ORIGIN

Imp had been wandering the Ball, becoming progressively louder as more fizzy wine drinks somehow managed to find their way down his bizarrely human-looking gullet. Mostly, he'd been telling anyone who would listen--as loudly as he could--that he was the Palace's artist (pronounced 'arteeeest' with a ridiculous flourish), and grinning about how he LIVED HERE and WORKED HERE and was AETHRIL, the VALKHAND'S, chosen pick, and so forth.

That wasn't to say it was real arrogance. Imp didn't take anything seriously, least of all himself; there wasn't pride in it, not really. A happy sort of pride, maybe; loud and boisterous cheer. But it wasn't like he was trying to elevate himself above anybody else. He was just really happy, thrilled even, about the twists and turns his particular life had taken--and loved talking about it.

But the alcohol had gone just a little to his head, and his 'talking about it' had become obnoxious--very, very noticeable, from anywhere in the Ballroom. "And THAT ONE," he was practically shouting, gesturing with sloshing long-stemmed glass up at a painting of Farina lovingly covered in penises, "was one of my FIRST. It's terrible, right?!" he added, grinning.

He wasn't talking to anybody in particular--in fact, had no audience that he'd noticed--but that didn't seem to faze him.

The little idiot was... impossible to miss. And Vargas, stalking the outer edges of the room while people-watching (trying to judge who was who, noting the green-eyed glow of a few of his spawn and their relations) had settled his attention firmly on this 'arteest.' It was indisputable, who the bereted loudmouth might be, and Vargas--his own wine glass firmly in hand--watched with a faintly amused quirk of lips beneath a dark stare.

He's going to get himself killed, he thought, at last, and a little bit of mercy for the hapless fool mixed with a little bit of that lurking predator that so imbued the Leviathan's life. He lowered his glass a little, and strode with soft, near-silent steps to come up alongside Imp. He pretended, for a moment, to stare up at the painting--until the details of it actually grabbed his attention, his brow perking as he recognized the... subject matter.

Imp's particular skill, it would seem, though judging from the works hung now in the hallway outside he'd at least branched out from it. Vargas exhaled. "Your style," (if one can call it such, he thought) "is certainly... unique." He glanced around, to see if anyone were watching, with a surreptitious air--then leaned down closer, staring into the grinning, pale face of Imp. It isn't much different than his usual form, he noted to himself, with dour humor.

"But tell me--who do you think arranged this party?" he asked, savoring that bit of sadism before the kill. Or, in this case, the mercy. There was a purr in his deep voice that thrummed through the bones--a reverberation he could never manage in his more bestial form.

He found that he rather liked it.

"You're damn right it's unique," Imp agreed loudly, failing to notice the mild insult behind the words.

Then he squinted up at Vargas, studying him. Almost at once it clicked, though Imp's mischievous side took over, and he played stupid at first. "Who cares? Someone in the palace," he answered flippantly, a bit of wine splashing toward the bigger idiot's suit. "Oops." He grinned.

But the question picked a little at his brain. Aethril would've probably mentioned it--or would at least be here. Isra-? Maybe. "Why's it matter?" he asked, and then, staring intently, "Fuck, buddy, they sure gave you an ugly human form! What's your name?" and he grinned.

There was no question, of course, and Imp sidled closer, deliberately getting way too close. Invading personal space, and all that. "You got my condolences, though. Fuck, you're ugly."

He wasn't. That was sort of a rub, but never mind it now. Reality would never interfere with Imp's insults.

Vargas glanced down as the wine splashed his jacket and shirt in a little drip of spray. He wasn't sure if it'd been deliberate--he had no real reason to think so--and though it was minor at best, it was nonetheless an irritation.

"The one thing you are good at," he murmured. Perhaps the upstart should've stuck to mischief, rather than trying his hand at 'art.'

Rather than recoil at Imp's closer presence, Vargas reached a muscled arm out and looped it around Imp's shorter shoulder, pulling him closer--so much so that he'd find himself pressed against the Leviathan's side. It was a falsely jovial sort of half-hug, as if friendly and easygoing, but in truth it was a snare.

He had a reason for it though, and it was not to toy with Imp and to terrify him. Well-... not entirely.

Vargas leaned down a little, lowering his voice so that only Imp would hear. "Really... The color of the invitation cards? The flamboyance of it..?" and he peered down, relishing the expressiveness of this human face, that he could quirk a brow in mocking amusement. He leaned in, growling his answer to the little fool's question: "I am Vargas." He studied him for his reaction, and then continued, a briefly savage grin crossing his face. "Come now, Imp. Why do you think I am attending--to drink and to dance? Or to see what havoc she might wreak?" He looked around, then leaned down again, glowing chartreuse eyes piercing--or at least he hoped they were. Impaling, threatening--whatever. He wanted that. "I'd be very careful about your volume, and your choice of words, in the coming hours. Consider this a... friendly piece of advice."

