ORIGIN

Vargas blinked as his sight returned more fully. He started to jerk toward Archon--only to see that there were two of them, now, and both were speeding toward him. The sickles were unlikely to cause much real harm but they could bleed him, he knew, and he'd rather... not do that.

He had magic that could identify which were real but that'd take time. Perhaps he could've found something by sight alone if he weren't still blinking away that blinding glow. Or his Master power to simply pick out which one had a stone, if he'd had a second to concentrate, but he didn't.

So he picked one, leaping for it, with the logic that even if he fell into dust it'd give him distance from the other.

And if he did get the right one, it'd be enough to grab him, to throw him bodily down and give him a sharp, harsh elbow to the chest. That, he gauged, would be enough to finish the fight.

He heard the cry, and too he felt a sharp pain laced across his own snout and face. He released Archon to back away, lifting the back of his own forelimb to press to his injuries.

He then drew it away, and looked. His acidic blood was spilled, but not too badly. The scythes were sharp but even so, his angle of impact had made it so the wounds were not severe. Both had gouged inward; they might leave scars--he wasn't sure, and didn't care.

He looked to Archon. "Enough," he said calmly. Archon looked stunned, but not dead or dying. "Are you injured?" He'd let him take stock, for a moment, and then they would discuss.

He lifted his forelimb again, checking the flow of blood. It was mostly stemmed, already, though it hissed and popped where it ate at Draco's floor. He eyed the sickles. "Clean those, and don't let my blood touch your skin. It will damage the metal or you." Priorities.

Next, he rolled his shoulders, thinking. "That was not bad. There were things you could have done better but you could have also done far worse. Splitting yourself and blinding me were both wise, but have a plan in case I lunge, regardless. Even if I had gone for the wrong target I would have bought myself space from the right one. Learn defensive abilities. Something to knock me backward or provide a shield, if you plan on utilizing magic; or practice dodging, if you do not." He considered, briefly.

"I would suggest finding someone with powers of the mind, in the former case. You could use that to throw a target or fling them off-balance or even into the air, and follow up from there. Practice that magic when you are alone, outside of combat. Hone it. I saw nothing fail, however; you seem well-versed in our shared element." Another pause of thought. "Scout the way to Centaurus, more than one path, if you can help it. Imagine where you would ambush a convoy en route, and watch those spaces or take precautions, even set traps there. We can practice, another time, how you would deal with such a thing but do as I ask, in the meantime: practice, and learn more defensive magic. Or if you wish to fight physically, then practice dodging these attacks."

His words were given matter-of-factly, with little regard to the cuts across his face. So far as he was concerned, everything he'd said was true. Archon could have done worse, but at the moment, there was no way Vargas would rely upon or trust him to defend another of the Forge. He would have to send two at a minimum until Archon was better trained.

"Do that as soon as possible. If you are travelling to and from Draco, alone and regularly and on a regular route, Order will seek to ambush you. They will know that you have wings, so don't rely on that for your survival. Do you understand everything I am telling you?" Important to ask, just in case he'd... banged his head, or something.

He'd simplified, but maybe that was a good thing. Easier for him to remember, particularly in his state. Vargas looked him over again.

He wasn't whining, which was good; no complaining at all. And he wasn't shirking his duties or arguing. Vargas nodded. "Good. Then I think we are done here. Find me if you have questions, and when you have learned enough that you feel ready for me to test you again." He paused, running his own mind over everything, but he could think of nothing he'd left out.

"And Emissary Archon," he added, using the full title and name simply as a form of praise, "inform me each time you plan to depart for Centaurus."

He waited a beat, then nodded and turned, pacing his way back the way he'd come. He'd have to find something--clay, maybe, in the tunnel--to patch this bleeding up, before it ate away the rock.