ORIGIN

Cetus was... misty.

No... foggy.

The last he'd seen it, it had been falling into decay: water levels rising, plant matter rotting in mats along the ground. There'd no longer been a rich forest to draw that water upward, and a good number of the remaining "trees" had no life left in them.

Vargas reminded himself again never to seriously insult Nemean. And never, ever to become beautiful. Though he doubted there was any risk of that.

"Nemean, the most lovely," he muttered under his breath half-absently, as if practicing his greeting toward her the next time they spoke. This mess was her doing, though he had to admit it had its own certain style of charm, now. Something dank and dreary, atmospherically tragic. The word "grim" seemed almost to hang from the branches and drift along the riverbanks. Vargas preferred dry, hot darkness, and he had enjoyed the forest that this place once had been, but this fog would at least hide him while hunting. And if he were lucky, Cetus would still be full of plentiful prey. Half of his reason for being here was to see the caves, to gauge its state--he was still relearning them as a whole, testing to see what had changed and what he still knew. The other half was to hunt.

He still had not fully sated his hunger from his emergence several weeks ago. He had fed, of course, but that edge of hunger still lingered as his body built itself back up to what it once had been. His agility, his strength, his reaction time and speed--all of it had suffered. Cave deer were a poor substitute for true combat, but at least it would hone his skills.

Quietly he pulled himself over logs and through the muck, wincing at the disgusting squelching sound of his long limbs sinking down. It took effort simply to walk through the wetter parts.

As he went, stalking through the trees, careful not to misstep and trip himself up on a root, he reached out with his magic.

For now he seemed stymied by the mist--his magic had never been as strong as those Overseers who honed it. He preferred to trust in the strength of his limbs and the speed with which they carried him. Magic, he knew, could always fail.

He lowered his head, instead, sniffing along the ground, and through the fog. The stench of the swamp was rank--much stronger than he remembered--but with luck, perhaps he could pick up a scent. It took longer than he thought, in the end. It was some fifteen minutes of pacing through the Groves, head low, inhaling and snuffling along the muck, before he caught the faintest odor. It was fur, and warmth, and at once he settled into a swift, smooth pace as he followed it along.

Careful not to make too much noise, Vargas slipped over roots and puddles. His speed, even while tracking a scent, was astonishing; his limbs carried him spiderlike, long arms reaching, striking softly down in the reeds, then pulling him quickly forward.

At last he slowed, the scent fresher now, and lowered himself into a creeping crouch. Up ahead there was thick brush, reeds and water, and silence: perhaps the deer was resting? He paused, ready to ambush, his acidic green eyes searching the swamp ahead.

It took some long minutes before he heard a quiet rustle.

In that time, he was alone with his thoughts, his senses sharp while his mind wandered.

He hadn't seen any evidence that Aquarian was yet awake, but the serpent had never been particularly energetic unless food was on offer. He and the old Master had, Vargas felt, held some things in common: their hunger, their purpose, their hunt. But Aquarian had always been something of a diva: loud, demanding, screeching. Maybe that's why Nemean had gotten along with him so well, or at least from what little Vargas knew of them. For now, though, he was far from the Heart and unlikely to run into him even if he had awoken. Though, thinking of it, it sounded like he and Nemean had a falling out? Astraea asked, didn't he, if she were still willing to work with him?

Crack. A rustle of leaves, the snap of a small, wet branch. His gaze sharpened toward the sound, and he saw the faintest movement of dark, rubbery hide through the leaves. He didn't remember the cave deer looking like that, here, but then again, it'd been a long time.

Vargas tensed, catlike, then launched himself in a bounding gallop toward his prey.

The dark shape's reaction was delayed, though instinct still had it turn swiftly, bounding into the reeds. Vargas was just so much larger, though, and swifter, that in an instant he'd caught it up. The element of surprise served him well, and though it was more agile than he, a swift sweep of his arm caught it as it turned to twist away with a leap.

The deer went head-over-heels into the marsh, bleating with fear, mud coating it beneath.

Vargas at once turned, skidding through the mud as it floundered, he coming to a stop as the deer struggled to scramble back to its feet. Every instinct was honed razor-sharp, all attention fully on his prey, the intensity of his focus that of a pure predator. He leapt again as it came upright.

The creature, though--with strange markings flashing bioluminescent over its body (and that was definitely new)--bounded up and away in the same second that he came crashing down. His forelimbs sank to the elbows in mud with his weight, and even his face slammed down into the mud--coating his jaws in black muck. His acidic green eyes blinked through the mud that slicked him. He swore and cursed as he found himself snagged, the suction of the mud below holding his forelimbs tight. Snarling, he twisted this way and that, tugging against the marsh, until he at last pulled himself free--only to find that the cave deer had gotten one hell of a head start in fleeing.

