ORIGIN

From the soft, green tunnel entrance--past the labradorite waystones--a hulking monster emerged. It never failed to strike Vargas how out of place he was, sweeping from the voidlight shadows of Draco past the Door of Life, into the birdsong and meadows of Pegasus. But he had to hunt, to eat; and he was looking, too, for Orthoclase-Alpha. It was a matter of keeping his eyes open, his senses ready; the Orthoclase had been upgraded, now, in his mind from "on vacation" to outright "missing." He was concerned that it had gotten itself injured, somehow, or killed, but he hadn't found it in Tunnel P or Canis, and Pegasus was the last place he had actually seen it alive.

Clawed limbs swept over the grass, head held absently low in the manner of any travelling predator. His stride, as befit his size, was swift, if unhurried, but he was an ugly stain of alien violence on the natural beauty of Pegasus.

The Leviathan paused. Lifted his head; inhaled, looked around. He cast out his other senses, too--magic thrummed through him weakly, a pulse-touch of sensation. For a moment, as he looked this way and that, he stared directly up at Vander's tree--but he was dismissing each thing he saw as "not Orthoclase-Alpha," and barely registered the old Champion as there. If he'd been asked, he'd have likely said he'd assumed it to be a cluster of tree rabbits, or the like--not what he was looking for, though he settled the reddish blur into his mind as he did with dozens of other creatures roaming in his view.

Not here, then. Not today, not yesterday, not the day before. He wasn't sure where else to look--he'd sent out his spy and scout, and past that there wasn't all that much that he could do.

With a roll of his shoulders, and another glance around, Vargas set back out: over the grass, head swinging back to low, following the scent of the nearest colony of Wind Hoppers.

Vargas's mind had been working overtime, the last few days. It had been a constant stream, the forefront of his thoughts: We must answer to a new Hand. We do not have enough of us. I must make a new scout to her specifications. I must find Orthoclase-Alpha. I need to check in on Garnet-Delta's training of the new guardian. I..." -and so on, and so forth.

But right now, at least--on the hunt, on the prowl--he let it all fall away. When he sought out his food, his prey, he indulged himself. He let his violently bruise-hued hide feel the wind coursing over him, let the scent of forest fill his nostrils. It would have been poetic to say he allowed himself to imagine he was somewhere else, but he never needed to: it was enough to know that he was in his home, the master of his domain, hunting.

He was heading out into the fields, now--away from the treeline, away from Vander.

Magic sparked out, again, as he prowled farther into the open. And now he became aware of the little shape trailing him. It flared brightly in his mind, and for a moment he nearly dismissed it again. He kept his head forward, his attention still that way--he couldn't catch the things in the trees, the flying creatures and the climbers. He could have pulled them down with magic, but it was a waste of energy, really. And liable to backfire. By the time he climbed up there they'd have flown away, or leapt to the next set of branches. So his attention swept the fields ahead, looking for that telltale sparkle of red dots beneath the surface that would be Wind Hopper rabbits in their colony: he could snag one, perhaps, on the ground or--if his stealth failed him out here in the bright-lit open--dig a few out of their warren to eat. He-...

What is that? His subconscious flickered a warning. The thing behind him--up in the trees?--it was following him. And it was too large to be another of the Tree Rabbits, or even a colony of them. His step faltered briefly, but he caught himself before he turned, wondering. Overseer Cain-? he wondered, and then gave up. It could be any of a dozen Gembounds; there was no point in being overly stealthy about it.

He turned, swinging his head to peer up into the tree, toward the glimmer of red he'd seen.

There was a moment when recognition hung at the edge, when the shape in the trees was... familiar to him; if Vander fled now, perhaps it would evade him. But Vargas paused there, one spiked forelimb lowering back to the ground as he squinted up against the light, trying to see who this new shadow was.

To say that Vargas was surprised was an understatement; but despite what Vander might have thought, it was pleasant surprise. Though Vargas had few "long-lost friends," and Vander certainly wasn't among these, his was still a familiar face. Vander--Desert-Rose--was an old Champion; a surviving relic of an ancient time, a reminder that Vargas was not the only artifact remaining. That some proof of his entire life still yet existed, beyond dusty bones and forgotten Masters. Anyway, it was good to see him still alive; Vargas couldn't quite remember the last time he'd seen him.

Hadn't he been about to leave for Monoceros, to spy on the dragons-? And he'd fallen into a sleep, if the Leviathan remembered right.

These thoughts lasted only a second or two, in Vargas's mind; and then he was calling out, and up, his voice carrying both that surprise and that pleasure in it. "Desert-Rose Thirty-Five?" Ahh, but wasn't that a mouthful? "It is good to see that you yet live. What are you doing here?" he asked, glancing around, and it was not accusation so much as more surprise. This cave didn't seem like the sort of place the Desert Rose would live; but then, what did? He supposed he simply still equated it with the--well, deserts--he'd always seen it in.

For a moment, the name 'Vander' swam back through his mind, but he could not remember if Desert Rose had chosen the name, or if it had been only a disguise name intended for its infiltration. Eyes narrowed briefly in thought; would the Desert Rose even correct him if he'd gotten it wrong? I don't think I have. If it wants to be called something else, let it earn it; it did not join the Forge. That said, he had promised those of the Sentinels that they could choose not to follow him: and he was not about to start barking orders now. He'd see where the Desert Rose thought it stood, perhaps, and go from there.

His body turned fully on the moss-cushioned grass, pacing a few long but unhurried strides closer, so that he wasn't squinting up from quite so far away.

The Leviathan stood stock-still and silent as he listened, taking note of everything the Desert Rose said. He tucked each bit away, a dry fact, no emotion attached to most of it. Refuge--though from what, Vargas didn't know. Sleep, he'd known of that. When it had finished, he turned and glanced back the way he'd been heading. "Walk with me," he decided--and with a wry glance back--"or fly."

