had guarded the Fourth Ring, each breath is uncomfortably hot, and she can feel ash tickle her throat every time she inhales. The ground underfoot is cracked and rough, and so she has to be careful not to trip as she follows the white form of her guide; her colony-mate Izori. The tark'ee had been none too eager to return to the place after their last run-in with its inhabitants, but their researcher had wanted to know more about the situation, and he was the only one of ZAG-15's population to have braved the Inferno before. Miru was shocked DPIP was demanding they fight these tark'ee. Perhaps Nauxha could speak with them—find a more peaceful way.

And if she succeeded, no doubt they would find some way to take the credit for the daring attempt.

Fool, she thinks, they're going to get one of us killed, some day.

Miru had at least had the sense to ensure that both she and Izori were armed. Now and again Nauxha feels for her blaster with one arm, hand brushing against the metal—carrying a slight warmth from their surroundings—as if fearing she'd lost it. It is only a slim reassurance; she is not proficient with the weapons of war of her own people, let alone those brought down to Xiunus by off-worlders. But it is preferable to nothing.

"Bzt. Checking in. Anything to report?" The small comm device Nauxha is wearing buzzes quietly to life. She almost flinches at the unexpected voice, half expecting to see an angry volcanic charging out of the dark, but it is only Miru.

"We're several metres past the gate, now," Nauxha says, and begins to quietly describe the environment she and Izori have found themselves in; the way ahead is dark stone, warped and pitted in places from the heat. A few sections of earth she expects were lava floes not so long ago, and here and there the walls open up before them to reveal flashes of molten rock below, or dripping down from the ceiling above.

She and Izori share an uneasy look at this latter phenomena: if lava is falling from the roof, this does not fill her with confidence about the structural integrity of this place. Nauxha is not so young that she has not thought about the eventuality of her death, but being buried by half-melted stone in "the Inferno" is far from how she'd been expecting to go.

"Noted. Continue on course. Do not engage unless—"

Ahead, Nauxha sees the fur on Izori's back bristle. The tark'ee hops backwards, staring at a dancing line of shadows around the corner from them; the shape leaves little doubt to whether or not they are volcanics. Without a word, she jams a finger down on a button to silence the comms, and grabs at her companion's back to pull him away; they'd just passed a bit of fallen rock that she thinks just might serve as cover, and they need to move fast if they're going to make use of it.

Izori staggers after her, practically having to lie flat on the ground so as not to be visible over the edge of the boulders; one of his forepaws is tucked into his neck-fur, no doubt holding the handle of his blaster. Nauxha's hand grips her own. It is only decades of honing her self-discipline that keeps her breathing even.

The scuffing of clawed feet grows closer. The unhappy grumple of unfamiliar voices; the volcanic tark'ee do not sound like they would be all that amenable to a diplomatic approach, if Nauxha is hearing them correctly.

It is only then, as she strains her senses to listen as they pass, that something begins to feel off. Ears flicking back, she scans their shelter, eyeing Izori before glancing elsewhere. Nothing looks wrong, but—Oh. Oh.

Oh, dear.

She had been so concentrated on the volcanics passing that it had taken until that very moment to realise that there are not to but three sets of breaths she can hear by the boulder. She turns as the sound of the others vanishes down the tunnel, searching—and this time she spots it. A pair of golden eyes, bright as flame, glaring back at her from the dark.

One of the volcanics is hiding behind the rocks with them: his mottled, dark brown skin had blended in so perfectly neither she nor Izori had noticed him.

Once the voices and footsteps of the others have fully faded away, the volcanic begins to move, a low throaty growl rumbling out of his mouth. "Trespassers."

Izori yelps, practically hopping into the air in his haste to get away from the sudden presence. "Eek! Where did you come from?"

"Zavros was hiding here first," he hisses, moving forwards. Nauxha retreats slower, a step at a time, drawing her blaster from her holster. The volcanic's eyes glint harshly as he catches the movement. The heavy, club-like end of his tail swings lightly back and forth. A threat. "My kin do not like trespassers. And neither do I."

"We are not seeking violence," she says, trying to keep her voice level. "We hope to build connections. Our relationship need not be antagonistic; we can help each other. The off-worlders have—"

"Bah, words, words, words! Words are for the weak." Zavros thumps his tail against the ground, making Izori flinch behind her. "Prove they are worth the listening."

And with no further fanfare than that, the volcanic lunges forwards. Nauxha barely manages to leap out of the way in time, shoulder crashing into Izori—the tark'ee too slow to react to the explosion of violence. He lets out a startled sound and shoots wildly, the blaster bolt punching a hole into the rock nearby rather than hitting anything useful.

Zavros eyes the sizzling rock for a second, then growls and swipes his tail at Izori's arm, trying to knock his weapon away.

Nauxha's aim is truer. A bolt of yellow-white energy blasts the hide at the base of the volcanic's tail, earning a high-pitched hiss of pain and a few colourful curses.

He tries again, snapping his jaws at them, but Izori takes a shaky breath and manages to hit one of Zavros' feet. His teeth shut on empty air and he hops backwards, waving his paw around violently.

While he's distracted by the sting, Nauxha grabs Izori's shoulder and pulls him back the way they came. So much for diplomacy.