ORIGIN

The trek to Fornax had not ever been a pleasant one--a treacherous way full of ice and snow--and time hadn't changed that, much. But his surprise that Farina was not only free, but moved, had left him deep in thought for the duration of the climb.

By the time they arrived, he was on high alert but also grimly prepared for any eventuality. He'd ticked through possibilities--that Hjalmar was bait, an assassin; that Farina truly didn't know that Nemean hadn't been a part of the rebellion; that Nemean herself had actually betrayed.

Hmm.

Vargas glanced at Hjalmar as the smaller Valkhound spoke, and then stepped aside, away, making room. It wasn't clear if this was a safety measure for himself, or something to spare the other's ears, since he was taking a massive breath...

"Master Farina?" he called out, in a bellow. He paused, then, a moment's doubt striking him--a rare thing, for Vargas; how would she know him? She had no idea he was a Master; would she even give him a second glance? He was keeping a safe distance, he hoped, from the shoreline; he was as far back on the gravel spit of an island as he could be, and more than tensed to run. He cast out his senses, too, warily--so that if she, or a minion, came for him through the water, he would have a moment's reaction time to prepare himself or to flee.

"I am Vargas--now a Master in the caves. I'd like to speak, if you might." He paused, then, to regard the waves, the roiling mockery of an exterior sea, the captive ocean bound by stone. Was she here-? Would she speak to him, or simply attack?

And how much did she truly know? She didn't know, it seemed, that Tamulus was dead, that Jupiter had been wholly destroyed. So what did she want with Nemean? Was this a bid to wipe out the other masters entirely, or had Farina mistakenly attributed rebellion to Nemean?

Or was it something else--something worse--something Vargas didn't know?

He saw that frothing gulp of sea as it dipped to take in the sudden vacuum beneath it, and then the brief gleam of malevolent pink-violet that he knew so well: so close to the hue of his own skin, the color of so many of the cave's greater creations, the seemingly-preferred shade of chaos. And despite Hjalmar's warning, Vargas had no time to avoid this strike. No way to. This was a lashing magic, one reaching for him, gripping his very cells; this was not a blind hit that he could leap aside from, and avoid.

He jerked nonetheless, claws sending the gravel rolling as he flinched, pulling back and away--but no, the magic had hit and already he could feel unwellness coiling up through him, through his gut, through his limbs. Faint panic sent his heart thudding: how bad would it be? Would he stumble, pass out, fall; would he fade into his chrysalis, only to have it torn away? For the briefest of instants he wondered if Hjalmar had been in on this, the bait, the lure, but no. It had warned him, and had no reason to--it could've been gone already, fleeing the scene and leaving him to die.

Vargas-... sneezed.

He hesitated, then, the briefest of instants, trying to summon up that magicka that had been infused to make him a master. This was not his element. He could not purge her sickness, but perhaps he could hold it at bay long enough to find out what the hell was going on.

Toxic eyes lifted to narrow at the roiling waters, and he calculated his chances, briefly. In the water, he had none. He'd not penetrate that shell with any ease, even on land. Her claws could drag him down, cut him apart; she could breathe there, he could not. He had to stay clear of the water. And here? She could reach him with her magic. And he did not use his. Always my weakness, he thought irritably, memories of airborne dragons thrumming through his mind.

"What is WRONG with you?" he bellowed, stepping swiftly backward, farther from the shore. A spell of dizziness washed over him, weakness, his magic still curling back at it, battling it far too weakly. "I came to inform you that those you seek to end are dead, bar one. And to ask why that one is on your list. Or have you betrayed, as well-? Are you not working for the benefit of the same nest that I am?" For an instant, rage welled up in him, a snarl fighting to cross his face--lips too rigid to support such a gesture. But the feeling was there. The urge to shout at her, full of frustrated fury, to tell her that he and he alone had been keeping this nest from destruction, the past few cycles.

Ahh, the egotism; if only he'd known how insignificant he--this whole place--really was, but he did not. The work was there, though, laid before him, and to every side he saw the others failing, or disregarding their duty, or simply not caring.

Or, betraying.

Never mind the shame and stigma of his-...

"Are we allies, or are we not? I am not here to waste my time; I am here for the benefit of our work. Unless my work is no longer yours." Always to the point--but this time, with venom in it. And all respect for what should have been his fellow Master, suddenly gone.

The rage did not abate.

Not his; not Farina's. She was at least speaking, and so he responded in kind--no battle of titans was forthcoming, not immediately at least. But his own fury--the leashed and bestial wrath of a Leviathan--filled his words with his own acid, his own form of bubbling rage. His had not been born of simmering heat, but arduous work, toil beneath his Masters' commands for centuries. She had had her era of command; now she dared complain that she'd been tricked, trapped, complacent-?

He hardly noticed Hjalmar's words, the Valkhound's attempts at reasoning. They were admirable enough, but Vargas's attention was on Farina's snapped fury. "LORD DHRACIA HAS CLAIMED THEM," he roared back, with all the authority Her name carried resonating in every syllable. If Farina took issue: let her take it up with their Lord. Let her challenge her for restitution. "Nemean remains, and she was my Master. I would see proof of her betrayal," he added, in a tone of demand, with the congestion of Farina's sickness adding a roughness to his words. If Farina insisted Nemean had turned traitor, Vargas wanted evidence. It wasn't that it was unbelievable that Nemean throw discord around like a flashing light, for the fun of it; it was that this Nest held its purposes, and Nemean truly turning on them was abhorrent to him. He had to know, for sure, before he took this to Astraea.

"As to who allowed me to wear this title," Vargas went on, drawing himself up to his full and angry height--he paced forward two steps, not close to the lapping foam but looming nonetheless, regardless of Farina's own immense carapace. "THE CREATOR HAS RESHAPED ME." Let her challenge that, any more than she would challenge His Hand. Never mind the other, simpering Master who'd put him up to the job--the laziness that had decreed a replacement would be needed. His Creator had reshaped him: in power, if not in form.

"THE COMPLACENCY IN THIS NEST WAS DISGUSTING," he went on, and suddenly he was giving vent to fury he'd long held, to opinions he'd never dared voice as Overseer. "Betrayals! Lazy sleep! All work, stopped!" a clawed hand gestured in disgust. "One Master missing, another trapped away in, what, a hole?" Venom dripped from his words. "We will return to our WORK." Vargas's all-important creed. "And that is WHY I AM HERE. Because first, I need to know--I require proof!--that one of our Masters is yet a traitor."

His voice dropped. Softer. Menacing. Undoubtedly Farina would not care. Vargas did not care. It was how he felt: furious. If Nemean had truly turned, he would be angry even with her: she had no right. Her games had a line they should not cross, in his mind. And if they were more than games-? If she played her little wretched moves to her own tune, now, to another's goals? "Do you have that proof?" he asked.