It did not answer him. Not a word, not a vocal sound--only the scratch of carapace and quills in the dust. That, though, drew Vargas's head around. Earned an eventual glance, after the long and thoughtful staring off at Hydra's glare.

For a moment his eyes had to adjust; and for a moment longer he was unsure what he was seeing. His mind parsed the image only slowly, put together the broken pieces to form a fractured whole. The last time he had seen the Orthoclase, it had been... thinning, miserable, but not this. This looked like someone had taken it apart and put it back together with spit and string, and expected it to get by on luck alone. Broken, was his first and startled thought-...

...But it was emerging, wasn't it? Only a little--ahh and now it retreated back. Halfway.

Vargas eyed it, for a moment, and bit back a false attempt at humor--some "you look like shit" that would have been acid on open wounds, instead of a salve for it, for Alpha. He looked back at Hydra instead, giving it a moment to process. Or had it died, right there? Started out, collapsed, expired? No, its stone would have taken it, then. Maybe it still would. His glance had caught that damaged nod, a half-shake of the head, confusion. You still don't know what you want, Vargas thought, and pondered.

He reached for his magicka, then, an idea slowly forming, but as he did so he took his time. Concentrated. That magic rarely worked, for him, despite any practice he put into it, but he needed it now. Needed it for an important gesture, a white flag, an offer of truce to a war he hadn't intended to wage. Do not fail me, his mind whispered, and he was speaking to himself.

After a moment, the Master's masterpiece flared into existence between clawed hands, and he exhaled the slightest little sigh of relief. The fruit was small, but it was, and it gleamed rubbery yellow in Tunnel P's awful vibrant light. He lifted a single thumbhook claw to it, slicing through the peel enough to allow the fruity fragrance to drift free.

Then he looked to the Orthoclase.

It never ate, when he suggested it. It hardly touched its food. Could he convince it-? Could he instill in it some spark of motivation, some form of that stubbornness it once had held?

"Orthoclase-Alpha," he began, slowly, and shifted himself--not quite standing, but sliding, careful, turning--"You have said you do not want to die." The split-peel banana was slid across the floor, opened side up, pushed toward scarred and withered snout. "But I ask you now: are you ready to live?"

It drew back again, a jerk, a hiding wheezing mess.

Evidently not, Vargas thought. After a moment, he lobbed the little banana into the hole after Orthoclase-Alpha. It was a light toss, one that would bounce it a couple feet in but little more. Alpha would eat it, or it would not; he supposed he could go hunting for it, but there was no guarantee it'd still be here upon his return. Hell, in its state it might wander off the other way--wander into Hydra--and be forever lost, dead, its stone consumed by some Sand Worm or the like.

He had no further ideas, for the moment, and he lay there on the rock, staring back at Hydra again and debating. He obviously didn't want to leave Orthoclase-Alpha alone in its state. It looked to be at the very edge of survival, and the smallest thing (hopefully not his own arrival here) might well tip it over.

But he could think of nothing to do. It occurred to him now--only now--that Orthoclase-Alpha hadn't actually heard anything that Vargas had said for a very, very long time. He'd reassured it it wasn't in trouble, and here it was, believing he had come to kill it. He'd told it he'd been concerned for its well-being, and--well, the same result. He spoke to it now, and it did not respond, barely able to breathe and shrinking away. What did that say about its mindset..? And worse, what had gotten it to this point?

Vargas spent the quiet moment forming up another banana, between his claws; it was the closest thing he had to a direct transfer of energy to his spawn, assuming it chose to ate any of the fruits. But past that he was still stumped.

He'd noticed its slow decline, of course; but what had caused it? It could have been many things, he thought, grimly; and maybe that was the biggest issue with it. Its stonegiver, crawling into Hydra to die. Vargas's strike. Lord Dhracia's visit. The Chaos Forge's move. Hell, maybe his dismissal had only made it worse, though he couldn't really see how. And then there was the question of who had told it he was coming for it. Had this unknown someone harmed it? The Boneseer, maybe? he wondered. Had some grim fortune falsely-told scared the Orthoclase down into this den?

Claw slit peel; the second banana was scuffed, skidded across the sand, lightly into the burrow.

Acid eyes looked back at Hydra, thinking.

If this were the old days? I would drive it up, if I could, and out into Hydra and help it find that motivation. It might have been traumatized by it, but it would be strengthened or it would die. No--actually; it isn't in a physical state to even make it that far, I think. But, of course, he didn't want to return to those days anyway. It was perhaps a bad sign of his lack of ideas that was sending him grasping at such ancient straws.

He'd start slow, then. See if he could get some kind of response. Work with 'yes' and 'no' until either Alpha proved to be wholly unresponsive (and what then-?) or they formulated at least a basic plan.

Start with the simple: "Orthoclase-Alpha, do you wish to return to Draco with me?"

He was trying to structure the logic gates in his mind, but this one was the very first step.

Vargas was considering precisely the Orthoclase's own concerns when it startled him with something quite resembling coherent speech. It would not want to be seen; we could find it a- and then it had spoken his very thoughts.

He pondered. Some of them would not judge, he knew, the Sentinel among them. Others--Draconua, Nidhogg--might outright try to kill the Orthoclase, and still others might remember its weakness. "Would you like to get strong again, and then return?" he suggested.

But how could it "get strong?" How could he figure out what had befallen it in the first place? Was it psychological? A failed molting? Poor diet-? He knew the Orthoclase wouldn't be able to tell him, either. "I can bring you food, water. When you are strong you might return?"

