ORIGIN - you, me, and this hamburger

Oh, wasn't this place a delight? A place of monsters and Chaos and all that. Of Masters working hard at designing the next batch of the biggest and meanest beasts that week. Vakornol tipped her head to regard the sheer vastness of the far wall as soon as she'd strutted past the aperture and the dog-beast standing guard. All of those pockets were as empty as could be, save for some shards and shattered chrysalises here and there, and a maybe intact one that she was not bothered to approach—because it was none of her business, really, and not at all what she was here for.

No, she stopped where she was, some ten feet off from the room's entrance, and bellowed. "VARGAS?" She shook herself off before plodding forward and calling again. "VARGAS." As if Draco were a vast expanse like Pegasus or any other cave. It'd be damn hard to miss a hulking purple behemoth; just as it'd be hard to miss her in the hypersaturated light of this room.

Regardless, she was completely at ease and relaxed. There was absolutely no sense of urgency there in the way she stood or even hollered out. If anything, she was casually bouncing on her heels.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

...Was that who he thought it was?

If Vargas had the physical capability of grinning, his face would have twisted into one then. Vakornol's raucous call brought him back, in an instant, to an older age. An era in which an Overseer and a trainer had mocked one another, competed viciously, sparred relentlessly, and all in fun. Fun; what a strange word that seemed, now, with the fates of worlds hanging above the Master's head.

The grin, were there one, would have fallen away. Vargas sighed, and dropped down, but some measure of his lightened heart remained. "VAKORNOL," he bellowed, in turn, striding toward her voice. "Who let you in here?!" It was a loud demand, a teasing one.

He was always happy to see her: one of the few whose company he truly enjoyed. And why wouldn't he; she was him, just made before. Him, if business and duty hadn't been piled atop his shoulders. She held his undying will--the tenacity of an eternal champion--and she greeted everything with humor.

Vargas came striding into sight, spotting her and briefly wondering how to greet her. A pause and an incline of his head, along with some mocking joke-? Or should he run straight at her in an attempt to bowl her over, as they'd occasionally done as a "hello?"

"Ugly as ever, I see," was what he settled on, not slowing in his pace--a joke, and an old one--a familiar one--because really, she was him but not as ugly. He didn't bother to hide either the easygoing, pleased feeling he held upon spotting her, or the curiosity in his voice, as he asked: "What brings you out this way?"

@Vakornol

"Who let you in here?!" Vakornol gave what could best be described as a belly laugh, full-chested and nothing short of grating. "Oh, nobody let me in here, you stinking bastard." She trotted toward the leviathan, eyes squinting with a clear grin. "Had to muscle my way past that real piece of work outside to get an audience with you." (She hadn't.) An arm, claws balled up into a fist, whipped out to give Vargas a rather hard punch on the arm—friendly, of course, as always.

Vargas, promotion or not, would always be just about on the same level as her. He'd won out in the design lottery, but Vakornol would roll in her grave if anyone ever said that one was better than the other. She swore she could beat him any day, in that competitive and friendly rivalry sort of way. Any time she lost their scuffles was her just going easy on him.

At the overplayed joke, she reciprocated in kind: "Well, I've never—! They had to get inspiration for your disgusting mug from somewhere." It was a phrase uttered over and over, like the two of them were in a Pirates of the Caribbean movie. Always easy to start conversations with. Vakornol would just spice it up, on occasion, with the puff of a chest or fluttering of eyelids. This time, she pushed the hand she'd punched with under her chin, tucking it to stare bashfully up at Vargas.

But, oh, yes, business—that was on everybody's minds these days. (Imagine being tied down to responsibility, HAH!) "The arena's got a short supply of fighters these days, and you don't." She winked, like there was any possible double meaning behind that. "Yourself included." (And had she picked up on the just barely diluted enthusiasm Vargas offered? Who was to say...)

