ORIGIN - A Monumental Task

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Draconua rasped out a roar as her opponent went flying, and plastered on a Duchenne smile when he met the earth. She paid little mind, for a moment, to what damage she'd done to herself; or, the limp form a few feet off. For all intents and purposes, the thing looked dead. Vargas hadn't stopped her from committing homicide, so—he'd simply just not survived the spar.

No hang-ups there, and truly nothing unusual.

(She ought have confirmed the kill and/or body.)

Sanguine face-plate swinging around, she fixed her many sights on the Leviathan. "He was... difficult to keep a hold on." Was that a compliment or a complaint... ? Denial of the wounds she was about to be nursing? Either way, her voice was harshly strained, nearly-painful sounding.

With that thought as her cue, she carelessly flopped onto her rear end. Extending a sore hind leg out as far as it could manage, Draconua stuck her tongue out. It swiped along the charred hide, barbs catching on every miniscule break in the skin. She'd grimace and wince, but otherwise seemed unperturbed by her wounds, Nidhogg's corpse's miraculous(ly noisy) disappearance, or Vargas's lurking presence.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas stared over Draconua's shoulder as Nidhogg scrambled up and bounded away. He grunted, sourly, in total agreement of her statement. "Yes, he's a slippery little bastard," he agreed, and then--shouting after Nidhogg--"V-CHAOS-ONE! Do not LEAVE Draco!"

It was bounding out of sight, and he sighed. "...When it returns, train it where you can. When it comes time to assault the Hive you will take those you have trained; they will be under your command. You, and those you lead, will also be a contingency plan: if others are present for this assault, and become infected and cannot be easily cleansed, you will destroy them."

Vargas pushed up, thinking.

Certainly he wouldn't tell any others that Draconua was his contingency plan. But a contingency plan was a necessity; the last thing he wanted was, for example, a Mother-controlled Valkhound like Nidhogg slithering throughout the caves.

He glanced to her, half-sardonic, half-good-natured. "Have fun," he suggested, and then turned and paced away.

exit Vargas; @Draconua

Threads of Oily saliva clung to her chin when she twisted backward; a dozen eyes blinked unevenly at the very-much alive creature. Draconua huffed, and not from the disappointment of having not killed something. No, it was a just a shame—she'd been waiting for his being to slough off into corruptive, powerful Oil.

A horrible way to slake her thirsts.

Vargas's next words were met with an idle sort of indifference. The monster acknowledged them, of course, and squirreled them away somewhere in her brain, but the current object of her fascination was her own forearm. There was a putrescent sheen over it, where she'd been slathering it with her own spit.

He finished, and Draconua nipped at the tail end of their conversation: "none of them will walk out alive." A harrowing promise made and sealed.

Her manic grin was response enough for whether she'd "have fun."

Then, it was back to getting herself back into order—grooming in the middle of Draco, like some sort of grossly oversized cat.

exit Draconua

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