ORIGIN

The bump had Vargas glancing back, briefly alarmed by how unsteady the Orthoclase had looked. Still looked. He dipped his head in a brief nod of acknowledgment to the barest whisper of what had probably been Alpha excusing itself, and then looked forward once again.

"N-no." For the briefest of instants he was immensely disappointed in himself for having asked "do you want to choose." And then, to his surprise--no, his amazement!--the sometime-Overseer corrected itself, making (gasp!) a choice. He glanced back again, grasping that it was requesting the lying-in-wait role. He was, given how barely-alive Orthoclase seemed, a bit concerned about that. In fact, Vargas very nearly called it all off there and then. It could barely stand, it was shivering. But--again, perhaps a mistake on par with that of trusting its ability to spar upon its own request--he chose to trust its decision. He spoke, advising it quietly, his voice soft so as not to alert the Meadow Deer.

"Very well. Remember, stay in hiding, and only go for stragglers! You do not want to get caught in front of a stampeding herd." Hell, not even he would. "If you are uncertain of a target then do not strike; we will regroup and plan again, if so." He waited a moment, eyeing Alpha, and then turned to slip away.

It didn't occur to him that Alpha might use this time to slip away, never to be seen again--again; instead, Vargas was wholly focused now on the herd up ahead.

He was fast, and he circled quickly even at such a distance: almost fifty yards away but his sweeping stride carried him low around them, to the other side. He realized, then, that he'd made a minor mistake--he hadn't really noted any landmark at which he'd left Alpha. From the other side of the herd, it was difficult to tell where they'd both been, exactly. It can correct for their trajectory in time, but I will need to be at least somewhat accurate, he decided, and made his best guess. That said--they were wild animals. There was no knowing if they'd flee in a straight line or if, indeed, they'd flee at all.

Vargas crept closer, still out of sight of the herd but now downhill; he wasn't far off from them, and if they did charge his way, he'd be dangerously close. He hoped that would not become an issue, however: if they saw a predator, they'd form their defensive wall. But if they only heard a roar, they might quietly try to flee before he "saw them." That was his plan, and so--some forty yards off, downhill and behind a scattering of trees--the Leviathan took a breath.

He gave it his best bellow, an airshaking roar, and then turned to slam his weight into the nearest small tree. It was barely more than a sapling. He threw his weight the other way, then, trying to make it sound as though something truly enormous were crashing through the woods, here: hoping that the herd would run the other way.

Toward Orthoclase-Alpha. Who might, or might not, be capable of handling it.

Vargas hoped to hell that it was.

A few seconds passed: the sound of snorting and hoofbeats came, and Vargas realized that no, he had not frightened off the herd. Hell--they were heading toward him, if slowly. It wasn't a charge, but it certainly wasn't what he'd planned, and if they did spot him he might actually be in trouble. He muttered under his breath, and glanced back; he'd have to keep to the trees, hope they couldn't trample him with the cover, but--what now?

The Leviathan was wholly unaware of the trials and tribulations of his other-side-of-the-hill spawn. Instead, he was pacing, heart lifting a beat in its own pace, as he eyed the oncoming herd. They were visible, now, their slow trot a determined-eyed stare.

Oh no, he thought, and for a moment, he went blank.

Going blank was not a good reaction, not one fit for an Overseer of millennia, and it didn't last long. But for that fraction of a second, his mind was thrusting all his Meadow Deer knowledge into his consciousness.

Deadly, even to creatures such as he. Each beast was more than half his size, bulky and strong, full of horns that could pierce him through. And each was perfectly willing--aggressive, even--to charge and knock him down. He could outrun them--if he could get into the open; and he'd remained in the trees hoping for cover. Damn it, he thought, eyeing the open land wistfully. But to head for it would be heading toward the herd.

Vargas clenched his jaw, and settled on a final attempt to spook them into the other direction; if that didn't work, they might charge. And then Orthoclase-Alpha will get a fine view of its Master fleeing across the plains, he thought wryly to himself.

He leaned back again, taking another breath and bracing himself to run--forward or away, it didn't matter yet--and roared. And again he reached for a tree--barely more than a sapling, so that he could snap it away and brandish it like a club.

This time he was successful--and the herd was far enough off that the deer didn't charge or form ranks. Vargas breathed a sigh of relief as the deer hesitated, their heavy brows low over snorting nostrils. And as they slowly shuffled back, he smacked the sapling with loud thwacking sounds against the other trees around him.

They weren't fleeing, outright; they were moving at a fast trot back the way they'd come. Back toward Alpha. With luck, they'd pass it, and it'd manage to single one out--but if they weren't at a full fleeing gallop, it ran the risk of being immediately attacked. Vargas set out to follow them. Not too close--that'd make them stop, circle around... but he wanted to be close enough to intervene, should it be needed.

He hoped that it would not.

The sapling was cast aside, Vargas launching into a cautious lope up the hill and across the open field. He was keeping a safe distance, but already his eyes were worriedly scanning the treeline uphill for any sign of his child spawn. The flood of Meadow Deer was already lumbering into the forest, and-

There! The clumsy tumble of six too-thin limbs would still have been a terror for many of the cave's Gembound to see: the lurching lunge of a predator Alpha's size, even sick, was nothing to be shrugged off. Even the meadow deer cow had no chance; the tear of hooked talons, the seemingly desperate grip of jaws, did its work.

