ORIGIN

Vargas rumbled in thought, six eyes slipping shut as he relaxed into the now pus-laden water--and then they snapped open, to the entrance, as he remembered to actually keep watch for the dragon.

"Try it, but not now. Save your strength for now. I would teach you the magic I used, but it is difficult--very difficult--and very unreliable. That's the first time I've managed it since I've awoken in this age," he added.

Vargas turned and craned his head, peering at Alpha's wounds. "Submit to sleep if you must. The stone will heal your wounds." His own burns were nothing to laugh at, and he winced again at his own movement; vaguely, briefly, he considered returning to his stone, himself.

He grimaced, and hissed out a long exhale.

The Overseer called upon his own magicka, but it seemed that that which had eluded Alpha went to him (to a precise numerical amount, in fact), washing over him and soothing the pain. He slumped back, some, six toxic eyes again slipping closed (and again reopening as he yet again remembered to keep watch) with the relief. "Otherwise, do you know how to release your magicka to heal the worst of it?" he asked, looking to his creation--unaware that it had royally fucked up exactly that.

Vargas grunted, and pushed up again. He shook himself briefly, quills rattling, to shake off the water--and grimaced.

He fired a glance at Alpha.

"If you're not going into your stone, rest here. I'll watch the tunnel. How he got out, I don't know," he added irritably.

He did not move in graceful leaps and bounds, but stiff, hissing steps, wincing now and again.

Fire burned.

Ugh.