If Vargas was hoping for a reaction, he would be disappointed. Instead, Imp leaned closer at the name, grinning up with an utter savagery that disregarded his vulnerability, here. In fact, he threw his own arm around Vargas's waist, raising his own voice higher, and making sure to spill a little more wine on that side, too. "BUDDY," he crowed, completely disregarding the Leviathan's advice to lower his voice. "GREAT TO SEE YOU. Y'know, I bet I could take you in a fight like this?" he added, the grin twisting to more malicious levels.

"Anyway! What the fuck are you talkin' about?!" he went on, still grinning widely.

Because he, for one, had no fucking idea.

Vargas found his mood souring. Not just because Imp was spilling wine across his jacket again, or because the fool felt no fear toward the Overseer-now-Master who'd torn his eyes out with his own tail--but because his newfound feeling of predatory elegance was utterly wasted on him.

Vargas sighed, and dropped a little of the facade; he wasn't going to get a reaction out of Imp. "You might try, but they would throw you out before you could get very far. Assuming I did not kill you first," he added indifferently. "And assuming I am wrong. I doubt she would let you get that far. -Really, Imp." Was he that stupid? "Pink and gold--nothing?"

Well. In fairness, it was an assumption on his part. He probably should've gone to Eridanus, first, to check--but this held all the trappings of a glorious reemergence. She'd always seen the world as her own social scene, after all. But who knew her better than him-? Well. Aquarian, maybe, but Vargas doubted that Aquarian was ever 'aware' of anything beyond his own drama and his own next meal.

He pulled free, taking a grimacing moment to extricate Imp's reluctant arm (the moron was clinging to him-) and to lean down, more seriously this time. "Accept my warning, or do not. But you would do well to be more... subtle, for the rest of this evening," he advised.

"...Nemean?" he guessed, at last, squinting up at Vargas. Why the fuck doesn't he just say that? It was like superstition--as if Vargas were afraid that saying her name would somehow summon her, or some shit.

Well--fuck her. But now he felt the first stirrings of something bad--not jubilant malice, but deep and horrible disappointment sinking cold through his chest. "You mean to tell me she ain't still boiling alive?! After ALL THAT?!" he asked, and huffed. He'd gone to so much effort, too.

He considered, and then he shrugged. "Eh." And just like that the feeling had passed. He'd done his part, she'd suffered--whatever. She could suck on that. Maybe it'd be good to have her out here, so he could point that part out. Or maybe he wouldn't, because that'd be really stupid--then again, Aethril-... "Aethril'll probably fuckin' kill her," he muttered, sipping from his wine. He fired a glance up at Vargas. "She thinks she's a traitor--WHICH she is. You might wanna be warning her, not me."

Imp grinned, mischief taking him again.

"Consider that a friendly piece of advice," he added.

He studied Imp for a long moment, ignoring the unpleasant feeling of wine seeping into his jacket as he turned the stem of his own glass in one hand.

"You really are a fool, aren't you?" Vargas asked, and it was with an incredulous mix of disbelief and almost... admiration. He had half a mind, for a split second, to ask Imp for a part of his stone, later on--Lord Dhracia had always valued such indomitable fire--but then remembered he already had one of that line, and that 'one' was Nidhogg, and Nidhogg was equally as much a moron (if not moreso) than Imp and less 'directable violence' than 'dangerous small dog.'

Vargas visibly recoiled at the thought, grimacing, and turned away. "I doubt I'll have the chance, Imp. As I said--disregard my warning at your peril." She hadn't let him in on this, except to send out the invitations--if even it were her.

He almost hoped that he was wrong.

Part of him--still the Overseer--held some vague urge to violence at Imp's crowing challenges. But this was a social scene and one that he had not arranged, and Vargas was familiar enough with Palace etiquette to know that all its guests, in such an event, were to be considered mostly equal. For the duration of it, in any case.

His eyes drifted off to another guest, and he turned to wander off, leaving Imp to whatever the 'arteest' chose his fate to be.

Imp wondered for all of three seconds whether he could safely leave the ballroom without losing his disguise. But--yeah, of course, otherwise how would anyone take a piss?! Just right in the ball pit, or what?

No--he was a Gembound on a mission, now.

He rushed from the Ballroom and into the side halls, and from there to the little room where he kept his painting studio--and from there, selected the single and only painting of Nemean he'd actually ever made. The only one that wasn't cave art.

Surprisingly, there was only one penis to be seen, and it was subtle: the bridge of, and tip of, her nose was gruesomely transformed, if one looked rather closely. But otherwise the painting was a jab: she was pressing palms to the 'painting's edge,' staring out in horror, the swirls of water clear enough around her--as were the torrents of bubbles Imp had painstakingly drawn.

It was, quite simply, a painting of Nemean boiling alive, but awake inside her stone--and it wasn't terrible, either. It was certainly one of his favorite pieces--and if she noticed it on the wall in the Ballroom and tore it down, well, that'd make for one happy Imp.

Fuck it, he thought, grinning nervously, canvas tucked under one arm as he hurried back for the ballroom. You only live once. Ish.