ORIGIN

The faint knowledge of approaching Gembound wasn't lost on him; the faint stones, their glimmer of magic, tugged distantly at his awareness. Still a strange sensation. One he was getting used to. Astraea and his ilk could, perhaps, instantly identify someone at a distance but for Vargas, it was like catching a faint scent on the wind. Ruby-Beta he recognized, before the call even came--how could he not?--but Azrael he couldn't pinpoint, not until Vargas came striding into view.

Ahh. His eyes travelled over the winged beast. He'd seen it once, in passing, fighting in--Polaris, had it been?--but he wasn't overly familiar with it. He looked to Ruby-Beta as he came to a halt before the pair.

"I am here," he rumbled in answer; and then, patient, "I have time. Speak."

As he said it, he wondered what they were doing here. What Ruby-Beta had to tell him, or to ask. Was there news-? Was he needed, somewhere? Or did it have something to do with Azrael? Vargas glanced to him again, noting with approval the wings, the four muscled limbs, the sheer size of the creature. There was an aesthetic appreciation, too, for the gemstone and the effects of almost light that seemed to continue outward from it, radiating across the creature's furred chest. Some distant corner of his mind noted that longer claws or hooves would improve the hind legs for kicking combat; that the thick tail should get some sort of weapon at its end, like a spike or a club. Or a clubbed spike, he reasoned, amused. But overall it was an interesting design, and he wondered whose, exactly, it had been.

Then his attention was trailing back to Ruby-Beta, waiting.

Vargas listened, patient, to Ruby-Beta. An asset. He shifted his gaze again to Azrael, studying him with a fresh eye. He had already given the beast a once-over--an assessment of his strength, his build--but he did so again. He tried to imagine the various uses he might be: a guardian, a brawler, or even one to generate further, powerful spawn for the Forge. Of course, there was the possibility that there were hidden depths--intelligence, cunning, tactical instinct--but for that, he'd have to wait and see.

He gave Ruby-Beta a nod, one of approval, and then Azrael was speaking. He puffed up, demanded a fight, and Vargas gave a huff of amused laughter in response. "'Owed' a fight? Ruby-Beta promised you a fight? To what end?" he asked, curious. Why did it want a brawl--was there a reason for it, some perceived insult? Or was the winged creature simply itching for battle? His gaze trailed over Azrael again. "Do you know who made you?" he asked, but it was again with curiosity, not some sort of promise of hidden knowledge. This didn't look like any design he could remember, and he'd seen his fair share.

"You ask for both information and a fight! That is two requests; tell me, what do we gain for indulging you?" Again, it was with curiosity that he asked. There was no insult in it; if anything he greeted Azrael as an equal, or something near to--perhaps as a teacher might greet a student.

He wanted to know if Azrael truly intended to consider joining the Forge. And moreso--he wanted to see how it would respond.

Vargas laughed heartily at Azrael's declaration that Ruby-Beta had "backed out" of a fight.

Ahhh, he liked this one! It had fire, yes; it had pride, a sort of pride that was far too difficult to find these days. It held a healthy amount of aggression, but it seemed to be perfectly in control. Its magic, too--Vargas could not tell at a glance if the flicker of lights had been manipulation of the darkness (a fairly common ability, magically-speaking) or alteration of the light-orbs themselves. If the latter, he'd known very, very few capable of that, and it spoke of well-trained power.

He did note, however, that it was strange that Azrael had simply spawned from stone, like so many of this generation. He had mentioned lying dormant; how long had that been? A year, or a thousand-? He didn't strike Vargas as one of the common creatures spilling forth from the walls these days. Someone's creation, left behind? Or a blueprint finally taking hold on an available piece of stone? He mulled it over, but there would be no easy answer. Whoever had made Azrael--if anyone indeed had--had left his design behind, now.

"Good!" he boomed, when the demon-beast had finished speaking. "A good ally is difficult to find! Show me, then; show me your worth!"

With that, Vargas turned, sleekly slipping into a pacing stride to circle Azrael--a clear invitation to battle.

'FLAMES and DARKNESS' was a hint, giving Vargas only a split second of "uhoh"-tier realization before the actual flames. The inhale, the spread of wings, sent a tense spring-coil through the Leviathan's muscles, and when Azrael exhaled, he leapt up and to the side, in the direction he'd been circling. Past the crackle and roar of the flames, the demon might have heard Vargas's claws scrabbling at rock as the master hauled himself out of the way. Vargas was--luckily for him--quick; but even so, he had to sprint faster and faster, taking two great leaps midway, to avoid the torrent of fire that followed.

There was a faint smell of burning as the flames caught the end of his tail here and there, but for the most part, he'd managed to avoid the blast. As the flames came to a stop he skidded to a halt, too, tensing and turning to fully face Azrael--tensed as if to pounce.

There were no more words, just his leering grin and intense stare, but for the moment, the demon would have a moment yet to strike. And though Vargas may not have spoke, he was taking mental notes: Powerful. Confident. Controlled.

These were good qualities. And, once he had time to be, he'd certainly be pleased.