ORIGIN

Vargas swept across the manicured lawn, past the little lines of perfectly-trimmed pink-petalled trees nearer the Palace proper, and across one of the white-columned bridges. The place was sized with the occasional Valkhound in mind--the walkways were broad, tall; but even so, his hulking form nearly struck the top of the balcony above.

Acid eyes cut across the gardens to the other side of that serene pond that separated him, and for a moment, he was lost in pleasant memory.

For some Creator-forsaken reason, the girl's club had occasionally invited Vargas to their little soirees. He had rather suspected it had been a little joke of Nemean's: to bring the hulking, obscene monstrosity to a gathering of beautiful, laughing women. Aethril hadn't been there, then--not for those meetings he'd attended--but Lord Dhracia, on occasion, had been. That had been a rare time, and then, he'd mostly stayed amused but quiet. More often, it was he, Nemean, and Isra.

A terrible trio, truth be told. And wasn't that some accidental alliteration-? Isra would sit wryly amused and content, Nemean more animated, more vicious--but it was always gossip, and tea or coffee, and little trays of sweets. More than once, Nemean had insisted that Vargas dress in pink, or wear baubled jewelry, and sit at the table "like a person" and eat with them. He hadn't minded; it had been funny, to him, more than insulting, and more than once when she'd invited his opinion, his opinion had been so bloody that it'd sent the pair into fits of hysterical laughter.

Vargas was fairly certain that the ladies of Cepheus were far more bloodthirsty than he was.

The sense of vague nostalgia passed, memories of lace-dress tea parties (and wouldn't his spawn have loved to see that) fading as he lurched back into motion. I should have brought the pink bow, he thought, with wry amusement, as he pressed on and into the palace proper.

The hulking behemoth swept--with swift and clicking strides--through the pristine hallways, the voidlight gleaming off his hide. He made his way around the Oilstone golems, there, and headed for the wing that always housed the Hands or more important visitors. "Aethril," he called, quietly--he wouldn't be booming through the palace, demanding her attention. Instead he was hoping she'd step from behind the forcefield, and deign to speak with him.

She'd invited him to train with her--and one did not, no matter how busy, turn down an offer from a Hand. He doubted it'd go well, for him; his abilities with magic were limited mainly to "see heartbeats, sometimes" and "be sort of shadowed." Anything further and he risked it backfiring, harming even himself--so practice wasn't necessarily a very bad idea.

"Aethril?" he tried, again; where was Eggbert, when you needed him-?

Acid eyes took her in at a glance--head to toe, back to head again. Asleep? he thought at once--barefoot, loose clothing, none of her typical armor or glitter. Then again, he didn't know her well enough to judge for sure. Her apology, though, broke his train of thought, so that he offered a brisk shake of his hammer-like head. "Not at all," he answered, ingrained deference shaping his words automatically.

But--how did he feel? That one threw him for a loop, and not only because he was--and was meant to be--fairly emotional flatlined. "I am-" prepared? diligent? awake-?! "-good, thank you--and you? I came to offer that training you mentioned. Is this a good time? I can always return at a further designated hour or date," he added, somewhat stiffly.

He didn't know Aethril well enough, yet, to gauge how he should really address her: so he stayed to boss-and-employee politeness, hesitant deep down but matter-of-fact on his exterior.

Amazingly, his conversations of late with Lord Dhracia did not even enter into his mind. He'd considered their shared words carefully and judged that the best way to go about things would be to immediately forget them. Things were on track for his Lord's plans, regardless, without any changes whatsoever--by pure chance, so it seemed.

So-... business as usual, then: and here stood another Valkhand, without Vargas's mind wandering at all.

"No, thank you," Vargas declined, turning to follow along down the hall while vaguely keeping pace. He listened to her, glancing sidelong at her at her question; eye contact was the polite thing, after all.

"Overseer Cain trains our scouts, our assassins, our messengers. I train combatants," he explained, remembering again Orthoclase-Alpha's missing status. An annoyance. "I trained Cain myself," he added, as if to point out that his Overseer's abilities were also within his sphere of knowledge.

It occurred to him, as Aethril mentioned "sparring partner," that by "training" together, Aethril may have meant, "sparring." Vargas glanced at her again, gauging, trying to figure out how the hell to spar something with that sort of body without... well, killing it. He was certain that Hand powers would keep her alive well enough, just as his new Master vitality would bolster his own should the Gembounds ever attack him in turn. But-...

