ORIGIN - EVERY NIGHT MY TEETH ARE FALLING OUT

A thought echoed in Khavur's brain from the moment it reawakened.

YOU MUST FLY.

It- she did not understand why.

YOU MUST FLY.

So she got up. Stretched. Cat-like, sans the grace -- so maybe not cat-like-

YOU MUST FLY.

And she walked over to the slabs that looked out over the ruins.

YOU MUST FLY.

She could think poetically about this but-

YOU MUST FL--

OKAY. ALRIGHT. SHE WAS OFF!

A running start and a few powerful flaps of her wings took Khavur off the ground. She opted not to tug on Maximus -- that would distract her, would wake them, just generally a bad idea. She also opted not to look down... Khavur did not wish to imagine its- agh- its ruins among the ocean, the many. The goal of the exercise was to FLY-- TO PRACTICE Flight control. That was the goal. Strengthen her abilities, feel more comfortable in this mode, improve its endurance.

It was a time in the caves where the lights would have been turned off. Anyone sleeping here might be awakened, anyone awake might be bewildered -- why was there a blazing orange sun flying around in Orion?

@Draconua

Orion's darkness was nothing new; while she lacked the strangely inverted eyesight of a particular Sentinel, the shadows did not bother her. Seeing through twelve pinholes every day made for an easy adjustment to "nighttime." This left her free to meander for however long she needed to—to live up to her title as the Sleepless Chaos.

There was no rest for the wicked.

Nevermind her reasons for prowling about here ~~staring at the monuments and ruins, wondering how to trash them further after the Hunt~~. At the first galumphing beat of wings, Draconua twisted upward. Her faceplate glinted in the minimal light, gaze fixing right on a... very bright manner of beast. One of Vargas's abominations, she could faintly recall; it was not the one that spent most of its time sulking before miraculously vanishing from sight.

No, this one was quite the amalgamation. Immense, many-limbed, pointy. A beast she could admire, if it didn't stand out so much (unless that was the point. She was no Master or designer or any sort.) Here, heavy as it seemed to be, it was flying.

A faint inkling of an idea came to mind. They'd never once spoken to one another, but she tipped her head further towards the sky: "YOU," Draconua howled at the sun, Oilstained teeth fully exposed, "COME DOWN."

Her voice boomed with the demand, and promised consequences for disobedience; nothing unusual.

@Khavur

YOU. Oh no. COME DOWN. Shoot. Shot. Crashing. The howl that killed the sun-- well, dragged it to the floor. Made a mortal in the presence of higher authority, the Reaver was successfully flagged, like a yellow taxi cab of some odd sort, to a landing place. The landing wasn't the best -- a bit of panic was creeping through. The thunder was in no way Master Vargas', but it resembled his in a few ways.

Khavur oriented itself, twisting one head quickly to get a look at its faux commander. At first, all it saw was hair. So much hair. Oil and flesh and way too much fur for a Master Vargas. In fact, the more it- she- it looked, the less similarity she was seeing. Perhaps she should stop comparing everything to Master Vargas when very few things were truly similar to Master Vargas. She had done this with Maximus (much as she did not want to disturb them now, Khavur couldn't help it if her worry rattled them), and now she had done this with...

Draconua.

So there really was a creature of chaos for every room. Khavur's head twisted up and up and up just to see the Creator's armored beast. This one had seemed defiant, even to Master Vargas, and... cruel. Superior, in many ways... Khavur could analyze the form and still probably not find a way to beat her in combat. Has she and Master Vargas ever fought? Who would have won...? For Khavur, it seemed an interesting thought problem, something along the lines of "an unstoppable force" versus "an immovable object".

But, anyways. The Reaver and the Sleepless Chaos had never spoken before. Barely even exchanged a glance, not just because of height difference. So... why now? Why was she the one to initiate? After an awkward pause, the fading sun meekly pondered back: "Draconua? Did... Master Vargas send you...?" Khavur heavily doubted it, but she had to at least attempt a guess. Perhaps Master Vargas thought Khavur really should train with Draconua... perhaps he had though it especially urgent? Why that could be, the Reaver had not a clue.

@Draconua

Khavur half-crashed to the floor, and fortune was on its—no, her side; the Sleepless Chaos’s devil-may-care attitude had her confidently padding forward, head unmoving from where it was hoisted up high. It was a lazy, but purposeful gait she had, rather than a far-too-common erratic shuffling or hobbling where an aberrant limb had sprung into being. Imposing, nonetheless.

Pinholes fixed solidly on the ever-shifting abomination and, again, Draconua wondered what the purpose of all that color was. Distraction, perhaps? It was certainly working, given the amount of time she spent marinating in that thought. She sized the Reaver up in absolute reciprocity. Her conclusions were quite the opposite, though, in a foolhardy sort of way: one part stabbing limbs, two parts snapping teeth and bashing horns—yet, it looked looked so overly complex and… a bit much like a sensory enema.

… definitely for distraction.

The Valkhound shook her head, both as reply and to shoo off the… vastness of Khavur’s presence. Shifting down to eye-level (or, really, just above it) did not help the latter, but it strained her neck less.

Tucking Oilstained teeth behind ragged lips, Draconua half-glared down her faceplate. A tongue slithered to worry at her upsettingly flat teeth and the tusks chasing them, and she wheezed, "he did not." Imagine if she’d had the presence to be offended by those implications (despite her touching her nose to the Master’s calves, in a figurative sense.) A fired-off bolt would’ve been her voice, then.

Hussaresque wings veered upward, stabbing once through the air; she twisted to regard them pointedly and, as she turned back to Khavur, they seemed to… swell.

A chaotic influence seeped from them, obfuscating bony fingers and knife nails. It flapped once, solidifying into a festering sanguine mass vaguely resembling the Reaver’s own wings. Every keratinous point across Draconua’s body grew longer—or, perhaps, that was a trick of the light.

She shifted, displaying the modified limbs, mouth curled into a half-manic grin; "show me how to fly, Reaver." The hair lining her undersides smoldered in her glee, heart seizing painfully with both entropic backfire and unfettered enthusiasm.

What wicked things she could do with such a capability—and it was up to Khavur to bestow that upon her.

@Khavur