ORIGIN - don't turn away now

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This thread contains

graphic themes

gore

violence

, and all the panic attacks / dissociative fits / generally unhealthy mindset that Alpha has come to be known for. Read at your own risk!
Orthoclase-Alpha had developed a strange—for it, mind—habit of humming over the past few days.

When lights would turn low and Pegasus quieted for snoozing rabbits and meadow deer lounging in contented piles, the monstrous hybrid would murmur to itself. All it rehearsed were monosyllabic answers and phrases, but… it was something other than being left to mire itself deeper in a terrifying hole fittingly labelled "despair." (The Lord had done an excellent job of carving its edges ever-steeper, and even cast fractal-sharp glass into the bottom of it.) Not once, though did its idle humming ever evolve into something resembling a song. It was merely words and thoughtforms that were aborted before they could ever leave its mouth. Still yet, the idle noise kept its throat from chafing raw every minute it spoke at a volume edging above a whisper.

Sometimes, it remembered to snare some small prey item—a rabbit, mouse, a bird, if it was lucky. Other times, it stayed beneath the light-dappled canopy, dimly lit, sunken, baggy eyes unseeing except for signs of movement.

Neither habit bode well for its health or the ceaseless exhaustion deep in its stone.

At least it could manage to stomach something while it was trapped here.

After the Lord, it had tried to flee to Leo, to vanish beneath fern fronds and dripping-wet leaves, but the blustering wild of Ursa laughed in its face. Frostbite lingered on its claws, yet, just barely managing to begin. By that point, the orthoclase had already damn-near collapsed by the cave's entrance, curled against a stone that did little to shield it. After who-knows-how-many-days of restless sleep, it'd dragged itself back to Pegasus, ungracefully weaving through the room of Kings along the way.

How long has it been? it asked itself after that incident. Since it had left. Since Vargas had come for it. Since Dhracia had spoken to it and dismissed it. Two weeks… ? Days? Hours?

An ache harsher than its endless sense of hunger-and-nausea always accompanied that simple question; the Lord had peeled that scar open, too. Bone-deep, cyclical, an omnipresent nonexistence where even the concept of an Orthoclase-Alpha should be. It feared to grasp for that after it'd been wiped clean with rubbing alcohol and cotton pads. It feared to grasp, feared for what it would find. It feared for what was unknown, and far more for what was known. Admission terrified it, even as it pointed its glowering face down at the monster.

But, it had figured one thing. One thing. And that was why it tried to speak.

The orthoclase startled awake as Pegasus's birds began to chatter anxiously. Slow, loping footfalls thumped nearby it. A flash of violet hide in the canopy, and— Hauling itself out for him to see winded it; not because of the exertion, but because of the exposure that it threatened. Flanks seized and shuddered as it willed itself into motion—what other chance is there?—shouldering its way through the branches. Quills clacked limply against one another. Feet dragged through the fallen leaf litter and debris, but still it broke (~~stumbled~~) into the open air. Faded green eyes fixed shakily onto the Leviathan.

At first, its voice came only as a vague, stuttering murmur. "Muh-Master V-Varh— argas…" But, it swallowed thickly, stifling a cough. "Mas-ter," with a modicum more confidence, some more strength, "Varg— Vargas."

It shook where it stood, tattered nostrils flaring with whistling breaths. Its mane was in a state of disarray, quills bent, matted, and long-neglected. Overall, it was just… dingy. Filthy, caked in dirt and leftover blood from rabbits. Neglected. In a state of disrepair and so clearly far from its prime, but—did it even remember what that was? How it should look? Alpha had avoided its reflection since the first few moments of its fall from grace.

But, it was here, and… and—and so was Vargas. If he didn't turn away.

"Vargas," it tried again, mere seconds after its last attempt, almost... insistent.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

The Leviathan's appearance was an almost tragic counterpoint to the ragged exhaustion of Orthoclase-Alpha's. Where one languished, hollow-eyed and dusty, thin and sick, the other was a picture of gleaming, muscled health: head held high, cheer in him, a picture of confident purpose.

