ORIGIN

The creature that had crashed out from beneath the Spire was-... beautiful. A study in monstrosity, an oil painting of treachery: all sweeping lines of muscle and trailing, oilslicked fiber. The grace of it, the power, had him half-spellbound. Nothing like this had survived Jupiter's purge, so he'd thought. He had been ready to mourn them, all these beautiful monsters, these monstrous and wonderful creations, left as shattered gem and bone. And now here one was, rising like some dark and terrible angel. Alive. Well.

The other half of Vargas, the half not spellbound, was widening its eyes and thinking Oh, shit.
This one was large--large enough to fight him and, if it were lucky, or venomous or toxic, perhaps to kill him. This was why he'd been built as he was: spined and quilled, toxic and enormous. It was to fight beasts like this--and to fight alongside them. With a roar--a simple, wordless bellow of challenge met--he started toward the hatching monster at a walk: a walk that quickly turned into a bounding run, the Leviathan's full speed on display before his creations for the first time. He could not let it reach them. "GUARD THEM, ORTHOCLASE-ALPHA," he shouted, and quickly opened up a gap between he and they. Khavur and Orthoclase would be enough. They could tackle this one together, perhaps--but he knew nothing of its skill and it looked fast, fast enough to sweep past with the aid of a flap of those wings, to leap overhead and land among the children. The new creations, not yet large enough to defend themselves. And to destroy them.

Vargas could not have that.

He reached out with his magicka--a snatch, one that failed, and his gut twisted at the realization. He'd expected it, but still-...

"I am MASTER VARGAS," he bellowed as he came closer--perhaps rank might hold some sway with it; "ANNOUNCE YOURSELF!"

His speed carried him nearly to her, and as he readied himself to spring--all tensed muscles, all coiling limbs--the earth erupted in front of him. For an instant, as he skidded to a frantic halt--nearly colliding with it--he thought it was deliberate. He thought it was a shield, thrust up to halt him in his advance: clever, cunning, and precise. A powerful magic hurtling up at little more than Draconua's whim. And was that her name? Had that been what she'd nearly whispered-?

He heard, then, her bellows: saw the thrashing of body against the rock. Vargas stared, for a heartbeat. He had no magic to undo this; he didn't know if any of them did. This had been an accident. A misfiring of magic (and oh, how well he knew that); but would this one listen to reason-?

He did not want to see it dead, not so soon after hatching--presuming it wasn't some beast left by him, of course. A second time-bomb filled with fungus, but it could not be, not so close to the Black Spire's power--not lying just beneath it. No, this was one of His. One of theirs.

"YOUR NAME. AGAIN," he demanded, sensing by this creature's feral roars that it was not quite of any right mind. Could his words return it to thought? It was speaking, at the very least; but would it demand its combat lust be sated before it resorted to conversation? Was it true Chaos, unrestrained--a thing he'd need to destroy (Creator forbid-!) for the sake of their very survival; or could he batter it, beat it, best it, wear it out..?

Or, perhaps, would it simply be grateful for being freed from its stone prison, a thing of its own making?

"Be still, and I will free you. Attack, and I will kill you," he growled, and reached for the stone before her.

Her size rivalled his, but his limbs were larger, stronger; his position gave him leverage where she was pinned. There was a crack, as he put his weight, braced, against it; the straining, the surging of massive muscles and another crack. Part of it splintered away, and he grunted, straining for a second grip.

But he remained tense, and ready--for this one was new, and wild, and fully-grown, and it might be grateful or it might be deadly. No part of Vargas was not keenly aware of the oil dripping from its pores, of the strange, flat teeth on its too-wide maw, of the claws of one free forelimb tearing at the air.

No: this was a creature like him, but with the Chaos of the ancient days--uncontrollable entropy.

He was... wary of her.

Vargas' guttural growl was a response to the 'no,' to the thrashing. Few had dared to say 'no' to him for a very long time, to deny him his demands--when had the last been..? He could not recall. But this one--this one would forge her own right to do so.

"I am HERE to strip you of nothing. This cave has been asleep-! We are reclaiming it, as the Creator demands!" Even as he said it, he wondered--Is this a test of His? Does He ensure that we are worthy-? Rigid lips peeled back in a feral grin, a sneering snarl of sorts--a grimace--at the thought.

The creature's head twisted, jaws opening--a split-second of calculation, of aim, and Vargas had a blink's worth of time to react to the sudden bloom of violet light in her massive maw. He twisted, dropping back away from the rock, as void-flame guttered out and engulfed him: one arm, his torso, part of his face-

A bellow of pain escaped him--and wasn't that the rarest of sounds?--and he hit the ground rolling, teeth gritted, fighting the urge to howl his agony. He was burnt, he could feel that, and more than that the knowledge struck him of the chaos imbued in the flame. This creature was far more dangerous than those dragons; her fire was entropy itself, distorting, twisting entropy.

His flesh, where she had struck him, curled black.

