ORIGIN

Her words came back--booming, roaring, shaking the very earth beneath her. And were he any smaller, Vargas might have found the font of rotten breath and screeching voice blowing down at him to be intimidating. As it was he was calculating, staring at her every twitching movement, listening to the pitch of each and every syllable...

...and judging. Not right or wrong. Not good or bad. But the reality of it. She is afraid of losing it. An addict, through and through, trembling with her need, clutching her crutch with desperation in her. It is all she thinks she has. Accurate? Unknown. Assessment drew him toward conclusion, however, and rather than throw what he thought back at her, he constructed a careful frame for his narrative. It was, however, truth. "I DO NOT INTEND TO TAKE IT FROM YOU! IT IS YOUR POWER, GRANTED TO YOU BY THE CREATOR. BUT I WILL TEACH YOU TO USE IT, DRACONUA--RIGHT NOW, YOU THROW IT ONLY BLINDLY. YOU DO NOT DO IT JUSTICE!" His own roar was loud--their voices shook Pegasus--and he watched her spin to glare him down as he circled her. She challenged him to ruin her, and she left him an opening, even: threw magic into the air, spun chaos into storm, and stood in it.

She wants to fight, he realized, but even knowing this, Vargas still did not strike. That was the difference between them, he felt--his power was, and came from, control; hers was truly without any whatsoever. It was his authority, his duty, that had elevated him to where he was. And yet... Draconua had not yet struck him. Only her telegraphed attacks, only torn into the earth. Only her challenges.

Vargas offered no mindless attack--he did not strike at her words--but he would offer ultimatum, then.

"THIS IS AN OFFER I GIVE YOU ONLY ONCE, DRACONUA. IF I MUST RUIN YOU, IT IS NOT TRAINING THAT YOU WILL RECEIVE. IT WILL BE DESTRUCTION."

Six toxic eyes narrowed at her. "THINK CLOSELY UPON YOUR NEXT WORDS, SLEEPLESS CHAOS, FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE. AND CONSIDER THIS: WHY DID YOU ONLY HATCH AFTER I WAS THERE, AND READY TO GUIDE YOU? THE CREATOR MADE YOU TO SERVE A PURPOSE. IT IS NOT ONE YOU CAN SERVE ALONE."

Claws paused, scratched a brace into the dirt, though he kept his distance from her churning winds, her slavering Oil-slicked jaws. "IF I MUST TEACH YOU WHY, IT WILL BE YOUR FINAL LESSON."

The seconds ticked past, tense and pumping with adrenaline. The Leviathan and the leviathan facing off, one tossing tusks and bellowing words, her magic lashing out to crash into the scarred-up earth before her. Her words were a challenge, on their surface. A denial of authority. A demand to be dominated, or for Vargas to die trying.

But.

But.

The Master's Overseer brain was ticking through her every movement, her individual words. Her challenge had come, but her magic still did not strike him. It did not backfire, either: it slashed into the lifeless dirt, despite the fury in her words. And two of those hateful words: those rang through his mind, emphasized, held onto. 'GUIDE ME.' In Vargas's mind--so attuned to assessing others--Draconua was, whether she knew it or not, asking for his help.

This is more control than she has shown in the past. Despite her frustration. She is fighting to force me to make the first move. She is disobeying, but it is not yet outright rebellion. And I have given her a choice, and she has said: 'guide me.'

"I will take your demand as your choice, then!" he boomed, head lifting. "You have said to guide you, and so I will. Wait here, Draconua, and I will bring you guidance. BY HIS WILL," he added, this last a loud bellow for not-particularly-clear reasons, as he stared up at her reared-back, bare-toothed form.

Acid eyes cut across the ruined terrain around her as he debated how to handle this. Azigh would not be pleased.

Gah--he could deal with that later, if at all. If Draconua survived this lesson.

