ORIGIN

Vargas had explained it, had led him to vaguely where V-Chaos-Four could be found. The Sentinel moved forward, halberd in one hand (Mirac not with him, at the moment--a shame, really; he'd have enjoyed fighting with it here).

"Terror of Dark Skies," he rasped into the darkness, and hoped that he would get a response. "They are to train."

He was meant to spar with the larger beast; a simple fight, nothing particularly special about it. Vargas had instructed him simply to do it, to give Chaos-Four practice. He hadn't given him any details--anything specific to try, or test, or even do. Just... 'spar with it,' he had said; 'let it practice fighting against you.'

He imagined the Master was simply throwing bodies at Chaos-Four, giving it varied experience, but he did not think about it overmuch. His task was to obey, and so he did.

Whispering halberd at the ready, he stepped forward, peering out ahead. "Is it here?" he asked, his rasping voice indifferent.

Nightwing had gained quite some ability with speech, and the Sentinel noted this with a dim sort of approval. Not that it was his place to pass judgment; but it seemed to him that words were good. Hiss to rumble, its communication was clear, and he set the halberd's butt against the rock and looked around.

"It may decide," he answered--and then, considering, "If it has wings, space is required to fly."

Then he waited--ready to follow to a more suitable spot or, if Chaos-Four didn't care, to begin right where they stood.

Hopefully, though, his meaning was clear: if Nightwing wished an open area for flight, the Sentinel was amenable to that.

The Sentinel paced along, and when instructed, he turned to face his opponent. While there was something beautifully, insidiously deadly about Chaos-Four--all its sleek black shape made for death from the shadows--it seemed well-spoken and honorable, and Sentinel offered it a bow of his head.

"It will begin," he rasped--fair warning, as permission was given for him to strike first. He raised his halberd--waited a fraction--and then, with abrupt violence, lunged into a series of forward strikes.

It was near choreographed: muscled forelimbs brought the whispering blade around and around in swift, short strikes held up before him. It was not intended to harm, or even necessarily impact, Chaos-Four yet: it was a flurry of swift, short, violent swings meant to potentially put Chaos-Four on the defensive.

It was a test, of sorts, too--not the sort a superior might give a student, but one Sentinel used as a fighter to judge his opponent early on. How would Chaos-Four react? Would they brute force through the swinging blade? Back away, circle him? Get up high?

He did not know--and so he lashed swiftly, blue eyes locked upon his target.

His flurry was a fast one, and apparently it was enough to perform its task well. He saw no return assault--nothing at all, in fact, in the darkness.

The Sentinel waited, but there was nothing; and so after a time, he simply turned and left.