ORIGIN

He had time, as he came crashing down, to see the glint of the spear-tip--the halberd's long point--raising up to meet him. He did not have time to dodge it.

His heart briefly sank, knowing the damage this could inflict; knowing that he'd made the devastating mistake of underestimating this one not once, but unforgivably, twice in one battle. With a seasoned enemy he'd have known to keep his distance. Not to engage, so long as it still held its weapon. But the gangly youth with its oversized halberd had not seemed skilled enough to truly pose a threat, and now--as he came crashing down, as the metal tore into the underside of his jaw and ripped into his throat--he was lamenting his mistake. His pain threshold was immense, but even so he heard the splatter of hot, acidic blood, and felt the sharp tear of dark steel (was it steel-? Did it matter?) through flesh. His own bulk, his own momentum, had served as the basis of the attack.

Another strength, he had time to think, wryly, and then his blood was trickling into his lungs.

The hole was bright: a toxic chartreuse, glowing as the likewise-glowing blood spattered down and dripped to the floor. There it hissed, on the rock--and on the Sentinel, where it struck--and Vargas coughed and gurgled out a snarl. "I said no serious injury," he protested, but it was halfhearted. He had no real grounds to criticize: he'd said to fight like a real fight, and he would hardly die from this.

A few inches to either side, perhaps.

But not from this.

He'd intended to keep the Sentinel pinned, but he had to see to his throat--and didn't want to kill it with his toxic blood. So after slamming it heavily against the rock, jarring it half-unconscious, he jerked back--aiming to take the halberd with him.

Vargas staggered back, one six-thumbed hand raising quickly to the site of the wound to check-

-IS HE FUCKING FLYING?
Six toxic eyes shot upward as the blue wings carried Sentinel abruptly out of range, into the air, leaving the Master flabbergasted on the ground. This was not a magic that he knew; how the hell had Sentinel learned this, and from where?

A glance down at his hand showed that the wound was indeed bleeding, and rather badly; but it was not a fatal strike. No arteries had been severed, and it was an injury that, though painful, could be seen to by himself. Meanwhile-...

He glanced up, and all six eyes narrowed. A rare moment of petulant anger struck him, and he had to force it back--no, he did not want revenge. The child was merely obeying its order: to fight him. Undoubtedly if he commanded it down, and to submit to his anger, it would. But still, he was not quite done with this fight: he still had the halberd in hand.

Vargas made a single concession to safety in that he turned it around, so that when he hurled it in an arcing thrust for the airborne Onyx, it was butt-first and would not, as it had done to him, impale.

But-... The Sentinel had bruised his right elbow from the start, and so Vargas, reluctantly, had to use the left. Though he was near equal in skill, it was only near; the left arm was not quite so practiced as the right.

Still, it seemed to fly true: hurtling for the Sentinel where the winged being hung, watching him, high in the air.

"Enough," Vargas said, sharply, and was displeased at the gurgle in his voice. He stepped back, hand again raising to clasp at the wound torn beneath his jaw. His magic curled up through it, and somehow, its chaotic power seemed almost to laugh at him: he, a Master, half-impaled by his own creation a fraction of his size.

The Leviathan heaved a massive sigh, annoyed at his own mistake, and dropped to his haunches. The worst of the damage was knitting shut, but it was barely a mending at all; he'd need to continue to tend to it, to see that it was properly closed. Meanwhile, he looked up and over the Sentinel.

Needless to say, he approved of its progress. He made a mental note to praise the Orthoclase, next he saw him, on its work: perhaps a lack of praise for solid work had been a part of its miserable moods. As for the Sentinel itself, it was quick, quick-thinking, strong, and uncomplaining. "Come," Vargas said, gesturing for it to approach. "Are you injured?" He wasn't sure how hard he'd struck it, either with his tackle or with the halberd; it was limping a little, hobbling as if its gut were wounded, as it pushed up with its weapon back in hand.

"You are quick. And you react, and plan, quickly. Both of these are strengths, in your favor. And you are skilled with what you have. I cannot teach you the finer points of work with your halberd," he went on; he knew that Chaos-Two had delved into that a little, at least. "Nor with your magic. Speaking of which--where did you learn--what you just did? With those wings?" he asked, bemusedly. Those were not the Creator's magic. That was not of the Chaos which should flow through the Onyx's veins.

Vargas eyed the limp, heard the uncertain declaration of pain, and hoped that he hadn't genuinely harmed the child. Granted, it had torn a damn hole through his jaw and throat-... speaking of which: "Incidentally, impaling someone's throat can be fatal. Avoid that during spars." He might have punished it but it... did look injured. Foolish, he thought, for both of them: to lose something so useful, so early, would be... bad. And for he, the Master upon whom half this cave's survival might rely, to allow himself to die in a spar-? Pure idiocy.

As for the magic--how strange. He'd never heard of anything like that, and found himself studying the Sentinel with as close as his face could come to a frown. It had simply... learned a new magic, just like that-? Something he, Vargas, had never seen before? Something unaligned to any of the elements that he knew of, and untouched by corruption?

It was baffling.

But back to the topic at hand.

"Our next generation will emerge in, if I am accurate, a few weeks' time. I intend to give Chaos-Two time to hatch and recover, so that it might raise them. In this space of time I do not need you so much--not while there are no young to protect. And I require you fully-trained. You have made an impressive start, but there are a few things I will teach you. And then, I think, I will send you to explore the caves. I think you can defend yourself," he observed, "but do not take foolish risks. You will be tasked with learning what you can: learning about the Gembound and their habits, learning of magic, learning most of all about fighting styles. Learn of the desires and goals of those within the caves, so that you may be prepared to defend against them if need be. Understood?" he pressed.

He was already thinking of what, precisely, to teach it. Defensive stances, perhaps. A better grip on the halberd--though in part that would only come when the Onyx had grown into the damn thing. How, perhaps, to deal with smaller enemies. Vargas was hardly a difficult target to hit.

Vargas briefly rubbed his elbow, and eyed the Sentinel over. "You may take such travel once you are recovered from our spar, and not before. Simply alert me before you depart. Now: are you ready to learn what I have to teach you?" he asked.

That was it, then: a note not to stab others in the throat during a spar, and instructions for the future. The next hour or two he would spend gently adjusting the Onyx's stance, teaching it stillness, stealth. How to use its shadows to hide itself, and how to use trickery to call out a victim, should it be necessary. How to deal with smaller opponents. How to keep secrets, and to unravel them from others--important, for the Forge. How to hunt for himself, and how he should not trust the words of others at their face value.

He found that, for all the creature's prowess, it was singularly naive: it seemed to have trouble grasping the concept of a "lie." But it would learn--it would need to, if it were to survive.

To learn this, and all the rest.