ORIGIN - GOOD COMES IN THIRDS

Guess who had awakened.

Oh, it'd been a violent emergence, too; laden with crackling lightning and a writhing body.

Rather than wait for the folds of Oilstone to naturally fall away, she tore through it with tooth and claw. Enamel chipped and keratin scraped, but that had not deterred her. She'd immediately fixed a foul rictus onto her face and thundered out of the dark corridor—it'd remained familiar to her (the stink of Oil, burning flesh, ozone still burning rife through the air) but, she had no further use for it.

Home called to her; and home was damp stone and a perverse sense of aliveness emanating from it, a Black Spire that churned as much as the rest of the womb did. No cave that stood between her and it was acknowledged.

Instead of finagling herself through the checkpoint doorway, the Sleepless Chaos launched herself upward. Hands catching a hold on the old stone and Oilstone—which burned and struck hot, even against her own palms—she scrambled to haul herself over it. No sooner than she hit the earth with a solid thump!, she was back to frantic, tunnel-visioned movement. Her flanks seized something terrible, breaths foaming at the corners of her jaw where it was pulled far back into a grimace; but, that did not deter her. Talons scrabbled for footholds, and she forced herself through any section too narrow to just gallop through.

When at last the aperture swam into view, Draconua slowed. Her faceplate pitched downward, eyes scanning the present smallness of the gap, and she sneered. Hussaresque wings snapped outward and flared through the air once as she altered her course. Wheezing gasps fluttered from her chest as she set her sights on where there should be a doorman—or some kind of an usher.

Not even allowing herself time to focus and parse there being (or not) someone standing there, she wheezed. "Who's come through? How long since—" (Gasp.) "I left? Tell me."

@The Sentinel @Mirac

The sudden sound of talons rending stone and an enormous something rushing toward the Aperture alerted Sentinel that something was--obviously--coming. He stepped into the gap, Mirac in hand, staring stiff and ready at the darkness. A faint flare of magic, and a well-practiced stance, and he was ready for any assault.

It was Draconua that came charging in like a freight train (was there any other way?), her red-masked monstrous form emerging from the dark. The Sentinel tilted his head slightly, and his fingers tightened around Mirac's hilt. He knew that the blade would have... much to say, but Sentinel himself at first simply looked Draconua over.

Flanks heaving; foaming at the mouth, her useless wings flared outward. Empty-eyed, he observed her, and empty-toned, he answered.

"The Sentinel has not counted the days since its departure." He had no idea how long it had been; he'd had no reason to keep track or to care. But perhaps she was simply checking on Draco-? Maybe she had news?

"The Black Spire and the Chaos Forge are stable." (Remarkably coherent, that, for the dog-beast.) "The Master works within."

He did not block the doorway; he hadn't been instructed to, not from her and did it matter which direction she was coming from-? He simply watched her, empty-eyed--and let Mirac say whatever Mirac would undoubtedly say.

@Draconua

(No, there was not any other way.)

The horrible, slavering beast simply stood there (practically vibrating with pent-up... enthusiasm) as answers were uttered and a sentient sword likely spewed all manner of verbiage at her. Miraculously, it all went ignored in lieu of Draconua just grimacing. Everything was perfectly in order—nothing had gone tragically wrong in her absence. As usual, Vargas had a hold on things. Works within was what he did when all was well.

Disgusting concept, really. Even more so than the smell of green grass.

Teeth baring in a scowl but otherwise erring toward inaction, the Sleepless Chaos plodded past the Sentinel. There was no perceived need for conversation, and thusly, she would simply head into her containment chambers as originally planned. Yet, after a moment's squeezing and growling, she found the girth of her chest... stuck.

Contorting her neck at an odd angle, Draconua let loose a wheezing snarl and set to twisting herself to the side. Claws braced against one side of the shrinking aperture while her hind legs scrabbled to simply propel herself through the opening. Beating her wings against the rock, she snarled again. A tentacle erupted from the earth to press against the rock, too, but it was unyielding in its slowly-shifting course.

Stone pressed against her heaving flanks, and the valkhound refused to admit to the futility of her efforts.

And so, by way of terrific conversation, she twisted over her shoulder and ground out in a wheezing exhale: "is anything near?" The tentacle smacked wetly against her face, and she bit down on it with a snarl.

@The Sentinel

For a long moment, the Sentinel simply stared at Draconua wedged and struggling in the Aperture. Almost idly he called upon his magic, wondering if anything helpful would come, as it sometimes did. He reached for her, and a few spores drifted down-... a faint and strange sensation reaching him in turn. It was as though his senses had expanded. The spell might even have been useful if he'd cast it on the Aperture--a way, later, to view the location remotely. But the tiny, few atmospheric spores had hit the Sleepless Chaos, instead.

The Sentinel paused, at this new set of sensations, but he had no idea what it meant, and so for now he disregarded it.

"Near. There are," he began, and looked around to list his answers (unaware of what precisely her question meant, and taking it at face value) "-rocks." And then he ran out of things to list. Draco was... rocks. Mainly.

@Draconua

Draconua, understandably unaware of the spores due to facing the other direction, just grumbled her disdain. The Sentinel had given his answer, and who was she to take it at anything but face value as well? Nothing but rocks around them.

Wonderful conversationalist she was, the Valkhound just continued to (noisily) squirm in place until the aperture shifted just enough for her to get her latter half through. Once all of that was said and done, she simply galloped for her den.

Not so much as a farewell offered.

exit, unless stopped
@The Sentinel
great thread you two

He watched her go in silence, watched her wriggle through the clutching rock without so much as a snort.

The Sentinel didn't find it funny.

The Sentinel didn't find anything funny.

When she had gone, he stared, for a time, at the empty space where she had been; and then he turned away again, his attention returning to his duties--Draconua little more than a half-forgotten footnote in his day.

...exit
totm? potm? yes