Maximus was gone; that was an enormous weight off his back. He intended to return to Orion to pick up those who'd returned to their chrysalises--they should be emerging in a few days. He'd be waiting for them, to praise their attempts; he was even considering rewarding those who had tried and fallen. Oh, generous nature-! Right now, his mind was also on the farm, and on hunting. His plan for the next few hours was to check on the farm's progress, and then to hunt, and feed. A few tunnel runners, perhaps, or a Meadow calf, if he got lucky-

'Muh-Master V-Varh— argas…'

It was a bare whisper over the wind, and at first he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it. Massive limbs halted mid-stride, backed up, Vargas peering warily into the thick foliage. 'Mas-ter... Varg— Vargas.' Vargas blinked, and--('Vargas.')--turned toward the sound. Plunging into dense underbrush at a call was never a good idea, of course; it might be an ambush, who knew? But-...

It didn't sound like an ambush.

In fact, it... sounded like Orthoclase-Alpha. Then he saw it--it had broken free of the underbrush a little distance back. Into open air. Facing him, speaking to him, so unexpected and out of place that for a moment Vargas had genuine trouble processing what he was seeing. Or, at least, how to react to it. He stood in mute shock for a beat, trying to think over a dozen things at once: how has it gotten here? Does it require aid? Is it injured? Why has it waited this long? Is this a trap? Why Pegasus? What-

What would have once turned into a businesslike bluster--a loud "ah, you are here--why did you wait so long" with a looming threat behind the words--never emerged. One could say what they wanted of Master Vargas, but despite being a very old dog he was quite capable of learning new tricks. And the necessity of handling Orthoclase-Alpha with phenomenally soft, white kid gloves was one of those tricks--anything other might send it scurrying away again, sobbing, apologizing for nothing, broken beyond repair.

The Master slowly sat down, instead, and dipped his head in a sideways incline, a greeting. "Orthoclase-Alpha," he greeted, quietly; "It is good to see you intact." Now, what would come next? Some half-formed defiance (something he half-expected, now, after Maximus had finally found a voice, only to use it to run away yet again); an apology? A pledge of duty or, perhaps, a simple "reporting in"? Whatever the case, it had called to him, and he would wait patiently for it to get to its purpose in its own time.

Belatedly, he wondered if Lord Dhracia had anything to do with this. He saw none of the marks of her handiwork on it--no sign of it having chrysalized, no excess terror in it, no damage done. Perhaps she had... bolstered it, somehow? Magically, or with words?

"Come; speak. I am in no hurry," he told Alpha, his enormous bulk remaining carefully still.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

There was a moment, however brief, where the two of them stood in silence: Vargas, startled by its sudden appearance, and Alpha, momentarily lapsing into the fluttering instinct of prey at a single glance. It lifted a heavy forearm, leaning backward, but the limb merely… hovered. Listed back and forth. Uncertain like the prickling of gnarled points and its own eyes flashing their whites. Like it hadn't expected the Leviathan to acknowledge it, much less lay eyes upon it—all of it, now, no longer sequestered into a hole with three walls guarding its back.

A wary glance was tossed over its shoulder. It no longer had that comfort, it abruptly realized.

Its sense of… faux bravado? (… confidence?) waned.

It shrunk into itself with an apprehensive shiver, tossing another glance backward. There was a hole in the brush, from where it'd shoved its way out into exposure, but—could it reach that in time as an escape plan? It could not outrun Vargas if he intended to pursue. Orthoclase-Alpha swallowed thickly, and its entire body shook with the motion. Quickening breaths whistled through its nostrils—

SPEAK! the Master had said, and he awaited in picturesque stillness. Somehow, the absence of motion helped. Miraculously, even.

Slowly, it set its foot back down and inevitably spread its stance outward just to keep its balance.