Vakornol bounced in place, grinning crookedly as she always was. "I've been itching for a good tussle after I threw down with some hairy thing in Orion, and I'm sure you've got a monster or two to slap around in the name of 'training' and 'testing.'" Of course, she didn't mean that in the literal sense, but... y'know... a bit of joking arrogance was always hilarious.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas glanced off toward the door. "Left something alive for me to revive, I hope," he answered easily. A sudden, faint jolt as a strange realization briefly struck; the Sentinel was his child. His son.

Huh. He hadn't ever thought about that, before. He'd have immediately moved on with his thoughts, anyway, but Vakornol punching him in the arm brought him back to the present, regardless, and he leaned back in mock-hurt and raised the other hand to rub the terrible wound. "I see someone has finally taught you how to swing. This recovery," he added drily, "will take weeks." (It would not.)

Heavy head swung back to eye Vakornol. "Inspiration! Ha! Improvement, you mean. They may not have made me the better fighter," he went on, "but you can stop batting your eyes, Vakornol," (even though she wasn't) "because they made me far more beautiful."

And the Leviathan drew himself up, and flexed his arms, his horrific and monstrous form gleaming muscled and lean in the voidlight. He paused, mid-flex, and almost did manage a grin at her. "Too much?" he asked, dropping back down, and huffed in amusement. "Let us hope the Forge doesn't see this; they'd never understand that their Master is secretly drop-dead gorgeous. Unlike some," he added, eyeing her over. "You haven't got nearly enough scars, you know." (Vargas had almost none.)

Ahh, so she wanted fighters, did she-?

"What, you want someone to drag back to the Arena? I can't spare anyone for that--not if you intend to kill them--you did leave something to revive?" he added, fake worry in his tone, with another glance off at the entrance. "If you want to spar here-? The Sentinel himself is quite capable. Assuming you didn't kill him. I'd ask if my old Overseer would spar you, but it went missing, and now I've no one to train my troops. I imagine you aren't looking for work-?" he asked, but his hopeful tone was also sardonic: he knew Vakornol would never really tie herself down. "You should come and beat the hell out of my soldiers, some time. Show them how it's done. There's a few you could fight. And there's this--come here, look at this," he added, amused.

The Leviathan turned, striding toward the Womb.

In one of the alcoves, there was an immense--well, compared to other Gembounds, anyway--black bull dead asleep; he lay atop the bones and shattered Oilstone of whoever had been growing in there when Jupiter'd struck. Now that's something I need to think about, Vargas realized, and pushed the thought aside. "It turned up, beat up the door guard, and went to sleep. I've explained to it where it is, and it doesn't seem to care. It's remarkably stupid," Vargas added, "but if you want to fight it, feel free. If you kill it, do something interesting with its gemstone, would you-?" he added--though Vakornol wasn't usually the sort to kill without some form of honor. At least, not the fights Vargas had seen.

@Vakornol

Despite the lack of discernible scelerae, Vakornol rolled her eyes. "Pah." Then, of course, another peal of raucous laughter worked its way out of her mouth. Her flanks shuddered, and she was sorely tempted to go for another swing, even with the risk of further teasing. "You've got plenty of space for more life-threatening wounds on those tree branches of yours." She bit back, still grinning with her eyes. All in good fun, really.

Of course, at the bodybuilder show, the valkhound burst into her largest bit of laughter again. So much so that she started coughing up a lung, barely able to get out a "way too much" before Vargas dropped back down. Vakornol sputtered through the sheer ridiculousness of it all. "You're going to do me in. This is psychological warfare." She mimed wiping a tear from her eye, still coughing in her mirth. If she'd been grinning before, this was full-on beaming. "I'll be sure to tell them you've made an absolute ass out of yourself. It's a shame there's no way for me to have recorded that show," she lamented, if halfheartedly.

"Scars are much better than being all smooth like you, Master. I'd take you to be some kind of pacifist if I didn't know you any better." Another laugh.

And, because he was faking being some sort of worrywart, Vakornol gave Vargas a sympathetic "he just watched me go past. Of course I didn't kill him." Brawny shoulders shrugged regardless. "A fight's a fight, regardless of where it is. You know the drill: put something in front of me, and I'll dance circles around it while it flails with rage." Such were the times. She could almost sigh with her fluttering whimsy and nostalgia.

