ORIGIN - The New Meta

backdated to February 19th--other player was in power grid hell until now-

There was, somewhere here in Draco--he hoped--a prospect for The Sentinel's aspirations. He was unsure the other would allow it; he had, however, obtained permission from the Master to request it. It would not hurt, he knew, to ask what he wished: to borrow its design, to fuse it with his own, in an attempt to create another fighter worthy of the Forge.

The Sentinel was being highly selective. Bar the stone he'd revived from Deathmatch, he had yet to create spawn of his own. And he wanted his first chosen spawn--the first he'd choose himself--to reflect well upon his own design.

To that end, he'd been searching for potential partners with an element that was not Corrupted, for it seemed to him to be of little benefit and much distraction in physical combat; for someone who could stand on two (or four) legs yet still wield a weapon with hands and arms; for someone with a shell or loose skin or the like for taking blows. Too, he wanted some measure of size, and--lastly--a magical element that was powerful at lower levels. Light, or fire--electricity--something that could jolt or blind or sear without much investment.

V-Selenite-One struck him as a strong potential candidate for all of these. It had done well enough in the Deathmatch--had it not been paired with the monstrous Galleon, it might have advanced farther. (The Sentinel had doubted that he could have beat that one, either.)

"V-Selenite-One," he called out, approaching a figure with teal glow and a mane of quills. He came to a halt, settling his halberd haft-down against the rocky floor. "The Sentinel wishes to create new spawn for the Forge. Its form," and for once, he gestured lightly to his conversational partner to indicate exactly who 'it' was, "would be suitable. Would it wish to grant life to The Sentinel's stone? It has gained the Master's permission."

No one could say that he was not, at least, straight to the point.

@V-Selenite-One

In which Selenite inherited absolutely none of its father's attachment to stone or kid.
... and what, exactly, has that prospect been doing, following the Deathmatches? Basking in glory and fame? Making grand use of access to the break room afforded to all its participants? Furthering its own legacy as a gladiator and trailblazer for four-handed combat?

Not particularly.

In comparison to the rest of the Chaos Forge, the selenite has really been living the quiet life: stretching its legs on the long walks between Draco and Leo to continue studying beneath the Blacksmith— spending a few days either here or there— and practicing on that which doesn't require an eternally-burning forge as a heat source. Most of the entertainment, lately, has been found in refining its muscle memory for making arrowheads. Quite the pile of them has accumulated in its stash, interspersed among a number of knives (new and old) and other slightly improvised weapons from much younger days.

Present day sees the odd humanoid seated side-saddle on a rock, utterly enraptured with its own ministrations until—... Oh. A face seldom spoken to and even more rarely with.

Viridescent eyes blink slowly once they've flicked up to acknowledge the Sentinel. Pointed ears flick forward at even more of a snail's pace and V-Selenite-One then thinks better of attempting to continue working with its hands and formulating a response to the Sentinel's sudden proposition; a proposition, which is a bit of an honor, considering the Valkhound's relative status amid the so-called meat and bait of the rest of the Forge.

... not that it totally concerns itself with such things, but... the point stands.

Its snout wrinkles slightly, a curious (but ultimately neutral) expression fixing itself to its face while it stands to almost meet the Sentinel's eyes. "All right," it huffs out, perfectly agreeable without apparent consequence. "... right now?"

@The Sentinel

"If," he rasped, too-many-eyes falling to study the arrowheads for a beat, "it has the time." Toneless, but it was not mockery. He could not tell how important the whatever-this-was might be. He turned, looking over his shoulder as best he could, toward the Aperture--and then back. "Within the tunnel. It must not become corrupted."

He wanted a child of Light.

But--wait. Head tilted, skull-nostrils exhaled. "Does it wish something in return?" He could not yet say what. Perhaps the enchanted dagger at his hip. Perhaps some future aid or service. ...Perhaps arrowheads. He did not know.

That would be up to the Selenite to decide.

@V-Selenite-One

"If it has the time." Ah, well—... V-Selenite-One's already walking when the Sentinel indicates a course leading out of Draco. "I can pick that up later," it assures despite the lack of necessity in doing so, "and work on it whenever."

Of course, it hesitates to step further once a trade's proposed, if only for the consideration at all. It's hardly a stranger to bartering and trading— as unnecessary as Attikias had always made it out to be— and yet no inkling of thought is spared toward any of the armaments the Sentinel's accrued over the past many cycles. Instead it contemplates the opportunity that's fluttered into its perception and whether or not to reach out and catch it.

Such a notion is entirely contingent upon the hound's willingness, but— Quills go a-prickling and four round, glowing pupils fully settle upon him again. "Do you think that Master Vargas would approve of a second spawn? At my behest?" V-Selenite-One asks with rambling conscience.

The pad of a thumb massages into the cut-off, scarred-over stumps of its fingers. "As a— um, body to replace mine so that I can spend more time studying to... well— make weapons for the Forge. Not just arrowheads and flint knives."