He took it slow, pacing along the meadow's edge, back to that low-slung predator's walk. He was taking scent, as he went, for those Wind Hoppers he had seen--but his mind was on Vander and his words.

"They did move on," he agreed, his voice briefly booming, in regards to the dragons. "But so did we, as I assume Hemlocke told you. What I assume it didn't tell you is that there would be no call sent out. After Lord Dhracia arrived, all was in chaos. The old quadrants were reopened. The Black Spire--a second magic source, and our most important one for still creating--was accessible again. But not all of those you had gathered were suitable for my task." On he walked, with a solemn glance at Vander, and he wasn't talking down to him; on the contrary it was almost companionable, an easygoing update for the Desert Rose. "That is not to say they--or you--were inept. But our work is to create powerful Valkhounds, and that was not why all of you had gathered. Our work would have nothing to do with Hydra, or guiding those lost, as I believe Hemlocke had in mind at one time. I gave the option to join us, and gain my protection--those in the Chaos Forge answer to me, and Lord Dhracia has given her word not to punish them in order to punish me for any failings. And I gave them the option to reject my offer, and to go their own way, free as the Gembounds in this cave but without that same protection. I had assumed that if you were awoken, you had chosen the latter-?" he went on, and there was an almost polite indifference.

For a moment, in regards to the Desert Rose offering his aid, Vargas wondered how it was intended: as an outside ally, or a servant? He decided to address that head-on, rather than leave it unclear.

"You needn't rejoin the Forge, or, rather--join it to begin with," he explained. "There was no demand to do so. The Chaos Forge do answer to me, and they do have responsibilities. I only wanted those who wanted to continue to serve. You have your freedom, if you wish it. Speaking of which," he added, "I do not suppose you have seen Orthoclase-Alpha anywhere-? It went missing, some time ago. I told it to take time off, but it has either gotten too comfortable or perhaps it's met its end," Vargas said, with another glance at Vander.

He crested a low hill, and slowed further, scanning the terrain; the warren was up ahead a ways, and he didn't want to spook them.

Vargas was mostly quiet through Vander's speech; he came to a halt at the crest of the little gnoll, and waited. At the idea they should both eat, Vargas glanced at Vander. A short huff escaped him, an acknowledgment of the joke if not outright laughter--that sort of sharp exhale, at the very least. "It can wait," he answered, certainty in his tone.

No, he was interested in Desert Rose, for the moment. "I will say, first, that the Forge cannot go that way. I do not know if you realize the... precarious nature, of this nest, Desert Rose, but I will tell you." Vargas's demeanor was solemn as he regarded the Champion. "It had been in hibernation for centuries. Useless. Dormant. I do not doubt that Lord Dhracia was weighing our worth--that the timing of her return, my being made Master, was no coincidence. Master Astraea undoubtedly saw our impending fate, and his decision to thrust me to the Creator's feet was a last-ditch effort--if calculated!--to prevent that. There is Order in this Nest, Desert Rose--lurking, and waiting. They would sooner destroy us--this entire nest, one of many and meaningless on its own--rather than let Order take it. My point being... if the Forge dies, this nest dies. Right now, I have Lord Dhracia's assurance that we will be given time, if she can buy it. But she told me, personally, that even she cannot guarantee that the Creator will not destroy this nest. For now? He has granted me His power. Reshaped me, personally, into the Master that I am. But tomorrow-?" Vargas grunted.

"You will be thinking, I imagine, that Overseer Vargas never spoke so freely with us. That he was overbearing! Demanding! Secretive. And all of that is true. Now that I am Master I can tell you what I wish, guide you all in the directions that I wish, without fear of the other Masters' retributions. The Chaos Forge is the only thing standing between this Nest and utter destruction. Count on that," he added, firmly. "But as long as I stand, I will not let this Nest fall." There was a certainty in his tone, the finality of a God.

A moment later he was in motion, sweeping down the hillside with a rattle of quills. He darted here and there, but the Wind Hoppers were vanished into their warrens, and Vargas set about digging them out. He glanced up, waiting for Desert Rose to rejoin him.

"I tell you all of this to be up front, and so you understand, Desert Rose, this next part. That is: I must bring a heavy hand to bear on those already in the Forge. Some are skilled, diligent. Many are not, and need to be motivated more harshly in the coming cycles. If you offer us aid, if you offer to join our ranks, you will be subjecting yourself to that. But," he added, "all of that will be handled fairly. I do not punish accidents, unless they are made through negligence. I do not punish mistakes. I will punish disobedience, or failure to perform. And benefits will be earned. The problem with that is, you already bear those rewards. Freedom, the ability to procreate as you see fit--to choose a name, if you wish. I will have nothing to offer you bar purpose, perhaps; and the possibility of helping to secure this Nest's future. As for your use-?"

Vargas looked the Desert Rose up and down. "You are a Champion of Hydra. I am certain I can find a use for you. The creation of tests would not be a bad idea; if I assigned you the task of arranging such things, tests--be they in Hydra or elsewhere--what would you do with that power? Are you willing to linger in Draco, to try to handle combatative Valkhounds ten times your size? To face the consequences of failures, and gain little for reward, in turn?"

Vargas studied him. He wondered what the answer would be--his own demeanor was solemn, businesslike, as always. But he was being as up front as he could, as honest. It was a warning. Vander had much to lose, and nothing to gain--for himself. For the Nest, as a whole, and everything in it-? That was another story. But it was much to ask, much to offer, and would Desert Rose see it that way? Would he see a "greater good," as he had already seemed to imply, or did he seek to rejoin Vargas for another reason entirely?

The Master did not know--but he was curious to find out.