Vargas gave a stern nod, to the assurances. Orthoclase would serve well; it would protect the chrysalids, and it would not--at least deliberately--some attract the Creator's wrath.

The news of a white dragon, however, gave him pause. He looked to Orthoclase-Alpha with renewed interest.

"The white one-?" he asked, thoughtful; "What is its designation?"

This information would have been better gathered from Thirty-Five, Vargas knew, but the Desert Rose was... indisposed, at the moment. Still, he was already running through his head what was best to be done about this. Send someone, perhaps, to try to negotiate-? But who? And if Thirty-Five had already begun infiltration, it would only reflect even worse on their potential cooperation.

Hell.

Vargas stared for a very long moment at Orthoclase-Alpha, and then grunted. "...How many dragons are there?" he asked, mulling all this over.

"I believe I saw the white one at the Arena, but are there more-? That might be both useful, and dangerous. I will see what can be done, in any case. Do let me know when you've chosen a name, Overseer," he added, with a sly sidelong stare.

It seemed that Alpha was dismissed, for Vargas was pushing back up again, preparing himself to leave--but lingering, a moment, his departure not so abrupt that his new champion could not ask him questions, if need be.

Vargas had meant the question, not rhetorical as such; the news that there were four had it counting in its mind. The black one, this fire-white one, possibly the icy one he'd once seen, and the black icy one Alpha had fought. That did add up.

Where had they come from-? Raheerah would never have chosen ice; but they were too close to his design to be anything else. ...Magical echoes, somehow, of the master? The irony of the magic that half of them held, and their color, did not escape him.

Hm.

Thank you, Master.

Vargas glanced to Orthoclase-Alpha, and grunted.

"I will return," he informed it, and turned to pace away.