Well, this was going well! Vargas felt quite positive about this whole thing, by now, almost to the point that he'd nearly forgotten his horrific disappointment with V-Chaos-Two. In fact, it was proving to have been useful, in the end--if only the damn thing hadn't given up, it could be seeing the fruits of its efforts firsthand. Draconua was not even attacking him; instead, waiting behind, if angrily.

(Little did he know that wasn't by choice.)

The Leviathan first made his way swiftly into the trees, following by scent the nearest herd of Meadow Deer. They were not easy prey, even for him; when he did stalk them, it was with a wary eye and a swift hand. With luck, he'd find some at the forest edge and manage to carry a calf off from the herd faster than they could follow; even he would not risk standing in the way of their stampedes.

Patient stalking eventually paid off, and Vargas--creeping among the trees--leapt out, wrapped spined arms around the smallest of them, and hauled back in as fast as he could. The thundering of hooves behind him, he half-dragged the bawling calf out of sight--and eventually out of hearing--of the rest. The sound of their stampede spurred him to greater speed than usual, tripping over logs and dodging beneath branches. But he made it safely away. Even so, he was littered in bleeding scratches, cursing and bruised, by the time he got even this smaller prey-beast back to where he'd left Draconua.

He came to a halt before her, still struggling to control the bucking, panting creature. "Are you ready to learn something?!" he demanded, though in an oddly cheerful way. Meanwhile, he wrested the beast to a standstill, both of them nearly out of breath.

Vargas stared up at Draconua, and if only a grin could have twisted his face-

She had stayed put, which was a huge bonus in his mind. As enraged as she was, she had leashed and collared herself, for now; and, somehow, even her magic was betraying her. This brought a spark of inspiration to him, and he spoke as he wrestled the bleating Meadow Deer calf down. "Have you considered that the Creator makes his will known through your magic, Sleepless Chaos-? That when it fails, or strikes you, it is He holding the whip?" Idly-said, mere food for thought-... Nothing serious, surely.

Even if it were true, would she care? She spoke of Him with religious fervor, but perhaps it was the sort of fervor one used for excuses. Perhaps she spoke of Him so because it was her concept of him that enabled her entropic fury.

Regardless.

"Their anatomy is generally similar--these Gembounds, and the Lessers, and even Valkhounds. Have you studied it? Here," he offered, drawing a line--without cutting skin--across the side of the deer's throat, beneath the jawline. "And here," and now he fought to keep it still as he gestured to points inside the armpit, the inner thigh. "This is where their lifeblood runs strongest, nearest to the surface. When your magic fails you, these spots, severed, will cause them to bleed out quickly. No matter how large they are."

Had her dreams taught her anatomy? Had her rampages included dissections?

"The base of the spine," and here Vargas grunted as the calf bucked and kicked at him, "where it meets the skull--here. Twist, or pop it upward, and the neck will be broken. It is a near-instant death. It is important to aim your destruction. Less effort, on your part. A more efficient result. Whether by magic or claw," and he glanced up at her, almost slyly. "Too many words, I'd imagine? Show me you understand this lesson."

Vargas kicked the calf down, stepped back, and waited: the creature's fate was in her hands, now. And it wouldn't stay down for long.

...Close. Her lunge had been good, but--in Vargas's ever-so-professional estimation--rushed. "Good," he boomed, lunging for the cave deer, to snag its feet out from under it before it could get away. His own limb snapped out as he spoke, kicking its hind leg, hard; it toppled with another frantic bleat, eyes rolling white, tongue lolling from its mouth in pure terror. "But I am trying to teach you precision. Control. When you lash out so blindly you will come away with nothing--no success! And only frustration! Take your time, Draconua. Aim your strikes--so that even a small strike will kill."

Enough talking, he told himself, and stepped away again as the calf flailed on the ground for the moment. Either she would learn, or she would not.

He hoped that her next strike would be true; for at least if his advice turned out to be worthwhile, to her, she might listen to him next time.

A critical eye (six of them, in fact) examined the Meadow calf. He reflected that he'd rather her end it quickly; the creature was in obvious torment, at this point. He felt as though he were teaching a new hatch, all over again.