Vigilance - Printable Version

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas stood before The Black Spire, and waited for the Chaos Forge to gather. He'd summoned them--or, rather, he'd sent Scion to do so. It was time to make an announcement. Two, in fact, or maybe three.

For the time being, though, he simply waited: standing with his back to the Oilstone, looking as imposing and monstrous as ever.

Now and then, he bellowed, in case Scion's words hadn't reached nearby ears:

"CHAOS FORGE. COME: TO THE SPIRE!"

Dimly, it was aware.

There was nothing to see, but it could hear-- hear the back-and-forth footsteps and muffled voices. They had become commonplace, background noise in a warm, dark place. It was curled, uncomfortably so, into itself in fetal position, chitin grinding against chitin as it shifted in its oilstone casing. It cramped. Its legs-- yes, they should be legs --had been bent in on themselves for just a little too long, its spine curved in like a shellfish and its head bent low.

The chrysalis sat in one of the hollowed-out tombs for new creations, large and a few feet off the ground. It did not move. It did not move until Vargas bellowed.

The cry for a meeting was a new noise. Loud, abrasive, almost clear. It was nothing like the hushed, barely-there murmurings it had heard before, or the growling of hungry mouths, or the shuffling footsteps that had passed its chrysalis by. The Valkhound was startled, at first. It shifted but found no leverage to move properly.

Something deep and instinctual said danger-- yes, loud noises were danger and threatening and for some reason, this creature was vulnerable. It stretched out, then; its back braced hard against oilstone and its legs moved to unfurl. There was pressure against its spine and its thighs as it pushed back and then up. Louder than Vargas's shout, there came a sickening CRACK.

Oil glinted iridescent in Draco's dim lighting as the oilstone gave way and shattered into shiny pieces, running like streamwater down the cave wall. The bundle of black chitin fell out of the hollowed-out alcove it had been growing in and plummeted the few feet down to the floor where it thumped wetly and then rolled; slowly gathering itself together.

Its limbs felt too long when they weren't crumpled underneath themselves. They were stiff and sore but they brought themselves up to stand anyway. It was dark, here, but it could make out vague shapes already-- something large and something smaller that stood backed by a spire of black, iridescent gemstone.

The valkhound was hungry. It knew that much. Its mouth split and its neon tongue swiped across its lips as it watched in silence.

Nidhogg came, too, but not eagerly or obediently. His was a stone-kicking, huffing sort of approach: deliberately slow, but not so slow that he could be reprimanded for it. It was a fine line, but the hybrid had gotten very, very good at walking it.

He'd also been travelling: hunting a great deal for the Forge, now that he had the right to do so, and actually contributing something. And... it felt good. He still didn't like Vargas (fuck that guy), but he came when called, at least. Mostly because he liked being alive. He had also expanded his vocabulary: what had once been primarily hisses had incorporated a rather surprising lexicon, mostly of absolutely filthy words.

As he approached, then, his attention was taken first by V-Chaos-Thirteen (who got a squinting stare, and almost a stumble, as faint recognition dawned) and then by the newly-hatched... what the fuck was that?

Now Nidhogg did stumble, staring at the thing as he passed. "What the fuck is that?" he said aloud, but didn't slow any further. He just stared, deciding distinctly that V-Chaos-Thirteen was Somebody Else's Problem, and sidled up alongside Eleven quizzically. "I think I knew your mom," he told them bluntly--and then hesitated. ...He'd never actually met Relic, not properly, anyway. "Or your other dad. Anyway, I'm your dad. I think? Maybe. Hi." He nodded, pleased that the kid was at least alive. That had been a major fuckup on his part, that whole accidental-stone-giving thing.

Archon arrived a moment later, wings flared. He'd just come back to Draco, taking his "emissary to Centaurus" role very seriously. Admittedly the role amounted to just about nothing: merely reporting when the cave changed, providing details on those changes, and serving as a go-between when its caretakers required anything. Clawed feet touched down, robes swishing, and he folded those wings behind him as he looked around. Hands touched the sickles at his waist, as if to check they were still there, and then lifted to push back his hood.

For a moment he stood amongst the others as they gathered--he'd missed the presence of the chrysalis and the set of "armor" that had just hatched, mostly because the light he'd used to guide his way here had hissed out and plunged his passage into pitch darkness as he'd arrived in Draco. Otherwise, he'd have offered it help in getting to the meeting. As it was, oblivious, he looked around, taking note of Eleven with a quizzical glance before standing upright and staring--waiting--at Master Vargas.