"I do not know how well I could spar, physically. Our body types are... dissimilar," he offered, trying to keep his tone even. He had no idea how he could strike her, even once, without sending her flying or shattering bones or outright gutting her. "As for magic, mine is... untrained. I do not use it as often as I rely on my own teeth and claws. I wasn't made for that," he added, in explanation; "I was formed as a brute, and utilized as an Overseer--often of the Trials. Delicate control of that power is not... Well," he paused, faint humor in his tone--"not my strong point."

"I did not think you meant sparring, with 'practice'--or did you?" Vargas asked, glancing to her again. He would obey, of course, but he'd likely have to pull his punches. It wasn't that she couldn't obliterate him with magic--it was that if he did connect, the damage would be... Well. He wouldn't want to do that to a Hand.

Vargas gave a soft snort of amusement. "Our awakening was only a few cycles ago. I don't have anyone I can yet trust to train my creations thoroughly in real combat. Cain is quite skilled, cunning, and adaptable--and knows to come to me with questions! Their training of the assassins is more a matter of delegation than of preference; I trust them to do it, and thus it is their responsibility. If and when I have someone I can trust to train the combatants, and if they earn the title, then perhaps I will gain an Overseer for them." He glanced Aethril's way, and debated mentioning Alpha--decided against it--and moved on.

The scent of the concession stand had him lifting his head, taking in the savory, tempting scents of all the variety of foods. He was limited to "raw meat" in his daily life; the odors of cooked butter and roasted grains were mouthwatering.

"If things work out how I wish, then I will need Overseers for delegation. We have gone from twelve active masters to two. With luck, Farina's work will join our own soon enough but the rest of them-?" He glanced, with distaste, at Aethril sidelong--the dislike not aimed at her, but at the topics of his thoughts. "Some of them have looked to... some responsibility... and others have done nothing at all." It was an old refrain, by now--an old annoyance--easily repeated despite later developments. "Forgive me for being perhaps blunt, Aethril. But at least Astraea had the sense to offer me elevation to Master. Between us--if possible--I suspect his motivations were only half a matter of efficiency. I doubt that he looked to me and thought me truly valuable. More a convenient target if failure ensued--and someone to pick up the slack." Faint bitterness in his words--perhaps he was falling back, too easily, into the gossip mentality of the old Palace walls once again. But he shook it away and moved on--he wasn't here to complain to the Hand, and he didn't want to come across that way, either. It was a conversation and he was answering as honestly as he could.

It spoke for either Vargas's humility (or realistic views), or paranoia, that he thought he hadn't been elevated on ability alone--and didn't think that perhaps mentioning this to a Hand was a bad idea. He was confident, actually, enough to know that he was capable: and whatever Astraea's intentions, he knew that he was doing fairly well.

"As for a spar, your wish is your demand," he said, flashing her his closest approximation of a grin. "What was it you wished to focus on?" Maybe that would be a good starting point to form a plan. He eyed her purple drink absently as he continued. "My own magic is only rarely offensive in nature, but perhaps we can come up with something. I had been thinking a friendly competition, but I think now I realize I need to step back and actually assess your goals," he added, half-formal, half-amused.

The compliment--unexpected--was a generous one, and it sounded genuine to boot. Vargas glanced with some surprise at Aethril, and even he for a moment was a little taken aback at how to respond--rocked, as it were, briefly speechless by politeness. He was somewhat solemn as he responded: "Those words are valuable, coming from you. Thank you--and yes. I will ask." Now, Vargas rarely received such offers from a Hand: they were treasures, valuable things. Aethril probably had meant it as a relatively offhand remark: a promise from one employee to another (despite their differing ranks) that they were on the same team and would work together as needed. But Vargas took it as a precious thing, and strongly tried to consider for a moment if there was anything that Aethril could offer him.

He couldn't think of anything, immediately, though, and he said as much--even as he thoughtfully plucked one single corn dog curiously from the stand. "...For the time being, believe it or not, I think I have what I need." He glanced to Aethril, a solemn vivid-violet monster with a corn dog in one hand.

"In seriousness: if you have not already been truly trained in combat I am glad to lend my advice where needed, from the basics to advanced techniques. If you are simply out of practice, we can try a spar. Unless you have a competition in mind. As for betting-..." He glanced out down the hallway, considering, and then looked back to the concession stand with a suddenly very keen gaze.

A gaze that slid to Aethril.

"...Are any of these drinks alcoholic?" he half-asked, and half-suggested.