"A chain," Illyria snarls, gazing at her own shell's hands in distaste. "A restriction. Were I of my true glory this world would be mine and its denizens ash."

Pancakes makes a small and undignified noise - that's a DRAGON, mistress! - but the revelation earns the draconian creature no surprise, merely a secondary evaluation. An equally Hellfire-soaked Pit-thing. Pancakes is a hound of the Primordium; surely she can accept its existence.

"I do not recognize you," she continues. She is not hostile, merely indifferent. She will not allow this thing to concern her until it becomes a threat. "What are you."

It is not a question. It is a demand.