"I—I w-want to, to—" Alpha started in a crackling whisper, before clearing its throat and restarting with its over-rehearsed lines, "I wuh-want to—to f-fight with y-you." Quills clicked against one another, and it forced a forward step that surprised even itself—it glanced down at the floor, eyes blown wide for a brief second before managing to pin its gaze back on Vargas. "T-to… show—" and here, its voice wavered, putrescent green eyes listing elsewhere in hesitation, "I'm, I'm—not weak. I-I can… s-still be use-useful."

It sounded like it was lying, or, at least, that it did not believe in the words it was ~~saying~~ regurgitating.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

He waited, quiet. Watched the leg that lifted, the glance back, the leg set back down (breath held, released).

And then, past its apparent fear--the long-standing terror and withered appearance--it spoke. It... challenged him. No--it is challenging itself. Leave it to Vargas to hear "I want to fight with you," and feel a warm and fuzzy pride in his spawn. To think, what a good child! Yes! What a fine, strong creation! It was terrified and broken, and yet it came to him to face its fears.

Ironic, and a little sad, that the one thing Maximus had demanded of him--but never earned--was ablaze now in his chest; pride, in Orthoclase-Alpha. This, to him, was strength: the will to stand back up and face a threat, no matter how much it was in Alpha's own mind, how much it had built that threat up for itself. It still perceived it as an impossibility--and yet came to face it all the same. But Vargas tempered his emotions, tamped them down so as not to frighten Alpha with the intensity of them; and he thought about his words before he answered.

"I am pleased with your courage," he began, and his voice was quiet, calm. "I will fight you, if you are certain. But," he went on, measured, so that it could take in everything he said, "I know you are not weak." Your being here proves that. "I know you can be useful. You do not need to prove that by fighting me, unless you want to." He considered, briefly: would him truly fighting it--truly going all-out and possibly beating the hell out of the already-battered creature, and in its obvious reluctance--only traumatize it further..? It was obvious that it wanted to confront its fear, however reluctantly; but would he make it worse?

I could simply let it strike me, and play defensive, and go easy on it, he thought to himself. Unless, of course, its ferocity in its fear truly challenged him--always a possibility.

He glanced out over the meadow, an alternative also striking him. "Or we can hunt the meadow deer, and you can prove it to me that way. They are dangerous," he warned, looking back to Alpha--"even to us. That is what they are there for,"--to be a challenge, and large prey, for the most monstrous of the Nest's creations.

He studied Orthoclase-Alpha, slowly pushing back upright. "I offer that as an alternative. But if you wish to fight me, we can try. Only, be sure that you are ready for it," he added, quietly. It might have come across as doubt--a niggling intrusion, perhaps, of you are not ready to the Orthoclase's challenge. But it wasn't--it was genuine concern.

Whatever happened, with Orthoclase-Alpha finally standing here before him--speaking to him--he did not want to break it again.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

The orthoclase stilled again as Vargas began. Its head swung minutely to the left, to the right—sceleras flashed as it glanced further than the movement. Quills prickled, but not with any sort of anticipatory excitement or apprehension; its eyes narrowed, rigid face pulling into a taut sort of… look of confusion, unregulated out of unawareness. Backlit nostrils flared sharply as it lowered its head, and then forced it back up high to backpedal into an arched back. Its head teetered back and forth in half of a no.

In the span of one conversational beat, Orthoclase-Alpha had been thrown off-script; it'd expected the leviathan to jump at the opportunity for a fight, for him to prove what it refused to admit as true so it couldn't deny it any longer. Not for him to present a choice—please, anything but that and to make a (seemingly) blasé effort to deny its weakness and lack of use for it. Something gripped at its throat, and it could not be choked down.

Strangely enough, that something nearly sublimated into frustration before burning down into an acidic flare of nerves. All there was to show for that was the split-second puff and rattle of quills before they fell limp again.

Its mouth moved, but no words formed in even its conscience.

It'd wanted to fight him, but it… didn't want to take what choice had been laid out—even if it had been merely an alternative option offered out of concern. But, how could Alpha have known that, so deeply mired in its own head even now, resembling a fish gasping for air and floundering at the edge of a waterway? So deprived of anything with a semblance of interaction for cycles and cycles that it forgot how to do even the simplest steps of the social dance? It hesitated and it hesitated—

—and it promptly threw out whatever spine it had managed to convince itself it had.

