He'd been trying to snag behind the creature's neck, but the reaction had him taking rapid, surprised mental notes. Neck extends. Extremely flexible. Muscled. That--was unexpected.

He tried to turn aside, but the blow still sent him reeling; between trying to avoid it and simply being struck he'd rapidly lost his grip on the creature. He took a swift few paces back, shaking his head briefly and blinking to clear his head from the strike. His sense of hearing was ringing, a brief fuzziness taking his vision as the blood flow to his head was briefly interrupted. But it hadn't really harmed him; it was a hit, but little more than a blunt punch. Which was fair, given the fact that this was a spar.

Vargas quickly assessed, and then--careful not to strike with his actual arm-spikes--lunged forward and aimed a backhand strike with his long left forelimb, attempting to hit Phlegethon across the head or jaw. His intent was to stun it, if even briefly, in turn--a punch to the head, though backhanded, rather than a neck-punch to the... well, neck.

It lunged, and he wasn't sure what it had been trying to do, only that it slapped into the slop and--missed? The Overseer pressed his advantage at once; Phlegethon had overextended (or had it? wasn't it... extensible? he'd never seen anything like that, before, but maybe it couldn't 'over' extend at all) and he leapt for it.

He was heavier--his aim was to grab it, to drop his weight, to get limbs tangled around its neck behind its head the way one might hold a snake. With luck, he'd get a hold on it and let it exhaust itself struggling.

The only issue was, what if it were snake-like--a constrictor? Muscled, able to coil about him-? Ahh, well; quills and spines ought to help well enough with that. Vargas's mind wasn't thinking all this out word-for-word, of course; he was acting rapidly, on instinct and with the experience of centuries of bloody battle.

Vargas was not, in fact, capable of breathing underwater. When he felt the slick, slimy creature beneath him flex its muscles and throw itself in, he had time to take exactly one half a gasp of air before both of them went under. The cold was always a shock--the not-breathing, as much so.

The Overseer struggled to get his feet under him, without losing grip--and to use his size and strength in one wrenching blow, the much beneath as questionable leverage, to thrust them both back onto dry... ish... land.

Should he fail at this, he'd need to relinquish his grasp--and he wasn't ready to do that; not yet.

The thing was spitting pyrogel at him. Now, Vargas wasn't a complete moron, and he WAS rather familiar with the magic of the caves. His thought, therefore--along with a memory of recently being set on fire--was something along the lines of, Uh-oh.

He quickly released Phlegethon entirely, springing back--and then, in a moment of brilliant inspiration, just dashed forward to wipe the goop back off on the oily beast itself.

Undoubtedly, he'd not get ALL of it off, but maybe if Phlegethon was equally tainted by the stuff, he'd be less likely to... well, set it on fire.

Maybe.

Smear.

He felt the grip slam down on his wrist, felt the weight, the leverage pulling him off-balance. He stumbled, and immediately reared back his other forelimb. This swept forward with all his strength behind it, aiming a simple closed-fisted punch for Phlegethon's snout.

Briefly, he debated whether letting the creation's neck go had been a good idea. But what was the alternative--to be set aflame?

It had made a good decision, he decided--weaving magic with its physical strength. Thus far, it seemed to be a good design, though neither of them were truly pulling ahead--not yet.