He stood at attention nearby, waiting, the perfect hulking monster soldier and if there were the faintest trickles of rebellious thought in him, well, so what? He wasn't going to act on them. He would obey in his cowardice, in the necessity of it; if she ordered him to kill his own spawn he would do it and for no reason other than to preserve the rest, to preserve what else might later come. Reluctantly? Yes, but that hardly mattered to one bleeding out on the floor with their creator's claws raking through their throat. Motive mattered little, nor would he have been so selfish as to pretend that his thoughts had any importance in such a moment. No, his rebellion was... smaller. Subtle, and Vargas did not do 'subtle' well.

In fact, he noticed nothing of her smirk at Orthoclase-Alpha, merely turning to regard them as she did, to observe, to supervise: to ensure no gestures or behaviors in his spawn were out of place. His responsibility. And when Lord Dhracia at last spoke, he (in this lack of subtlety) perhaps missed any implied taunt in her words. 'What a delightful menagerie you've accumulated, Master Vargas; surely they aren't all new?'

"They are new. There was nearly nothing here, when I awoke," he answered, a little dourly--the caves had been in long disrepair, though for this, Vargas blamed the other Masters--not Lord Dhracia, of course. They should have been at work, not allowing it all to languish. And 'new' for a creature of their age was relative: to him, it meant since this last awakening.

There was a reason Vargas was a straightforward beast: an Overseer's job was direct. Lord Dhracia's crooning manipulations and subtle cruelties were generally beyond him; he saw no use and had little interest in these machinations. The threats that she brandished, however, were clear enough, and if she delighted in making them rather more carnal and sanguine than her serpent-tongued hints, well, she was speaking his language in those moments. For his work, though, Vargas was blunt. Communication was clear and firm. Even now, then, her addition of 'You reinvent promise with each design,' he assumed that the first had been a compliment--if she did not think they were new, why, then she must think of them as adult, as stronger than they were, and therefore his work was good. "I have been working, but it is nowhere near enough." Toxic eyes shifted warily to Dhracia as he realized a slight misstep, perhaps: the decision as to when enough was 'enough' was hers and hers alone. Or was it-? As a Master, the cave's entire state was, in part, his responsibility--no? Emboldened by this thought, he added: "I would see it filled with those of great potential, once I have more familiarity with this power." Because... look at it; one of them had two pelvises, and another was leaking what essentially amounted to cherry juice. Vargas had some strides yet to make, as a Master.

Dhracia was looking over the chrysalis, now: at its oil-slicked surface, and Vargas thought that there was hunger in her. 'I trust you'll be reinventing perfection now. Let's give your brood something to study, shall we?' Vargas turned toward his 'brood,' still matter-of-fact, still blunt. He missed any semblance of a threat, in this; he had no reason to fear his spawn observing. If Lord Dhracia were operating under the assumption that Vargas had not already been fretting about his creation every second of her absence, she was sorely mistaken: his obsessive protection of the chrysalis, his despairing regard of Khavur and its failings, his worry that this human-beast would be equally faulty, had itched at his mind without rest. Every atom of his being had fixated on this moment, and he accepted full responsibility for his failure--or lack thereof--without the hatching itself, or the childrens' watching of it, affecting it in the slightest. A blunt creature, he felt that if she chose to punish or destroy him, well, that would be that and a consequence of his failings. Privately, he would have thought it foolish: he was only just now getting his footing with his powers, and he'd never have destroyed one of his own for failing during a learning process.

But Dhracia was not known for her mercy.

To all the clustered, waiting Gembound and creations, then, he grunted. "Watch closely, as your Lord commands," he ordered, in case they hadn't understood--some were too young, perhaps, to grasp it closely but he eyed Orthoclase-Alpha. Hopefully it would enforce this order, if needed.

And then Vargas eyed the chrysalis... waiting.

He had not truly feared failure: he had worried, but if it happened then that was that, as he'd noted a moment prior. But his tiny act of rebellion... now that traced cold fingers of fear along his nerves. That mantra of 'does she know?' that murmured, lurking, a constant beneath the surface. Surely she knew everything-?

He considered the creation itself: the touch of mercy, of kindness, of perhaps even righteousness, that he'd attempted to impart (and could he even do such things? He was too inexperienced in this form of creation to truly know). She had told him to copy it from Beatris, to-...

A gentle realization struck, soft and fleeting like flower petals carried by a wind: Beatris was merciful. She was kind. She had sought to protect Two, and Two had argued on behalf of others--and so if he had attempted to leave selflessness in this "World Ender," so what? Vargas realized, then, that his 'rebellion' had been following Dhracia's direct orders, even accidentally; by deliberately forming a creature that might inevitably betray its purpose, he had only stuck to her exact command. To make it like Beatris; to craft it after Two. If they had kindness, mercy, then had he not simply done his exact job?

Vargas reflected, then, that perhaps his act hadn't been a very good rebellion after all. It was faintly embarrassing to think, and he felt foolish, even, for having worried about it so. And Dhracia--what if his Lord had meant this deliberately? Cunning beyond all measure, predicting his actions before they were taken; what if that had been her intent, factored into its purpose? Had she outwitted him without having to say a word on it all?

Either way, his fear fell away: there was nothing he had truly done wrong. Faint jubilance took its place: almost a light... exhilaration, distant triumph. 'Getting his way,' in this case--creating a creature with mercy and kindness--had been part of creating the mirror image of a human; he had done nothing wrong. Unless faintly rebellious thoughts counted; and perhaps Lord Dhracia had planned on that.

Vargas turned, lowering himself to his haunches, facing the chrysalis: and his confidence had returned, a pleased expression on his face, almost eagerness in his eyes to see the results of what he had wrought.

For he had created a merciful thing--or tried to--but was that not simply what it meant to be human?