Still swearing profusely, and angered now, too, he wasted no time in giving chase--stumbling as he regained his own footing in the rancid marsh.

Vargas bounded after the cave deer, crashing through reeds and smashing dead branches aside, floundering now and then in the muck. But the deer was floundering worse than he--its tiny hooves sank in the mud just as much as he did.

When he was close enough he gathered himself, and sprang, shoving through the swamp to try and land on the deer.

Again it dodged, and he smashed into a tree, grunting as he felt himself hurtling into its rough bark. That will bruise, he thought grimly.

For a moment he scrabbled in the mud. The deer had, if anything, regained its head start or even more, and he remembered now that the creatures could virtually see behind them as well as in front. It had seen him leap, even from behind. He quietly swore again as he took off after it, tearing through Cetus in pursuit of his fleeing prey.

Vargas was growing a bit tired from the chase, and this above all warned him that his body needed training.

Badly.

He forced himself to go faster, if anything, and decided at once that he'd need to take runs around the caves to get himself back up to full fitness.

But the deer was slowing, too--not as much as he was, and if he didn't take a chance soon he'd lose it altogether. It was tiring, though. This time, as Vargas caught it up (and this took a couple seconds longer than before) he faked right, briefly, before leaping to its left.

It reacted to his fake--leaping left to dodge, only for Vargas to come crashing in an instant later. He slammed it, sending it tumbling into the mud with another terrified bleat. He turned toward it, swiftly; its eyes were wild and rolling to the whites, its nostrils flared and tongue hanging from open jaws.

With the deer floundering, Vargas--intent on finishing this before it could again leap away--shoved forward. Mud splashed as his right forelimb lashed out, six fingers in front and six behind snatching for the deer's neck. It jerked to one side, flinging itself in the mud, and Vargas again swore--shoving after it, hoping to catch it before it could gain enough momentum to actually again escape him.

Some faint part of him was ashamed. These were lessers, for cave's sake. Food, and nothing more. But he knew they were agile and fast for a reason... it just wasn't a reason that should be applied to him. Angered--at himself, rather than the deer--he tried to predict where it might throw itself next, tensing for another, last chance at a grab.

"Just hold still," he snarled.

Vargas was oblivious to all else, now. The cave around him, its mist and trees, the splashes he was making in the swamp--it didn't occur to him that there might be larger, scarier things about.

As far as he was concerned, he was the largest, scariest thing in the caves. He feared nothing.

He threw himself forward, both hands closing around the deer's throat. A guttural growl escaped him, but he held back his temper, for now. He was a cruel Overseer, yes, but not needlessly so, and he didn't rend or tear or rip the still-living prey apart. Instead he cut off its cries with a sharp squeeze of both "hands," rapidly stopping the blood flow to the Lesser's brain. In seconds, the exhausted, kicking and struggling creature--already out of breath--lost consciousness.

Vargas waited, patiently counting the seconds, feeling a frantic heartbeat hammer against his palms as the creature stopped fighting him.

This would only take a minute.

The deer was down and unconscious, and likely to stay that way. Vargas flipped his forearm around, blades poised over its throat, and slammed down, his aim to kill the deer cleanly while it was out cold, by slashing through its throat or even decapitating it altogether.

He missed the first strike, nicking the throat and tearing a hole not quite large enough to be fatal. Teeth gritted, he closed hands again around the creature's neck, focusing on breathing and on calming himself. Slipped in the mud, he told himself, though really, he knew better.

Any time they slept for so long--any of them--they came back... rusty, like old metal needing polish. He was not sure if it was some effect the stone had, or unconsciousness itself, or if they simply hadn't honed their skills and forgot them during their long sleeps.

Whatever the case, this incident was showing him now more than ever that he badly needed practice. He needed to train, to hunt, to spar, to fight, if he were to stand even the slightest chance of being the Overseer he once had been.

So far, things were not going all that well.

Okay.

Okay, he could do this.

He could kill a measly, glowing cave deer with rubbery skin. A breath, and Vargas steadied himself, again lifting one arm blades-down, looking over his prey with a critical eye. It kicked briefly, threatening to regain consciousness, and down he slammed his forelimb.

The creature lurched, at the last second, regaining itself--and Vargas, trying to adjust, thrust his forearm straight against his own right lower leg. He let out a ripping howl of pain, and ignored the scrambling-away deer as he looked down to see how badly he had wounded himself.

It wasn't bad--a glancing blow, leaking acidic green--but it stung, and already there was mud getting into it.

Quills bristling, he growled and looked after the deer. It was fleeing in a half-drunk, haphazard manner, breaths rough, a thin trail of blood floating in the swamp behind it.

Limping now, he pushed up and began to stalk quickly after it, internally cursing his luck.