Scion didn't come immediately, still rounding up the last of the Forge from Pegasus, but it wasn't exactly late by any means, just simply not the first to arrive. But when was it ever the first to arrive?

It stepped through the valkhounds that had gathered and up next to Vargas, sitting down near him with a proud raise of its head. It didn't even recognize a couple of the new ones - was that a fucking suit of armor?? - but they would soon know it. You know, the one that was going to take the credit for leading the efforts to cleanse Canis. That NONE OF THEM helped out with? (except for like. two)

There was little that could compel Azrael to do anything he did not want to do. Even if he was "part" of the Chaos Forge, if anyone but Master Vargas himself came and demanded he join a meeting, he would have refused. But Scion knew his one weakness - not a weakness to him, of course - and that was the Hive. Any mention of it, any inkling that he would have a chance to strike back at it, and he was there. It was a grudge he did not let go, would not let go, and it was what that damn cat had tapped into when it came to get him.

So, begrudgingly, Azrael rose to his feet and made his way to Draco. Upon arriving, he sized up who had appeared - new designs he had not seen, old ones he had. Few that he had ever spoken to, he was not interested in approaching and making friends, after all. His agreement was Vargas was not as a soldier in his army, but an offered weapon against Order when needed. He otherwise did as he pleased.

His eyes raked over the gathered, and then looked further. There, not far from the Spire, away from the group so it was not in attention, was an oil-streaked ruby chrysalis. Suspiciously similar to the scythe that his spawn bore. Azrael frowned and something like embaressement heated beneath his skin, and the glow in his chest grew brighter for a moment. What had that monster done to get itself killed this time?

But he did not linger on it for long. He had long since given up on it, however much he loathed to give up on anything. Chaos was not his to control - not this sort of Chaos - and he had sanctioned V-Ruby-One off into "failure" territory. It had been an attempt to create something, and it had failed. He would try again, one day, but not now.

He stood near the back of the group, standing broad and proud, all four arms crossed across his chest as he listened to what Vargas had to announce.

A head turns and ears perk - sitting under the Spire, behind Vargas, was Rue. They'd bundled themself up to take a nap and stabilize earlier, but Vargas's booming voice was more than enough to wake them up.

Yawning, they'd roll over onto their feet, blinking away the oil that had built up in their sleep. "Oh. Business. Yes, business," they mutter under their breath. What's Vargas want this time?

The Zoisite came to the call, leaving behind the garden when Scion had requested them. It wasn't every cycle that Vargas held a gathering of the Chaos Forge (she thought that perhaps it would be good to do so more often, if possible), and they would not miss it for the world.

An orb of golden light bobbed beside them as they walked into Draco and found themself a spot, using the sharp shadows cast by the light to pick out a good location to settle in without having to strain their neck.

In their history, they had mainly memories of disturbing gatherings. The first that impressed upon their mind, of the Hand who came down and turned one of the bystanders inside out. The trip here, to Draco, and the laying out of the new laws of the Chaos Forge. Draconua's presence. There was... Something to be said about how the group only seemed to gather when things were about to become quite terrible.

This time, the Zoisite thought, it may be different. The Zoisite sat, pulling their forebody upright so that they could see the gathered a bit more easily. Their front talons hung in front of them, and it took some effort to maintain the posture, but it was worth it to be present and focused in the moment.

Hopefully... Hopefully, no one would need to be made into an example. It had been many, many, many cycles since the Zoisite had been witness to something so dreadful.

It had been long since Mirac had been truly active, not since the fight with Ace. It missed having an opponent so willing to fight. A real one that is, not one in the many visions it could access. Even so, as a true gamer, Mirac was in the depths of one of those visions when Scion came to retrieve it. Stunned by the intrusion, Mirac found itself cut down in the vision. And rose, instead, in Draco, grumbling to himself. A summons? It attempted to yawn, thwarted by the scar tissue that had regrown over its jaws, its breath leaving as a soft whistle instead. Wait...a summons! At the black spire! Something was happening!

Mirac set off as soon as he has heard, but, as it turns out, swords do not float very fast. He arrived late, a good bit after most others had trickled in, though still with a wide grin plastered on his face. Had Mirac the presence of mind to look, he probably would have noticed the newcomers, and even admired the iron of the living set of armor. As it was, the sword's attention span was very one track, and Vargas was currently the center of attention. With no regard for volume moderation as per usual, Mirac began to speak.

"Mirac has ARRIVED! IT IS TIME FOR HAPPENING? Is it time for KILLFIGHTING and BLOOD? Mirac has trained MUCH!"

"speak" think