ORIGIN - yogurt-infused bloodlust

Khavur was still fired up. You'd think delving a little into massive monster puppy mode would ease the nerves somewhat, but honestly it had only excited them further. Maximus had been right, absolutely... going berserk in Draco had been frightening, traumatized, guilt-inducing... but out here, it wasn't really going berserk as much as it was just fun. No idea what Master Vargas would do if he knew about that confusing slurry of emotions.

To be honest, Kethri's funeral hadn't jarred Khavur as much as the reason behind it, and the glee with which the Hand had done it. In the same way, the death of Scout had been less about the act of violence and more about the emotions surrounding it for Khavur. Perhaps that was because it understood violence in some capacity... but Khavur had not initially understood the happiness it had brought both of the Hands when they had enacted it. That breed of elation felt alien and all too familiar, all at once. This, and Maximus's endangerment of their plan, was why Khavur had wanted to escape the lamb for a while.

But back to Master Vargas, because it's a funny set-up for some irony: what would he think if he knew right now that this was what Khavur was doing? Did this count as "processing"? Based on where Khavur's appendages were taking it, this just seemed to be complicating the emotions almost deliberately. Because now it was in the place where the lamb and the lion had danced together.

Khavur made its way inside and idly paced around the center of the colosseum, remembering the dance. The song. The Maximus. The plan, the reason behind it, everything leading up to it-- dear gosh this was too much. Shoot. Shoot.

@Vakornol

... and enter Vakornol: carefree, but certainly not careless.

She breathed and lived in the Forum in the most literal sense—whenever she'd ceased in her wanderings, the Hound returned to the same haunts, the same sights (because... y'know, there weren't all that many in this nest to witness) as before. Presently, she was sprawled across worn-down stone seats, chartreuse accents and eyes glowing in the shadow of the overhang above her. Snoozing away, if you will.

Why live your life as a prey animal, hiding away just to sleep, when you can lounge out in plain sight?

One eye winked open, incandescent pupil fixing on the garish shape occupying the floor. Sharp points scuffled in the periwinkle, glittering sand. Wings shuffled at flanks. Was that six legs and two heads?

Vakornol shifted, blinking her thinly-veiled interest; she rocked up to her feet and paced the grandstands. "Well, look at you!" came her eager, (familiarly?) booming voice as she plodded down the premium seats and into the mosh pit zone, "what's your name, hm?" Her head tipped up and down minutely, sizing the massive and... spiky thing up. Quite the design, right there—if it was even deliberate.

@Khavur

And now Master Vargas was here!

SHOOT.

As soon as the voice (terrifyingly familiar?) came thundering towards it, both the Reaver's sets of eyes snapped to the source. Khavur straightened from a slouching mound to a stalwart tree so fast it could be considered slapstick comedy. Immediately, panicked thoughts ran their course: 'Has he been following? Watching?! Is there a reason he wanted to see me here of all places, where was he, how did I not see him--?' And while it tried to curb the worst of the shock so it did not look as though it was completely off guard, there was still sensible commotion going on within its demeanor.

Then the Master asked for ~~its~~ name. 'Is this a test?' "Kh-avur, R-" Ahem. "Reaver of the Dark Above." But as he... came closer... wait a minute- "You... are not Master Vargas?" It They narrowed their eyes, as if that would help with seeing the details. Oh, she was Vargas alright... if you squinted. Khavur unsquinted, if that's something you can do, and proceeded to play a little game of Spot The Difference.

You know, there actually quite a few differences once she got up close. Embarrassing. Khavur released its position, relaxed to a somewhat normal degree. Just because he didn't know her didn't mean he could be all buddy-buddy with her. In fact, he shrank away a little before mimicking her sizing up act. Lots of questions bubbled up to the surface, but Khavur felt no inclination to interrogate immediately. First it had to know... if she was not Master Vargas, then who was she?

@Vakornol

"At ease, soldier," came her response, barked between huffs of barely-stifled—but not derisive, though it may read as such—laughter.

The overdesigned monstrosity had tensed like a wind-up toy, and Vakornol half-expected it to start a toreador's march. That, or just flop over in a faint. She was sure her gracefully hopping down to the arena's floor did not help, even as it attempted some form of relaxation and conversation.

Its mistake had her eyes creasing up with a toothy grin. "Do we really look so similar?" A beat, spared to very obviously look herself over, like this were a completely new fact. Still purple, still quite pointy, still clearly predatory.

Her assessment came up positive, and she rolled her shoulders (like one would swing their arms casually at their sides.) "Ah, no. I came a bit before him. Vakornol, at your service," and here she lifted a taloned paw, gesturing toward herself, and then waving it dismissively, "The Forsaken Revenant, too, since we're sharing titles." Vakornol blinked once. "You're one of his though." Stated, rather than asked.

(... real piece of work, it was. The hound tried not to be too judgemental; function over fashion for the early designs seemed... practical. Even if the other beastie was standing out like the sorest thumb in the known universe. Not necessary for stealth, then.)

"You here for business or pleasure?" She quipped, wholly uncommitted to the potential resulting answer. A little eager, maybe, but otherwise holding steady at neutral and casual. Vakornol, in kind, wasn't going to jump at the opportunity to interrogate.

@Khavur

As soon as mysterious Vargas stranger started talking, it became very evident that she was, in fact, very distant from Master Vargas -- in terms of demeanor, anyway. Well, she was making humorous cracks at Khavur, but for whatever reason they seemed... easier to understand? Easier to uncomfortably chuckle at with one head (small-horned) while the other (large-horned) remained perfectly grim and proper. The confusion had yet to fade.

She seemed to make a lot more jokes than Master Vargas, actually. She seemed more loose and almost untidy, whereas Master Vargas (like the rest of them) was coiled tight like a spring. This... Vakornol, whose title would've made Khavur turn beat red from embarrassment at its own, if it had been built for such emotional expression. She could tell what- whose he was... what did that say about him? What did that say about Master Vargas? Khavur simply gave a trademark soldierly nod in pseudo-response to the pseudo-question.

Probably that he was bad at titles.

And this... "came before him" business, that struck Khavur as odd. Like a proto-him? Masters made proto-Valkhounds? Interesting. It made Khavur wonder what it was a proto- for.

The question was met with some hesitation on account of calculating the answer that Khavur would want to have the potential to be relayed back to Master Vargas. This was probably (definitely) overthinking it. "I was given a week of vacation..." So, pleasure? "although I do intend to use it to train." Train the mind, train the body, train for guardianship, and the Deathmatch... lots of things needed training, and to train for. Khavur might have inherited Vargas's workaholism somehow. "What... of you?" Would that make sense, that question? Oh man... Khavur was bad at this...

@Vakornol