And lastly, the final Valkhound of Wyrm's swarm stalked in. D'valinn had its name, and no way to claim it. It was edging the inevitable confrontation, when those great rusted cogs in the Master's head churned to life and he put two and two together.
He'd named himself chunky. If this is how well the spawn with Gravedigger were faring, it loathed to know the quality of life of Audland's.
D'valinn sat on his haunches, keeping distance from Vargas. Just in case.
Vargas listened with mounting irritation. The misdirection nearly caught him; the almost deliberate near-mockery, the dismissal and implication the Collector was doing them a favor.
A growl rumbled briefly through his chest, erupting in words, though Vargas thought before he spoke them.
He was rewarded enough by the pause of surprise. Before the Collector could continue, he interrupted.
After the obvious platitudes and the robed figure's dismissal (and hasty retreat), Vargas grunted his irritation. He looked more closely over the Forge.
Everything was a test, but it could be a teaching moment... and maybe they'd have some good ideas. He didn't discount their minds.
Oh, and if some of them were secretly meeting with the Hive? His stare might've looked threatening, but honestly, Vargas had no idea. So far as he was concerned, this was all the Collector's fault.
The Collector was well-spoken, as Virosa's favourite kind of Gembound often were. It imagined a songbird in a little cage, singing its pretty song as it was whisked throughout the caves, made to watch The Black Tangle as it worked.
The Collector was a little big to fit in a cage, though.
Virosa wasn't going to war, so it would be forced to shoulder this burden some. But in its long time away from the home-cave, it'd learned a lot from the residents of Eridanus. It rose above the crowd, antlers threatening to graze the ceiling, as it balanced on its hind legs and tail.
"How... Master, we are... Not..." Its red gaze shifted upward as it searched for the word. "Liked. We serve the Creator. We do... Not much, otherwise. Rrevalk is distant. Other forces, fill the void."
It was thinking of Rift, how he spoke of a she who brought him back from the dead. However she'd been, he was wholly faithful - brave, even, staring down Valkhound several times his size. "She, Mother. She peddles in... Family. We, Chaos, see her... For what she is. But..."
"There are Gembound, many, who... Have not chosen. Chaos, or Order. With... Gentle words, promises... Belonging, family... The neutral, may be swayed. The caves... Remain... Divided." With the power of delicious, factory-produced chips, Mother could rally more to her cause. "The Forge is... More powerful... But our reputation?" They were the Monster Factory, the dark, decrepit, oily corner of the world.
The Sentinel listened. First to The Collector, and then to Vargas, and then to Virosa.
Virosa, he studied with interest. He decided, quite abruptly, that he liked it. It was monstrous in an aesthetically beautiful way: twisted and dark, lanky, menacing. Yet it was thoughtful and well-spoken, something sorely lacking among the Forge and most of all from the Sentinel himself. His own thoughts were often so terribly tangled: difficult to straighten into a straight path of words that others could easily follow. But its point was so incredibly potent that he very nearly nodded along.
He thought, his fist tightening and loosening absently around his halberd's haft. Though he turned his gaze to the Master, the Halberd's eye remained idly on Virosa.
Of course, he wasn't really familiar with the other Oilstone sources in the caves; he was hardly omnipotent, despite his strangely well-travelled demeanor.
He had lingered on the edges of the meeting, not quite sure if he cared to join in. Azrael had been reconsidering his place in this organization for a time, soured by their lack of action against his enemies, bored and regretting his previous decisions and behaviors. But he stuck around, just in case. And it seemed, at last, his time was here.
As soon as the Hive was mentioned, Azrael stood at attention, turning to face the Collector and shouldering his way into the gathering. It was like a blind scramble to push his way to the forefront until at last he was in eyeshot of Vargas.