"Didn't know you had an Overseer, though," she added as a sidenote despite that, "but if you ever need someone to offer a bit of training, you can try to find me—free spirit that I am." A hand daintily pressed against her heart. One could imagine luscious locks flowing in the wind. "Your promotion's a damn respectable one, and I can't deny that." Perhaps it would come as a surprise to the Leviathan, or—"there's not enough fighting for my liking, these days."

Y'know, being made just to do it and all.

The behemoth indicated for her to follow, and Vakornol did for the sheer interest of it all; and there it was, a hoofed sort of thing that'd... invited itself into this chrysalis totally unhindered? She nodded her disbelief, and glanced away from the beast to Vargas. "Just like that, huh?" It already almost reminded her of the bristly thing in Orion. "Sure is stout. It's one of those new designs, right?" The thing would probably hit like a freight train, she was already guessing.

"Nah, even if it's dumber than a box of rocks, I'll try not to kill it." In a brilliant moment of stupidity, though, she stuck a paw out to poke at its nose. Rather intelligently, though, she was already braced to spring away.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas took the jesting with amused snorts. Psychological warfare? "I have not even truly begun," he warned, in a mock-dramatic, low growl quite unlike his usual tone. "As for my lack of scars: perhaps you are not so good at 'dancing circles around' others as you might think," he added, flashing her a glance of humorous challenge.

"As for Overseers--I had two. One has gone missing. Orthoclase-Alpha, one of my own spawn--let me know if you find it. It's either emotionally destroyed or molting," he added, though by now his concern sounded more like indifference. It was hard to be worried all the time. "But the other, Overseer Cain-? You would either love it, or hate it, I think. Very effective, but very dutiful." No humor whatsoever. "I like it, but then again, I am no free spirit," he added, with an overly loud, wistful sigh.

He didn't actually care, of course; but Vakornol would know that.

As for Abaddon, and being one of the "new designs," Vargas nodded. "It called itself, a 'wide horse' when I asked. I take it to be some sort of variation on a more common design. It reminds me of a small meadow deer," he added.

When he'd woken Abaddon to speak to it--the bull lightly injured and sleeping--it had been truculent, but also clearly reluctant to fight something quite the Leviathan's size. Vakornol wasn't all that much smaller; certainly she'd dwarf the one-ton bull, being almost a third taller than it and with a long and heavy tail, to boot. And her jaws-! Vargas had seen Vakornol in action.

He hadn't seen the bull in action, and he moved to get out of the way of what might quickly become a scuffle. "So, who should I cheer on-?" he asked her, amused, as he hopped up onto a boulder nearby.

His wounds hadn't been terrible, by any means, but they'd bled some and he'd slept for quite some time. He'd left, and then come back, too--not far; just into the nearby tunnel. But something about this Womb--its heat, its silence--soothed him, and he'd rested here again.

Rested, that was, until Vakornol's stupid paw prodded his nose.

The bull snorted awake with a start, blinking and jerking half-upright--banging his back on a rock and dropping down with a startled wince. The self-smack drove prey fight-or-flight (or more accurately, in his case, fight-and-flight) instincts rocketing, and powerful hindquarters sent him scrambling and barrelling out into the open--where, luckily for both of them, Vakornol was ready to jump away.

It wasn't outright hostility; he wasn't even awake enough, yet, to know what the hell had happened. Only that he'd been prodded abruptly awake, hurt, and there were strangers-...

Abaddon clattered on the rock and spun to face Vakornol, bewildered and immediately on the defensive; he snorted, head for now held high, tail arched back behind him. "WHAT-?" he demanded, but it sounded like the cut-off blurt of half a question. It was as though he'd wanted to ask, perhaps, "what are you," or "what is happening," or maybe "what was that" but couldn't find the other words halfway through, and just stopped there.

Close enough.

@Vakornol