ORIGIN

Vargas paced up alongside, observing. A grin was on his face as he stared out into the white, and he leaned in to murmur something to the Merchant that the rest could not hear. He then looked to them. "Good luck--I won't be joining you... I'm not needed, this time," he added, rather ominously.

He then leaned toward Desert Rose, assuming the smaller Gembound was close by (or even there): "Remember what I told you."

Last he eyed Imp. Eyeing him... ha, he thought, with savage humor.

He admired its tenacity, but he did not approve of its stupidity. It would not survive the trial, that much he did not doubt. But if it wanted to throw its life away, let it; Nemean had let it live, but apparently it was bitter enough to discard the rare gift of her mercy. Vargas was indifferent to that, though it was, he vaguely thought, a shame that a previously-successful creature was going to be destroyed without reproducing.

Maybe he could get Hag-rteho to bring him the stone, afterward; but likely, from what he knew of the upcoming trial, that would not be an option.

Agate had come in last, last time, hadn't it? And Shida, that one shared a design with a previous, surprisingly-successful recent champion. Those were some to watch, but Vargas' bets were strongly on Desert Rose.

The Overseer settled in at the entrance, grinning, to eagerly watch it all play out.

Imp squinted against the blasting white, but there was little point in squinting. A brief melancholy struck him; the squinting was habit, of course, but there were no eyes there anymore, no reason to shield them against the snow. Still, the little wet flakes bit at his hollow lids, and at the rest of him, too; he was warm-blooded, but fuck if he wasn't freezing already.

He cast out his magic, shivering, trying to get an idea of what lay around them. He could remember the layout of the land--if that hadn't changed; marsh off to the right, stretches of ugly flat land and then murdery worm-dunes ahead of that. And last, the big horrible canyons full of murder-birds. But determination was driving him. He was going to prove himself here, just as a big "fuck you" to Nemean and Vargas, if nothing else.

Virgil's voice gave him an idea.

"Hey, listen, big--uh, thing!" he called out, inspiration striking him. He turned and wing-walked rapidly toward her, his ungainly, gargoyle-esque waddle made almost tragic by the way he blindly stumbled through the white. That didn't seem to get him down, though; his head was up and excitement flickered through the lines of his body as he made his way to her. His magic, it seemed, found nothing--maybe the cold was damping it somehow?--but he angled for what he'd heard, and the strong smell of her hide. "Lemme get up there." He remembered Kerberos, the big dog, carrying him, its warmth, Imp nestling in. Virgil sounded kinda dumb, so maybe they could work together.

"I know this place, and there's a bunch of evil crap under the ground. Let me on and I'll watch with my magic eyes for it. Then we both win!" In fact--"I can let ALL of you know. So don't try to kill me, right? I ain't after winning, just surviving, so don't try to fucking kill me, okay? I remember some of you jerks trying to murder each other last time."

At least he hadn't heard Hemlocke here (not that he knew its name), but then again... The roar of the wind alerted Imp to another problem, even as he tried to just climb right into Virgil's woolly back. He was almost deafened. His grand plan about using his bat-ears to navigate was on the back burner. Or the back freezer, as it were. If Hemlocke were here, would he know? If they were about to stomp off a cliff or into a rock, would he even be aware-?

Shit. he thought; and it was apt.