ORIGIN

He watched for a moment longer before stepping forward, his stride elegant: two steps, then a pause, standing there in hulking, looming form. His voice came calm, almost refined, his toxic eyes travelling over the interesting new creation and the surprisingly-effective Agate.

Both pleased him.

"Enough," he told them--no boom in his voice, tone matter-of-fact and little more. "Agate, you surprise me with your skill." And as always, credit where it was due, the acknowledgment and faint admiration in his tone genuine. "Vjira. The Mirage. Peace," he told her, "for the moment. You are my creation, and that of the master Astraea. I am Master Vargas. You are to serve the Chaos Forge, the Black Spire, the Creator and His needs." Then he paused, giving them a moment--he expected them to lash out, one final finish to their skirmish, as they hopefully broke it off.

"I imagine you both have questions," he offered, lowering himself to sit.

Toxic eyes again travelled over the two.

One small, bristling, surprisingly tough and loud (and her snarling attitude brought him hidden mirth, this time); one a vision of poisonous beauty. He liked that. Deadly grace, like a carnivorous flower. She had come out... correct.

"Grape-face."

Agate got that far before Vargas was ramming a fist downward--an instinct and one that would have crushed its skull. Instead he switched, almost with irritation, to a backhand.

It might still break one jaw, if it connected, but fuck it; the Agate had two. At least it would stop talking.

"ENOUGH," he boomed. "Be SILENT, Agate-One, and BE STILL. You overstep yourself and I have no compunctions about destroying and remaking you more obedient, if that is what you wish."

This was said with rage in his face. He was quite done with this one's attitude; he'd never put up with it to begin with and her repeated pushing of his tolerance was... intolerable. He would, had she not been yammering so mindlessly, have answered her questions--but not now. No; this one would have to learn respect.

Then he turned to Vjira. "You, then. You stopped. That is good. We are the Chaos Forge--not this one, here, this one is a sample to be handed off to our Lord. But you are a good design, and you will fight with us. You were called Vjira, and it seems that you came out just as intended. Tell me; can you speak?" he asked, studying it closely.

Had he been able to read the Agate's thoughts, he might have been surprised. "Empty compliments?" No, he meant every word; what a strange thing to assume that he would only mean the negative things, and never the positive. What did that say of the creature interpreting him? -Ah, but she was of his design; would that not be his own failure? ...No, in fact; it would be Dhracia's, for choosing to bring the little shit back into the world as-is, as the malignant and aggressive narcissist she had been before, already. And her inner metric for "being good" was certainly a skewed mess.

But she was crying, like a child, and of all the things she could have done that startled Vargas the most. He had been certain that she had no real emotion bar hatred--that she was a true child of Chaos. She hadn't ever shown anything to any other creatures, certainly, despite Chaos-Two's attempts. And he was pleased by this, because one way or another, this was progress.

Like it or not, good or bad, he did not really feel pity. But--"GOOD," he boomed--ahh, and she was fleeing. No; that wouldn't do. He lunged, a sudden lurch intended to snag her and set her back down. It was probably not the best thing for her emotional well-being, but he wasn't finished with her yet. "I said be still. I did not say you could leave. Sit, and be quiet." This was said somewhat imperiously, but without the rage, at least, of prior.

Vargas turned his attention back to Vjira, and eyed her over more slowly. This moment should be about her, not the Agate: this was her emergence. He would not let himself be further distracted just yet.

She could not speak--that much was clear. That was also unusual, for the children of Chaos. But it wasn't unheard of; sometimes it took awhile for them to find their feet. "Vargas," he said, slowly, gesturing to himself with one six-thumbed hand--ignoring, it seemed, the patter at his own limb. He didn't seem to mind; it wasn't an attack, at least (he wasn't sure what it had been.) He then gestured toward Vjira. "Vjira. You understand?" This was said more slowly--and while now ignoring the Agate, whether she'd obeyed him or not--his full attention on the Mirage.

With her, he seemed patient, and he was: she'd done nothing to earn his ire and even if she attacked him outright, it would have been out of instinct and ignorance, not outright disobedience.

Once again he gestured slowly to himself, and then to Vjira. "Vargas; Vjira. Do you understand?"