ORIGIN

Vargas's strides were swift--faster than normal; a businesslike sweep of limbs that was nearly a run. He was heading for the gemstone--the fire opal--that Aethril had entrusted to his care. In two thumbs (clenched to keep the stone cracking on the rock below as he walked) he held another stone, gathered up from Canis: a random Grandidierite he'd stumbled across. It was a beautiful stone, glimmering light blue, and though it wouldn't match the fire opal it would match the design that had been entrusted him.

There was, too, a slab of Oilstone awaiting him--one chosen specifically for the lack of life within.

One for Lord Dhracia. Two for Aethril--a matching pair, for the palace. Given Aethril's demands of him lately, he was unsure if the trio would all come out flawless, or not. He worried--he hadn't tested his Master's powers to their full extend, and he wasn't sure where the cutoff was from "perfect creature" to "faltering magic, and broken design."

But it was not his place to deny a Hand, and so here he was: uncovering the fire opal stinger from its brief hiding place, dismissing the Sentinel with a nod, and laying the Grandidierite alongside it. He would move these two to the Aperture when he was ready to work with them; the Oilstone--Lord Dhracia's demand--took precedence.

He'd decided on a more singularly aquatic beast: a true leviathan (he was unsuited to the name, compared to the design he had in mind) capable of ravaging the seas. It was half a personal test, a challenge to himself to see if he could come up with something to rival Farina's oceanic designs. He wanted something he could be proud of. And it was half a true expression of artistic inspiration: he'd imagined a leviathan that could cut through the ocean, something immensely massive but swift, brutal and savage in both nature and capability.

Draconua, but water-borne. (He wished.)

Well-! Best get to it, he thought to himself, and set aside the Fire Opal and Grandidierite, for now. The solid, rough (but slick) chunk of Oilstone he set before him, in one of the catacomb holes of the Womb, and he placed his six-thumbed hands upon it.

Be immense, beyond my measure. Be jet black above, bone white below. Glow golden when you wish. Many eyes, and thick armor. Ravaging fangs and tusks, and a jaw fit to crack the skull of a larger beast. Webbed limbs and ridged tail...

Design held in his mind, he turned his attention to personality instead. Be brutal, and ever-hungry; be ferocious, but loyal to your purpose: to sow Chaos in the name of the Creator. Obey us. Exult in destruction. Take pride in victory. Do not falter at failure. Rage. Fight. Consume.

If Vargas created a monster, then he was doing it right, for once.

After a moment, the Oilstone began to swell: the spark of his power throbbed into it, pulsing and cracking the stone outward, the beginnings of a chrysalis forming. Vargas watched, for a moment, satisfied--then turned, acid gaze searching the shadows. "Guard this," he called to the Sentinel, and moved on, picking up the fire opal and its unmatched twin, and moving for the Aperture.

The fire opal would be next.

Vargas picked up both stones (unmatched, but still-) in his fist, and marched off toward the Aperture. The stinger was large, harder to carry, but he'd manage.

Once at the Aperture, he stepped just outside--the Sentinel would guard these, once he was done, and he'd head back to the Oilstone to watch that one grow, for a bit. But these could not be any closer to the Black Spire, or he would risk corrupting them.

The Fire Opal, he set down first--the thick, pointed stinger. "I want you to be silent, and sleek, and elegant," he told the rock, quietly, again welling up his magic, pouring it down his arms, infusing it into the stone. He pictured it: an Ivory Deer, sleek and smooth, white, but with the wings of a Hellswan--and a maw that opened into one. He'd call it: the Ivory Helldeer. (Vargas was very creative.) "I wish loyalty to be your guideline: your personality is purpose. You will guard, and you are Guardian, and the palace is your home. You owe your existence to Isra. To Aethril. You will obey them. But when they, or the palace, are threatened," he quietly told the rock--in an attempt to form personality, as well as physical form, though that didn't always work quite right--"you will become unstoppable. A monster. Savagery unbound."

It took.

The Fire Opal began to form, crackling from stinger into thick stone, and Vargas stepped back. He observed it, for a time, and turned then to the next, settling it into the stone a little ways away--he'd need to give them space to grow, after all.

The Grandidierite he settled, and repeated his process, giving himself a few moments' rest (and a few deep breaths) in between. He was still razor-focused on his task, but concentration, here, was key.

"And again: elegant beauty, ferocious in your loyalty, savage in your territoriality, deadly in your quiet obedience."

This one, too, began to form--and he stepped back, exhaling deeply, feeling the immense drain of magicka taken from him. As his acid gaze watched the pale teal gemstone crackle outward, forming, swelling, his mind immediately wandered. That's it, for awhile. I will need to warn Aethril that I am drained, for now," he thought.

"SENTINEL!" he bellowed, after a moment, turning toward the Aperture again. These stones were settled just outside; he'd leave the Sentinel to guard this one, and return to the Oilstone within. While these were merely Aethril's orders, the one inside--that was his design, and his mind was already wandering from the "Ivory Hellswans" to the beautiful hatred that would be the sea-beast he had made.

"Guard these," he told his door-guard curtly, and then--with swift strides--made his way back toward the Womb.