Vargas snapped his gaze to the herd, and rushed in to ensure they'd keep moving, that they wouldn't circle back for Alpha, charge it to save their cow. Another roar, and he was darting forward--still not close enough to force them to turn back and swing horns for him, but close enough to remind them that he was still there, and that he was still a threat.

Was it that he did too fine a job, appearing too intimidating to ignore? Or that he failed at his attempt, drawing just a bit too close to them? Whatever it was, he suddenly found a forest of horns churning back his way, and with a grunt of dismay and a spray of dirt he skidded to a stop. Then he found himself quickly backpedaling--thankfully away from Alpha. "DO YOU HAVE IT?" he bellowed, even as he backed away. If Alpha needed help, he'd need to find a way to get to it--without drawing the whole herd along with him.

Hopefully, though--(Vargas thought, as he eyed the herd storming around to charge)--it would be fine. Because right now, he was the one who might need help.

Well, that hunt had--in the end--been all Alpha.

Vargas came up panting, feeling rather foolish; his contribution had mostly been to fail and yell at things, and here poor Orthoclase was, downed and wounded for having to pick up his slack. He stood for a beat between it and the remains of the fleeing herd, but they did not turn back; there was no need to guard it now. So he shifted to face the Orthoclase, instead, looking over its wounded shoulder and its kill. "Well done!" he boomed, unaware of the inner turmoil it held, the horror it had felt at the kill. Belatedly, the scent of bile caught his nostrils, and he turned and peered toward it with confusion, spotting the small puddle against the dark earth mostly by the tangle of blood within it.

Vargas was not an evil creature, malicious and sadistic, prone to tormenting for the sake of it. But your average denizen of these caves, when faced with their own spawn down, vomiting and wounded by a Meadow Deer and having cried out in pain, would undoubtedly have shown deep concern: a few "are you okay?!"s and "what can I do"s and so forth. Despite the lack of actual malice, there was none of that sensitivity in Vargas and it showed; instead his practical mind wondered what he should (and even could) do for Alpha now. "Practicality" was the key word, because his decision in the end was to stride over and inspect the wound as best he could, thinking.

He couldn't mend it, no, but he knew from experience that the foreign matter should be removed, the torn plate picked clear and the injury washed, at least, in water. "Can you walk?" he asked, bluntly; "you are wounded; it will need to be washed. You have tree in your shoulder," he added, with faint humor. And the humor again, perhaps, showed just how far his disconnect was with Alpha's actual mentality--or maybe Vargas didn't know how else to deal with it.

He drew closer, slowing now--careful to glance at Alpha, sensitive at least enough to understand that its reaction might be violent or afraid. One long arm reached out, clawed fingers plucking at one of the larger wood splinters. "The tree will need to come out," he added, trying to pull the piece quickly and smoothly away. His movements, at least, were practiced and delicate--the Leviathan was, if nothing else, good at moving with precision.

The Meadow Deer itself, he practically ignored: it was dead, skull smashed in, and his concern was for his spawn. As poorly as he showed it.

Ahh, the foul luck poor Alpha had in being so vulnerable beside one so oblivious. Vargas knew that something was wrong, of course--it was hard not to, with his spawn cringing away and begging. But whether his offerings would do harm, or good, or more likely not make a dent at all in what was most admittedly broken indeed, was anybody's guess.

"You have not failed; you have succeeded! You did well," he repeated, maintaining a calm patience over his concern. He examined the limb again, his attention more careful now that he could see the way that Alpha was moving. It was, he thought, broken. "And your forelimb may be broken. But you are not," he went on. "Don't put weight on it," he warned, speaking more slowly, more clearly, his tone one offering caution. He held up the bit of wood that he'd removed, showing Alpha; then he let it drop into the grass. Its tone was heartwrenching, and he grimly wondered yet again just how it'd gotten quite this bad. If he could've seen its thoughts, maybe he would have understood, but such things were well beyond the Leviathan.

He didn't approach again, not yet; he itched to pull the bits of wood from the wound, but he didn't want to frighten the Orthoclase even further. He spoke after a few moments' thoughtful silence. "It will probably heal in a couple of weeks, or if your stone takes you--do you want to come back to Draco?" he asked, eyeing the shoulder closely. "You could rest there, in your stone, if you want. That would get rid of what's in there, at least." He'd have to make sure it wasn't too close to the Black Spire, but... "You still have five other good legs to use, unless you need a rest."

Leaving it here was a concerning thought, though. If Alpha plunged into its chrysalis here and now, he'd have to post a guard, or some such; such a gemstone would be impossible to hide, and Vargas was certain that the Forge had enough enemies that someone might try to damage it if it were left unguarded. Or maybe it's been in its stone all along-? In, and out of it? I haven't seen it almost at all during its absence, but... no; it probably wouldn't be so thin, he mused.

Now he waited for a decision, but he doubted that he'd get one. Doubted, even, that Alpha would understand much of what he'd even said. It's half feral, now, he thought.