ORIGIN

He knew this one.

He could see it in the distance, paused, looking around; he himself would be spotted any second, if he were not already. He was making no attempt to hide, and the soft clink of the cursed halberd at every step would give him away if he weren't visible, at least. It was not, then, with an attempt at startling Khavur that the Sentinel approached.

His head was slightly cocked to one side as he drew closer. He inhaled, studying Khavur, unblinking, as he spoke: his voice one of rasping whisper, of hoarse echo. "It is... not in Draco," he said, more of an observation, really, than anything worth calling "conversation" or even "greeting." But then, that had always been his way: a little off, a little other, as if half-lost in his own plane of existence.

Since his departure--since the last time Khavur had seen him--he had grown. The lanky youth of perhaps three cycles was now leanly muscled, with new scars and scuffs across his body: some nine feet tall, still a little gangly (still filling out his weight) but bigger than he had been. And Khavur--Khavur had been granted his own new marks of battle, the Sentinel noted.

"Why has it come to the crystal place? It is-... Polaris," he added, in his rasp, looking out and over the Spire. Yes-... that was the name of it.

As if it were relevant, as if something had reminded him, he looked down: and one hand reached for the dark metal pocketwatch hanging around his neck. It was lifted, opened, the small and esoteric sigils etched into the metal frame laid over the clock itself bizarre--a star chart, atop a timepiece. It ticked.

He listened, as if this ticking meant something to him, as if it were in any way relevant to this meeting--and then he lifted his eyes (still listening) to peer at Khavur--waiting.

He looked up from his watch, letting it fall back to his chest, in favor of studying Khavur. For a long moment--some awkward ten or fifteen seconds--he simply looked at it, for whatever reason, unblinking. Whether there were thoughts in its head, or its black skull-face was just empty, wasn't clear.

"...It has grown," he agreed, at last, and turned to look at his halberd. Clawed fingers readjusted around the haft. Though he didn't vocalize his musings, he was thinking of how tall it had been, before; how it had towered over him, but now it fit him perfectly. He had grown.

"It has also come to learn. It has travelled, and fought. There have been many lessons. Many magics." He looked to Khavur and paused, again, though this time not quite as awkwardly long; instead he took a rasping breath, and exhaled slowly, as if thinking.

"If the Reaver of the Dark Above... has only now begun its journey. Perhaps the Sentinel will share what it has learned." Each word was a slow and toneless rasp, but the way the Sentinel cocked his head ever-so-slightly to one side suggested that he was offering, and awaiting a response. He could share his lessons, and the Forge would benefit.

"The Sentinel can speak... of the places it has seen. And of the lessons it has learned."

The Sentinel simply waited as Khavur's brief inner dialogue raged. It knew nothing of the thoughts, only of the brief pause, and it thought little of it: it simply observed. And it made notes, too: shaped by its more recent experiences, jotted down on the bare parchment of its memory.

It is strong. It has seen battle. It is made for battle. Flight. Claws. Fangs. Spines. So it was on its journey, then, as was he-? What is its purpose? he wondered. It had never been explicitly stated; and in Sentinel's gaze, all of the Forge had their purpose. Vargas, the Master. Orthoclase-Alpha, the Overseer. V-Chaos-Two, the watcher of the children. Garnet-Delta, the Assassin, and V-Chaos-One, the hunter-in-training. He the Sentinel--and so on; and where did that leave Khavur? One of the few of them with a true name, and yet the only one without defined purpose.

He wondered at this.

But then the time for thinking was over: Khavur had accepted his questionable offer of information. Or perhaps it was better described as, his offer for questionable information. For his mind's inner workings certainly did not translate well to speech--at least, not coherent speech.

For what it was worth, he tried.

His mind reached back, picking over the memories of recent days.

"There are many caves," he began--and for each that he described, he swept his halberd as if to offer vague directions. Left, then right. Forward, then left. And so on. "Perhaps... some it has seen. The place of sea and islands. It holds bright light, and is difficult to see," for he was still only vaguely aware that bright light made it easier for most to see--but not him. "It is... Leo. The sand is... difficult to fight on. Bones fill the name of Canis," and the halberd swept back, the other way. "It is all bones, and dry, and you may trip over them." Phrased thus, it sounded oddly as though he were giving a kind permission for Khavur to do just that.

Slowly, each sentence a hollow, quiet rasp, he went on. There was no rush to his torrent of half-useful words.