"I—" it started, jolting as if it were startled by the sound of its own voice before managing to continue, "wuh-what, wh-whichever y-you… want."

Please choose.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

He probably should have let it go--gently accepted the Orthoclase's words, and made a decision for it. He would--he would do the latter; but the first? "Just let it go?" It wasn't the Leviathan's way.

Everything was a test; and everything was a lesson, and if there was a stumble along the way, it was his duty--as Overseer, as the Orthoclase's creator, as its trainer, its Master, and its parent--to teach it. "At some point, you will need to make your own decisions," he told it, and his words, at least, were gentle.

But then Vargas stood; and he stepped back, and he tensed down, a little--not to spring, but bracing himself. It was easiest, he reasoned, just to do this here: to give it the chance to strike him. He would see where this took them. And he was also guessing that one reason for its hesitation might simply have been disagreement. It might have wanted to fight him, but feared disagreeing with his alternative suggestion: so he would simply fall back on its initial one.

"We will fight, then; a spar," he added, his voice cautious now. He had no idea how far feral the Orthoclase had gone, how violent it had become. "No very serious injuries."

A breath, braced, and then he added: "You may begin."

@Orthoclase-Alpha

The moment passed before Orthoclase-Alpha could even begin to react to such a… seemingly bold statement. If it could've, it'd have given a shiver of repulsion, internally lamented for reasons unknown to it. Instead, it continued to just… look utterly lost. It'd have wrung its hands with barely-contained nervous energy.

Vargas stood, shifted away and down, and the orthoclase responded in kind. A step back, quills rustling against the plating of its shoulders, and a defensive half-crouch despite the distance already between their two bodies; all that it was missing was raising its arms in defense and a preemptive wince for an offensive attack it was sure would come. When it did not, and the Leviathan spoke, Alpha peeked upwards once again.

A beat, with a slightly loosening jaw. It processed at last, and click!ed its teeth back together.

It then took a tentative step forward, and another, halfway to slinking along the ground. Putrescent eyes wobbled between intensely gauging Vargas's reaction and watching for any too-sudden movement from him. When there was nothing, it chanced a few more steps, hesitated—too close, too soon—and shifted back to where it'd started to recuperate with shallow breaths.

Orthoclase-Alpha had not expected to get so far, and it didn't know quite how to… start. It glanced up and down at the Master, trying desperately to gauge weakness in his stance, targets to go after, but—what then? The monster tried another wavering pace forward, and then to the side; anything to make it seem like it was making progress or strides. Vargas offered some reassurance that it could have the first hit, and still it hesitated.

The legs… ?

Putrescent eyes scanned Vargas again through another lurching step.

After at least a minute of a seesawing fluttering back and forth, the orthoclase steeled itself into a lopsided charge for one of Vargas's overlong forearms. It stumbled as it slowed just before potentially making contact, sweeping its own forearms out to grapple for a hold and knock the limb back—maybe even unbalance him… ? Perhaps… ?

There was at least one thing to note, regardless of the success of such an attempt: there was no freight train-like inertia—or weight—to be concerned about.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

After the first thirty seconds or so of hesitation, he had offered some assurance: "You may have the first hit." He'd, otherwise, not moved. It was almost sad--no, it was sad--to watch Orthoclase-Alpha dance, dipping back and forth, dodging and combatting nothing more than its own damn fear.

And it was his fault, wasn't it? Or was it something more? He still didn't know.

He had braced himself, but there was no reason for it, in the end: Orthoclase-Alpha stumbled over its own step, slowing and grasping--nothing, leaving Vargas at a loss as to what to do.

He stared down, and hesitated.

"Try again," he said at last, patient. He offered no pity in his tone--that might shame the Orthoclase. He offered no harshness; that might frighten it.

