ORIGIN

"...V-Chaos-Nineteen," Timir repeated back, still dutifully, but now with the faintest bit of reproach aimed at Vargas. As if to say, "get it right, guy, I can't remember all of this." He paused and considered. He liked it a bit more.

Nineteen is better than eighteen, and he VERY NEARLY said it aloud before clamping his jaws shut, his glowing eyes sweeping to Tsvetok in realization. Oh, no. THAT would have been an insult! He choked the words down just in time, bristling a little with alarm at the thing he'd ALMOST just said to his new best friend. A long tongue lashed out to nervously lick his weird teeth and he turned his attention to the conversation.

"I don't know," he answered honestly, at length. He didn't know enough about combat to say if he preferred physical or magic or whatever. "Maybe everything. So I can decide." It was maybe the first bit of wisdom the young Valkhound had ever summoned up.

Huzzah.