ORIGIN

A Master he might have been, but Vargas was unaware that he'd lost Callista's attention. Usually, "she turns people inside-out" was a good attention-getter, but in this case... well, if he'd known she'd not registered his words, he'd have at least hoped she didn't piss Aethril off somehow. Alas.

He stared for a long moment at Callista's mention of her age. He tried very hard not to snort, or laugh. And at length he managed a faint, slow nod. "That, to me, is young. I was not asking if you were a... baby, no."

His tone was even, as polite as he could manage. He eyed his empty tankard, setting it aside. For a brief instant he wondered if he should lie about where he lived (and worked) to maintain some facade of not being... himself. And quickly gave up on that. He wasn't invested so far in an idle conversation that he'd start outright lying. But he didn't have to volunteer his position, either.

"Draco. Do you know it?" A pause, and a grunt. "Your stone. -Moonstone? If you liked the 'stars' in Orion, you might go see the real ones. Unless you have gone? Via Pegasus," he added.

It was a place he'd only recently heard was opened, though to him--of Oilstone--it was barred. Callista had no such restrictions, so far as he could tell.

Vargas gave a small nod of... well, it looked like acknowledgement. Deep inside, under that stupid rigid toothy face--it was approval. Being wary of Draco was a trait not many Gembound possessed; it showed some sense. Chaos was almost antithetical to their nature. Almost. At least, as he understood it. The number of hapless children that might wander straight into Draconua's jaws-... It didn't bear thinking about, really.

"Wise. It is guarded, though visitors who mean no harm to the operations there are allowed. This place was created as a Nest, long ago. A place to design and hatch armies of Chaos. Draco still serves that function, albeit... limited," he added, gesturing.

He was still trying to be mild, and conversational, but half of him was wishing the alcohol had had some sort of effect. He'd need a keg of the stuff to even make a dent, at his size, but it was still a little disappointing; he'd rather be having a tipsy, fun conversation, and not whatever this was.

For a brief instant, part of him wished for a pink swirly straw.

"You have good instincts. Not all recognize its nature." There; a compliment, and now he found himself curious about Callista. It was the sort of curiosity that didn't need him to ask any questions, though. He wondered what interest she held in this, and what she might ask. How she might react to what he'd already told her. He studied her, not in a rude way but instead thoughtful, and he wondered: what was this one made of?

(She looked like a cat, and cats were usually clever.)

Her initial comment left him disappointed. But that was quickly forgotten in the wake of what she said next.

It wasn't often that Vargas laughed. It wasn't that laughter was heretical for a Valkhound or a Master; on the contrary, Valkhounds were known for their mad and murderous cackling, and Astraea, for example, could exhibit a very sinister chuckle. It's just that not a lot of things hit him in the day-to-day the way something like this did.

Callista was essentially asking if it was hard to order Chaos. And the moment he fully understood the question, the laughter erupted from him with that natural spontaneity: "PffFFFFTHAHAHA." He reeled back, a bellowing bass guffaw escaping him, and actually had to lift one clawed forelimb to hold his chest and belly. It took him a moment to stop, shoulders rocking, and he coughed as he managed to subdue himself. His other forelimb lifted, waving as if in apology as he regained some control.

"Ahh, Callista. You have no idea." There was a darkly amused purr to the words. When he looked at her again, it was with glinting eyes, almost malice or mischief, but not directed at her.

Vargas took a breath, planting his limbs on the smooth wood and thinking for a moment. "For war... on other worlds? They're just turned loose. Havoc, chaos, is the point." He gestured vaguely from where he leaned, and shook his head. "For training? For organizing those who train the armies, who arrange food security, who patrol for hints of insurrection, who keep others from going rogue and, say, destroying a growing chrysalis?" He eyed his mug, desperately wishing it were full. Of something stronger. "Yes. It's counterproductive. No. They don't listen." He sighed, and looked to her, and then amended his statement for the sake of fairness. "Well. Some of them do. But there's enough that I could not ever say 'managing this is an easy task,' or even 'a simple one.'"

He studied Callista a moment longer, a little dour at the thought now that the moment of hilarity had faded. "Tell me--do you have a job? Something that you... do? For fun, for others? Do you have self-appointed tasks--or perhaps you work for a Master?" He eyed the firewood stacked by the hearth. "Aside from gathering firewood or what have you, that is."

Some of them had decreed themselves artisans, or dedicated themselves to exploring and mastering magic, things like that. But the vast majority of Gembounds that he'd met seemed to live a rather aimless life. He wondered, in an idle sort of way, if she were any different.

Vargas shook his head, a little. "There are the armies, sent out to battle. Those could be sent out with no training, though it reduces their chances." At both success, and survival, but he figured that much was obvious. "The infrastructure is the base of it all." He looked to Callista, as if indicating the various things he'd just mentioned. "Even simply to feed them until they are collected, that takes hunting, organization; then there are those who would steal that food, and so guards are required..." He gestured again, again quite a vague little 'hand' wave, if the killing and grasping forelimb with far too many thumbs could ever reasonably be called a 'hand.' This particular gesture seemed to mean, 'etcetera.'

He didn't think he was giving away too much information. None of this was hidden, or secret. It's just that the Gembounds, in particular, grew up ignorant of all of it.

Vargas didn't know how all the other nests might work. Maybe there were some out there where the Valkhounds were collected instantly upon their emergence, but even then, throwing them right into battle... surely that would be less effective than giving them at least the basics of training? Those that were mindless beasts, programmed with killing instinct, might do better. But he'd seen how clumsy and inexperienced the newest of them had been, even when framed in the most fearsome of forms. Regardless, they had to serve as a sort of warehouse between pickups, here. And that Valkhound storage did require feeding.

He eyed Callista, appraising her now, more sharply. "A job? It was not my intention. Merely curious. Not that I would turn down a... cat?" he added, though the 'cat' part was made into a question. She wouldn't have been the first bipedal feline he'd met, but he'd found the general feline form to be exceptional. If not always their minds, of course. "That would also depend on what you are capable of, your interests, and if you are willing to subvert your autonomy to authority." Bluntly stated, as ever--but honest.

Vargas just nodded, because that was an answer he'd expected. It was a sane and reasonable answer: "no." The ones who actually volunteered themselves for the Forge... well. There was nobody healthy in the Chaos Forge and that said enough. Even Vargas recognized as much.

Their door guard spoke in riddles, and half of them flew off the handle if the wind blew at them wrong.

His mind continued to linger on V-Ruby-One for a moment before flickering back to Callista. "Hmm? Fought over? Oh, just... worlds." He gestured absently. "Just entire worlds."

Then he studied her intently, lost in thought.