"There is a Seer there. It Sees," and that was perhaps... not clarifying much. He seemed to realize this, and went on. "It is called... Giggle, and it is red. She knew... the Sentinel's past. She saw... its future, and its death. She saw..." (hesitation, fingers tightening around the halberd's haft reflexively) "...a mango." He looked to Khavur, as if this thought troubled him, and it did. It was perplexing. He could not see how a mango would fit with the story of his future. "The red dog taught the Sentinel of the Void. It can now send others into nothing." He studied Khavur again, as if thinking, but it wasn't Khavur itself that he was studying, not really; he was looking through it, thinking of the Void, of the blackness, of the fear in the hyena's eyes.

"It fought the red dog, in a test. This fight it lost, and learned much. They may reach into the mind," and a claw reached up, to tap his temple--who "they" was was left unspecified. "Reality is unwound. Everything, becomes nothing. Enemy, illusion," he tried to explain. "Decay. Spores. Madness." Ah, if he could only coherently explain the helpless position the mind-magic had placed him in. But he was hardly the eloquent type.

"Here, it fought a tiny snake. This snake showed it another magic of the mind. Tiny. Weak. Powerful. The Sentinel thrown away, again and again. Its power: nothing. This fight it lost, and learned much."

A breath, rasping, as it considered.

Was Khavur even still there-? The Sentinel had lapsed into monologue, by now.

"It fought a small, black bird-dog in Canis. This hound shares its stone," and the hand lowered, slowly, to now tap the onyx at his chest. "The Black Dog of this created it. It taught of its history, and of light--and it may blind; of plants, that may tangle the feet. Of water, sent underfoot, to force it to fall. This fight it lost, and learned much," it added, now a refrain.

It did not mention James, for the horse's lesson had been a simple repeat of Dewberry's: that mind-magic could be used to fling others about. He had learned little from this encounter, and so he skipped its mention.

"This cave--Orion. It is full of lights. Stars. There," and he gestured off toward one of the tunnels that led the way. "History lurks in its dust. There is much to find. The Sentinel found little. Beyond there is the place of dragons: storm and heat, and wind."

He paused, at last, and then fully lapsed into silence, watching Khavur closely.

Hopefully... some of this was useful. Lessons he had learned, and could share, for the betterment of the Forge, and for his... sibling? ...Colleague? What was Khavur to him?--he did not know.

For that matter, what was Khavur itself? His mind cycled back to its unknown purpose, and abruptly he was interested. He took a step forward, head cocking slightly to one side as he studied him.

What was Khavur for?

Its question was a good one, and the Sentinel considered, head tilting a little to one side.

"Wounds incurred... must heal. The ways are long. It must walk very far," he explained. He paused, a moment that might have seemed like hesitation, but it was in fact an attempt--a failed attempt--to summon up its magic.

It looked to Khavur, puzzled. "The magic... does not come. But--it has wings. It may fly, sometimes. Magic tires; it is not as the feet." Different kinds of tiring, then.

"If it wishes... to fight. The Sentinel will teach... what it has learned. If it... wishes not to. The Sentinel may give it..."

(He looked around. Slowly. Consideringly.)

"...directions."

There was not much left to say, and the Sentinel shifted to look back to Khavur. It was offering a spar, but not by any means set on one--though undoubtedly Khavur could teach it, too. Perhaps they could learn from one another, but it was not hoping for any particular response.

"Each inflicts a weariness," he sort-of-corrected, sort-of-confirmed, non-committally.

Eyes travelled to inspect the wounds. He didn't think he could do anything to aid. He didn't expect to. But he idly called on his magic anyway, ready to direct it appropriately depending on what occurred. What occurred was nothing; and he ignored this, made no mention if it, instead looking to Khavur thoughtfully.

"Where does it wish to go?" and somehow, it sounded more a musing, as if talking to itself, than a legitimate question.

He turned, then, and swept his halberd outward. "A tunnel leads forward. A place of shining lights, of crystals. And then," (and here he swept his halberd right, turning right and then right, as if indicating the turns that Khavur should make): "a dark place. It is empty. The echo of Draco lies beneath. The Sentinel has seen this," he added. He'd stabilized himself at the Altar, if briefly, and studied it, though nothing in particular had come of this. "The way is long--dark. Within, the Sentinel's black is white." No explanation was offered here. "Beyond--above the hole of black-is-white and the echoing stone--lies the place of bones, and its Seer. That is one way."

He considered, then. That was really the only way he'd taken, bar Leo, which was back beyond the way that Khavur had come. "The place of light and sea lies back beyond the place of cold." He felt it likely that Khavur had come through Ursa; but perhaps there was another route. He was hardly the cartographer of the caves.