But he was not a Master for nothing--had not been made Overseer for no reason--and he rolled and kicked upright, fury leaving his head dropping low, snarling, circling the trapped behemoth with his quills on end like standing hackles. Trapped, still--struggling--and second by fractional second his brain was reassessing, gauging, ticking away tactics in his mind. Trapped. Let her wear herself out. Stalk. Recover. Keep your distance--and your angle, from that flame. He turned before he made the mistake of getting back in her line of sight, back behind the rock, a pacing stalk.

"VERY WELL, then. REMAIN trapped, and DIE THERE!" he roared, and this was at the top of his lungs. His right arm, his ribs, seared and stabbed at him where she'd hit him. He didn't think it was anywhere near fatal, but he had no intention of sticking his head into her mouth to find out if it could become so--his distinct impression was 'yes.' And he didn't know what else this one was capable of, and so he circled, and stalked, low and ready and tense, and waited.

How long would it be until she broke free-? Vargas waited, his muscles again coiling down; the moment she'd freed herself, he would spring.

If this was the Creator's test, he did not intend to fail it.

Vargas rocked back, slowly lowering himself to nearly his haunches--perhaps ten yards off, and behind the cover of the rock, ready to move at a moment's notice. But his focus, for a moment, went to his magic--ignoring the behemoth in front of him in favor of tending his own wounds.

Magicka flowed, cooling, reassuring, the worst of the burns seeming to fade beneath the knitting of fresh, clean flesh. It wasn't healed, by any means, but it was... lessened.

When he was finished, he turned his attention back to her, recalling her words and actually registering them now, thinking them briefly over. There had been a delay, after she spoke, of some full ten seconds. He used, now, a tactic he had used on prey--screaming, thrashing prey, prey he'd wanted to give a message to, in the end.

His voice came very soft. Because, to hear it, one would need to be quiet. At times this had had its intended calming effect: when prey--enemy--went still to listen, they remained so, subdued. It would not stop Draconua, but it might give her pause for a moment, at least. "Open your eyes, if you have them. Look at the remains of Draco's womb. The far wall." A pause--could she see it, from there? From her angle? "Shattered chrysalis, after shattered chrysalis. The arrows of another Master shattering each and every one of them. We have only just retaken this cave--rebellion, of the Masters themselves, and a long sleep."

Dramatic pause.

"You are the last of them."

Another long pause, as Vargas let this sink in--he hoped. "You are the only survivor."

He stood back upright again, tensed, waiting--just waiting--for her to break free, for her to ignore his words, for her to leap for him, those strange flat teeth aimed for his face, his neck. "We are here to reclaim it, in His name. His Hand--the Lord Dhracia--has come with our instructions: we may reclaim this nest. We may try. You may serve as Chaos, and disrupt it; certainly that would be in your makeup. Perhaps that might even serve Him, in culling those who did not deserve to stand before your wrath. More likely, I will kill you, and then there will have been no survivors." Vargas studied her, the stone trapping her--he still made no move to help, not again, not after she had blasted him the first damn time. "Or you may aid us in reclaiming these caves, in restoring His will and His power to His work here, and I will get you out from under your own damn rock." He paused, his head canting slightly to one side. "You ought to see these new caves--are you one of the older ones? I do not recall your design. But none of them would stand before you." Darkly-said--not a promise, not a lure of power, but faint disgust in it. "The caves are in near-ruin. I do not know what force has protected you. Perhaps you are His favored, or perhaps you are His test, to see if we are worthy. Perhaps... it is your decision," he asked, and then he grinned.

Fuck it; he enjoyed fighting. There was so much on the line, yes-... but there was something primal in the battle, in nothing but the thrill of teeth and claws and adrenaline. If she wished to test him, he would wait for her to claw her way out from her own damn tomb--and then he'd put her back into it.

Or maybe, just maybe, she'd listen to reason; maybe she'd be their ally in this. Vargas wasn't quite sure which option he preferred.

A hefty sigh escaped him as she spoke. "You've been asleep, you moron," he snapped, but it was with the full knowledge that here was one who would not listen to reason. The time for speeches, unfortunately, was over; he could not afford a chance, could not waste time speaking, when she might take that moment and make an advantage of it. There was no time, even, to flinch from the shattering of stone.

He launched himself for her without warning, whilst her words still lingered righteous in the air, his full bulk thrown for her throat. His jaws closed for flesh, his forelimbs gripping, tearing; but it was all only a vehicle for the main damage. As he leapt, one forearm pulled up, so that Vargas' weight came in behind the three-pronged, six-foot spines of his muscled limb: an aim for her neck, her throat, her--jaw, whatever it might be. To tear and simply do as much damage as possible to her in that first strike.

Whatever happened next, he would have her badly damaged from the start, if at all he could.

The thrill of battle filled him, the roar of his pulse in his ears, fury in his veins; the Chaos Forge half-forgotten in the Aperture behind him.

He had spent cycles--cycles!--fighting for these caves without landing a single blow, playing politics and dancing around Lord Dhracia's demands. Now here was a flesh-and-blood target offering violence for him to spend himself upon--and he would do so, with eagerness. Master Vargas had gone through the motions of peaceful bargaining, of explanation. Draconua was no useful ally to him: Draconua was an obstacle.

Vargas had never been one to tolerate obstacles.