But did it want that?

"Do you want that?" he tried. He had to make sure. He couldn't tell if it was pushing out excuses, not wanting to come back--or if it did, but truly didn't want to be seen.

Even as he considered, another banana was being formed, the little misshapen fruit skidded in to join the rest. Did it even want them-? He didn't know. It couldn't communicate its desires very well.

But what more could he do? This was, at least, a start--he hoped--this slow step-by-step communication. But would it solve anything? Would the Orthoclase retreat again, withdraw, fall back into its stone right here in the rock and leave him where he'd started five cycles ago (ignorant of its ailments, oblivious to the cause?). What more could he do?

Perhaps the answer was nothing; perhaps the Orthoclase was doomed to die. Vargas was at least not one to easily give up, however, and until it did, he would continue asking his slow questions, and pushing bananas at his broken spawn.

Vargas was left with something of a conundrum. He watched, a little relieved, as the Orthoclase's head initially lifted into a little nod. It wants to return to strength, and return to Draco, as well. But as to offered help, it gave him a wretched shake of its head.

This left the Leviathan stumped. He didn't crawl over to stare into the hole; it was clear that something was desperately wrong with Alpha, and he had no intention of terrifying it further. When I find who did this to it, who told it I was hunting it-? Genuine anger flickered up inside him, lifting and popping into heated steam, bubbles frothing through hot, thick liquid. As it came to the surface, he turned and stared at Hydra. Don't look at it, for now. If it saw him suddenly glowering down it would be sure to misinterpret it.

Ahh, how careful he was being. It wasn't completely new to him, either. Such delicate charades had sometimes led to a kill, long ago, though he'd never pretended sympathy. He'd never really lied, even; his false presentations had been the tempting scent of food, or the illusion of a safe haven. He did hold some sense of honor and fair play. But the careful maneuvering, then, was not unknown to him. Prey, too, was easy to scare away. Was Orthoclase-Alpha prey, now?

He turned his mind back to the task at hand. "You want to be strong, and return," (or was it only saying that to appease him?) "but you don't want help in doing so. Are you capable of getting yourself food, water? You look like you would collapse." But that wasn't right, was it? He'd not detected it in this tunnel the last time he'd passed through, so it'd returned here a day or two ago at the most. It was probably in and out, able to hunt and find water, still, but just not very much.

Vargas was not much one to pray, but he pushed up with a grunt, after a moment. Creator, he thought--ah, would he make demands of Him, now-? I want this one alive. I don't suppose your power can leave some water in this hellhole? Now upright, now lanky and stepping nearer to the warren (to the tune of rasping breaths), Vargas spoke. "I'll see if this power lets me give you a little water, or something, but if it backfires do not panic. It isn't an attack." Blunt. Plain. Would it listen? More likely, the magic wouldn't even come; the Creator, if he even guided its power, surely did not care for the weak.

There was a spark and a hiss, and then nothing, and Vargas shrugged and pulled away. "Nothing. It was worth a try. Do you want me to leave you here, Orthoclase-Alpha? To leave you to recover? Can I trust you to find yourself food and water; are you strong enough to do that, physically?"

A pause, then; did it even want him to leave-? Would it prefer that he stay, even if he didn't feed it? "Or would you like me to remain, to at least assist you?" Was it even awake, anymore, in there?

For a moment, the Leviathan was puzzled by that second "no." Was that a no, don't leave-? A no, Orthoclase-Alpha couldn't feed itself? But he was fairly certain the next word was "go," a stumbled syllable lurching out between ragged breaths.

It can barely breathe, he thought to himself.

He debated only briefly what course of action he would take: and then he stood, lanky limbs lifting him to stand upright. "I will go, then," he began, slowly; "but I will come back, and if you have not improved I will ensure that you do. That may mean finding someone more familiar with your... sort of anatomy," he added. "In case you are sick." He still wasn't sure there wasn't something terribly wrong with... with moulting, or with the original Orthoclase stonegiver's nutritional needs or what have you. Guessing at Alpha's internal psychology was hard enough for an empathetic creature--for Vargas it was a near-impossibility, and he weighed physical issues on the other hand as every bit as likely. But-... He would give it this chance, for now.

"I will return in a couple of weeks. Eat, drink, try to find words to explain to me what has happened or I will bring someone to look into your... moulting." ...Maybe? "...Or whatever it might be. And if you feel up to it you may return to Draco whenever you wish." Vargas paused, considering. He still held that leash, that chain; was he willing to let it go? The decision, as always, was quickly made by practicality and not merely mercy: there was no point in an Overseer as useless as this. "If you choose to leave the Forge, Orthoclase-Alpha, you may; but inform me so that I can replace you. And not kill you," he added, a little sharply.

Another moment's thought, as he stood there--eyeing Hydra--and for a moment it might have seemed he was about to utter something deeply philosophical or at least containing a modicum of emotion. Instead, he grunted, and said "Do not wander into Hydra."

Irritation flickered up at the failed magic, and he grasped for it again, this time with a burst of savage, mental violence. It was chaos, after all. It required strength to control, and he snatched for it as if it were his and not his Creator's. Something came, something that reached for the heat of the tunnel and then--did nothing with it; and Vargas let it go with another moment's silent annoyance, and turned away.

He took a few dust-shuffling steps and then glanced back. "Is there anything you would say before I go?" he asked his spawn, looking at the mouth of its dark den.