ORIGIN

"Certainly," Vargas agreed--techniques, then. "If you have anything in mind," he added, and left the rest unsaid. If she did, she could suggest it. As an afterthought, though, he added a few examples: "We could work on reflexes, striking weak points, deflection and redirection..."

As for the booze? The very important thing that definitely factored into the Master's life? (He hadn't had a drink in millennia.) He gave a short laugh. "I imagine three nights' worth of drinks for you might be a sip to me," he explained. A whole bottle of hard liquor would barely be a shot for him, down to size alone.

Vargas ate the corn dog in a single delicate bite, and--perhaps surprisingly--carefully set the stick back on the counter. Polite, neat, not a Valkhound who threw his garbage on the floor. Not here, anyway--he knew better; the last thing he wanted was Isra chasing him out with a broom, again. Well. A broom-Valkhound.

He considered. "I'll tell you what--I have magic to hide myself. Simpler, yes, but it is good to practice it. We can choose a goal... I must infiltrate from point A to point B--and if you can catch me and strike me--I will only walk--then I must drink. If I make it to my destination? You must drink," he finished, mischief coloring his tone. "What do you think-?" The way he asked suggested it was more a suggestion in itself than a plan: an idea, that if veto'd, he wouldn't hold any annoyance over.

Vargas laughed--actually laughed--good-naturedly. "Have them placed along the route; I doubt I will get all that far," he answered. "I make no excuses for my terrible upcoming failures, but I am aware of my limitations and the white and narrow walls of a palace will be a real challenge. But! I will not balk at it." He paused, inclined his head, interest and competitive amusement in his eyes. "May the best combatant stay sober," he said, overly formally, and turned to begin scouting his way.

He'd need to look over potential infiltration routes. He liked to be high up, regardless; there'd been no rules laid out about which floors he could use, after all. Hell, he could come in through the back of the kitchen, if needs be--a stairwell led down into it from above. Or down from a balcony... it depended on entrances available to the library.

A room which, as Aethril suspected, Vargas had not in fact spent almost any time in whatsoever.

With quick and quiet steps he began to sweep along the corridors, examining his options.

The halls were relatively straightforward. They were narrow--large enough to allow him passage, certainly, but not enough that he could somehow slip by Aethril were she present, and doing so unseen was quite out of the question.

The library, he found, was large: but the entrances provided nothing for him to work with. Hmm.
Master Vargas rather began to suspect that he would be exceptionally drunk by day's end. But that didn't mean he would give up. There were other options, too--and those included such little things as distractions. He had more than one trick up his Master's sleeve.

When the fifteen minutes had passed, Vargas would be at his starting position: far from the library, Aethril nowhere in sight, ready to begin.