@The Sentinel

The Sentinel peered, struggling to think past the flashes of war that suddenly dominated his mind. Something about the scarred fingers incited imagery of violence in him, a desire to wield his blade to inflict further damage--and he had to take a moment to tamp this down.

That brought up his first question. "Would it wish the Sentinel's magic, or its own? It is powerful. But-" and how did he describe this-? Corruptive, yes. Distracting did not even begin to touch upon it. He knew no other world--he had never been uncorrupted. He had never been not-Chaos. So he hesitated again, and did his best: "It is all. The Sentinel sees into the shadows, and sees war it has not seen. But yes. The Sentinel did not plan for three. But it has permission to create its spawn. It offers one to you."

It seemed a fair trade--and he could not see Master Vargas faulting him for creating additional spawn for the Forge, given his permission to do exactly that. But--perhaps unexpectedly--he studied Selenite a moment longer. He had never really spoken to it, before. Maybe that was for the best, given Sentinel's brand of "speech," but he considered before adding, more slowly, to his thoughts: "The Sentinel would think that it should go to learn. Can it wander, yet? Has it that right? It is an important task." It was slightly awkward--but it was probably the closest the Sentinel could come to encouragement.

@V-Selenite-One

In most things, the Sentinel has his fair share of eloquence and grace. Movement, battle— it saw how flawlessly it dispatched one of Vargas's predecessors in the Forum— and... most other things.

Conversation isn't one of those things, as much as V-Selenite-One doesn't mind (and is wont to relate). His attempt at what may have been a warning flies directly over its head. "You wield it, um— well enough. I'd think powerful magic and—" Selenite pauses to look at its open palm, its missing fingers. "... our hands being able to hold weapons would be..." Wait— Lips split in an awkward grin, not a trace of its gums visible. "Same reasons you asked about my help. You already know this."

... anyway. "Your magic, my stone?"

Claws settle for scratching its neck underneath all of those quills, making the points rattle and clack against one another. They end up hooking into the inner joint of an elbow, scratching a sudden itch certainly not induced by passing through the narrowness of the Aperture and finding the air to be far less acidic than it's used to.

Can it wander? "Not extensively. Just from here to Leo, mostly. I could stand to ask..."

@The Sentinel

The Sentinel turned to pace alongside Selenite, listening in silence. Now and then his gaze drifted--attention wandering to things that he could see, but which--thankfully--were certainly not truly there. But his eyes snapped back to Selenite at the suggestion. His magic--its stone.

"Very well." He stopped just short of the Door of Life. "If the child bears my magic. It should be here." The 'why' was simply because he, himself, had to head to the Black Spire periodically to ensure his magic remained stable. He'd hate to destabilize a child before it had even hatched, and he was unsure how the magic of the chrysalis might actually aid it.

"It will grant a stone; the Sentinel will grant that life. And then," he turned, sweeping an arm to point beyond the door, "The Sentinel will grant a stone, and the Selenite will grant it life." It held half a question: was this an acceptable trade..?

@V-Selenite-One

Pointed ears cup forward as the guard hound stops. Selenite pivots on a bare heel, taking a moment to parse through the words, and—... ahh, that does make sense, doesn't it? Stabilization. Its chin dips downward in a short, curt nod. "... and they'll be close together." Not for sentimental reasons, but purely to guard them.

Hooked claws reach then into its mane, quills rattling amid the coarse, short hair-fur at their bases. Though the experience of cleaving apart its stone is an entirely new one, it seems... just as natural as breathing. The wince twisting its maw into a snarl is borne entirely of a reflex and anticipation.

It hardly hurts, if at all.

The shimmering shard of white is held aloft an outstretched palm, awaiting the Sentinel's acceptance.

—
... and past the Door of Life— the crawling feeling of corruption suddenly so faint— Selenite kneels again. Whatever piece of stone is offered to it to imbue with its magic, it takes in two steady hands. Claws curl around it for extra security. It turns its gaze upward as the push and pull of giving life recedes, glittering pupils fixed upon the Sentinel's as it looks askance. "Planted by the wall, too? Since I— presume you'll be guarding them."

@The Sentinel

"I will," he assured, in a rumble.

He moved first to the selenite itself: the slender shard offered out, which he took delicately between two claws fingers. And before he did anything more, he lifted it to the void-light, studying it in a sort of wonder.

"It is pale," he breathed, at length, but it seemed to say so much more than that.

Life. For one who embraced chaos and carried only violence, he seemed respectful, even rapt, as he laid this beside the wall.

Next--passing beyond the door, into the sweeter, cleaner air just beyond. Here he knelt, inhaling deeply, pressing a hand to his flawless stone. He had never given a piece of himself, before--not like this, not cleaving off a shard of his own Creator-touched Onyx.

It came cleanly, pain-free--not that this mattered to him--and this, too, he lifted to his gaze to regard with something damn near wonderment. And he offered this to the Selenite, before standing and pushing away.

"It thanks you," he murmured, and sounded not only grateful but... humbled. "It will... guard them, now."

He stood straight, halberd in hand, and then merely stayed there--with no sign of having any intentions of leaving.

exit Sentinel!