He was as toneless and immobile as a wall, and as without hostility. But how would Alpha see that-? Vargas hesitated before speaking again, unsure if the "wisdom" he now offered would be seen as foolishness, as confusing-... "Your own greatest enemy right now is yourself. I cannot help you to fight that, but I can wait until you hit."

Would it understand?

Was he even right?

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Its forearms met the dirt, with arm-spikes peeling back clots of sod and a harsh sort of exhale blustering from its mouth. Its skull immediately tracked upward, sunken eyes fixing on Vargas's before he even spoke. Pushing backward, it scuffled a few meters off. Quills flared outward, as wild as its gaze flickering to and fro.

There Orthoclase-Alpha stood, stunned once more by indecision and nerves given no justification by the Leviathan. Overgrown talons sank into the soil and carved ruts through it as the rest of its body fell halfway to bowing. Head low to the ground, chin just about to graze against tamped-down wildgrasses, it stared from beneath chipped brow-ridges. Its mane clattered against itself in a discordant rhythm with already-seizing flanks. Even with a target standing dead-still, opening himself to even the simplest attack, it'd missed.

Frustration coalesced into a seething and blistering lump in its stomach, and that alone sent a shiver of repulsion through its mane. Despite the added kindling of his words, however patient, it was not Vargas it fancied hissing and spitting at. No, it was—

"—your own greatest enemy… is yourself."

Whatever nervous impulse had started to haul it back onto its feet came to a groaning halt. Worn-down joints and gears ceased in their movement, and the orthoclase's neck popped as it averted attention away from the ground—where it'd started and aborted a snarl. A wince split its eyes.

A school of thoughts edging into the millions in number flooded in. With it, the frigid wash of being snapped into cruel reality, into terrifyingly full awareness. Putrescent eyes fluttered away, attention drawn back to its surroundings as if they were entirely new, entirely dangerous. It took a wobbling step backward—more resembling a newborn fawn taking first flight than a graceful, horrific monster—and hesitated to even stand in place. "I—" it tried, at least, to watch for Vargas's legs, gaze far averted elsewhere, "I d-don't kn—" Another pace backward, so the distance grew.

Orthoclase-Alpha forced its head to tilt upward at least, and the rest of its body to stand up overly straight. Overcompensating, really, buttoning up the suit and seeming wholly unprepared for another round of desperately mustering up the damn courage to break forth. Another... grab for its initial assault idea? (Calling it a plan would be too kind.)

Its second approach was warier than the first—rife with a stuttering pace—but it did not slow or stumble before impact; it merely snapped its arms out to meet Vargas's forelimb and find a grip before its skull and chest might've made contact.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas's words had seemed to have some effect. Just what that effect was, the Leviathan could not say: Orthoclase-Alpha, though, shifted its gaze and seemed to focus.

Vargas didn't try to move away--not at first; only just when the snag was about to hit did he jerk back, and even then--deliberately--not enough to avoid the strike. He was going easy on the Orthoclase, of course. One wrong move and he might frighten it, spur it into that horrific fight-or-flight-... He was still surprised enough that it had even come here, in the end. And every little twitch, every jerk and every glance, still showed its terrible fear. Except... it was more focused, now, wasn't it..?

He decided, quickly, to offer nothing in turn that it did not first strike at him. Nothing that would escalate. Nothing it wouldn't (he hoped) perhaps expect. So when he stumbled down, one lanky limb pulled easily out from under him, he yanked for one of Alpha's with the other.

Of course, it helped that the Orthoclase had an extra pair of limbs--it would be far harder to knock it down. But for combat and for its peace of mind both, right now, perhaps that was for the best.

Vargas himself was half on the ground, regardless: propped on the dirt and down at half his usual hulking height.

He was still wondering where this would take them. Would it need to unleash-? Beat on him, for awhile, before it felt... itself, again? It won't be that easy. Nothing so fast and simple, not unless Lord Dhracia had worked some kind of bizarre magic on it.

But-... he would wait and see.

@Orthoclase-Alpha (I swear he's going gentle--it's a 20 for GENTLE-)

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