Imp was making a journey these last few hours. He'd made his way from Eridanus to Tunnel H to check out his old artwork, and met Aethril; then he'd gone to Cetus to talk with Dragon. With that out of the way, he was coming here--and then heading for Cepheus, afterward. It actually hadn't been that bad, really; most of the caves were en route from one to the next, right beside one another, so it wasn't like he was backtracking or anything. Plus, everything was a lot easier with eyes.
But he had gotten a little lost and gone the wrong way on the way here, and seen Cepheus--so at least now he knew how to get back there easily enough.
Right now, though, he had one other visit to make. The gate guard had let him past, with some questions, which Imp had impatiently answered. When he'd said he was here to speak with Vargas, they'd finally waved him past. So, here he was.
Imp took a deep breath, eyes glittering with mischievous, hateful malice.
He came in with tilted head, his strides long, his gaze quizzical. It took him a moment to actually recognize Imp, and he let out a short, harsh laugh as he did so.
He wondered what Imp wanted, but truth be told he wasn't all that concerned. A little concerned by the creature's lack of proper address--he was Master Vargas, after all--but he did not hate Imp.
He hardly thought of Imp at all.
The creature was one he'd classified as annoying, but tough--a Champion of Hydra at least twice over, once blind, and that counted for something in Vargas's books. Clearly rebellious, but also absolutely undaunted.
Which was fine... as long as he knew where to muzzle himself in the Master's presence.
Imp grinned fearlessly up at Vargas.
At least, it was fearless on the surface.
Deep down, there was terror, a thrill of horror at the memories of being pinned and torn into by the fuckhead monster that loomed above him now. But there was so much hatred there that it had turned to a sort of wild exhilaration, a ferocity that drove the venom that thickly laced his words.
For a moment he basked in the glow of having said that shit to Vargas--to a Master, and to this fuck in particular; it was probably the high point of his life.
Or one of them, at least.
Vargas's reaction was instantaenous--he didn't consider, but simply lunged.
Vargas's eyes narrowed.
He looked the little beast over.
When Vargas lunged--and missed--Imp snorted. He then flopped over, inching in, throwing his wings out dramatically as if helpless. It wasn't a good feeling, really--wasn't at all pleasant to be back in that situation--but he knew it'd be worth it in a second.
Even as he helpfully tapped Vargas's hand, and tried to maneuver the Leviathan's thumbs around his throat.
Talk about dancing with death.
...Of course, if Aethril had been lying, this was about to end really fucking badly--but Imp didn't think she was.
Vargas stared, his uncertain grip (
He snorted, pulling back, sitting down.
It was a little wretched, really.
There. He could take that warning, or he could leave it; but Aethril might blame Vargas, even, if he'd left it all unsaid. Though really, he was being kind.
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He came upright, pulling away, staring up at the Master with a thrilling sense of invulnerability.
As for the Master's other warnings? Imp ignored them, because it almost did sound like Vargas was doing Imp a favor. And anyway... the mention of Nemean had him grinning yet again.
He hoped for it. He craved it.
Vargas stared, nonplussed.
His expression darkened, and he went still.
Nemean-... had overstepped. Of that, there was no question. Traitor or not... she'd overstepped. And ever since Farina's return, he'd expected something like this. But... he and Nemean had a history. They'd been sadists together, certainly. Had laughed together over the most incredibly dark scenarios. Had shed blood together.
Hell, he'd even let her dress him up for tea parties.
But this-..? Somehow, he hadn't expected this--even after seeing Astraea obliterate her once with fungus, seeing her return to her gemstone melting and screaming, he hadn't expected this. And realistically? There was nothing Vargas could do for her, even if he were so inclined.
If Imp kept pushing him, he'd haul him the entire way back to Aethril for delivery, and he would most certainly not be gentle.
Oof.
The reminder fucking hurt--ignited another smoldering hatred in his gut--but Imp fought it down.
What penises Imp had been seeing that resembled Vargas's bizarre hammerhead, he left unsaid. Likely he was bluffing.
But there was a kernel of truth in it: he fully intended to draw Master Vargas in full, glorious, turgid color, with a penis for a body and its tip for his ugly head.
Vargas considered snagging Imp by the throat and dragging him roughly the entire way to Cepheus, presenting him to Aethril and politely requesting she explain how cave dynamics worked. But truth be told, he was rather in a pickle, here. Aethril would undoubtedly expect him to handle his own problems; storming off to tell on Imp was akin to a child's tantrum.
He took a breath.
He strode off, then, but it was telling that he offered only words.
exit Vargas