Vargas eyed the Sentinel sourly.

He knew what he could do.

He also knew that his magic invariably fucking backfired--this was a complex use of it, and not his native element. Well--it was that or his gate guard might wind up in a gemstone for a few weeks. Vargas steeled himself. "I will try something. It is likely to fail, or more likely to make things worse, so... brace yourself." With those heartening words, he reached for his magic.

It crit-failed, indeed, and blue blood began to stream from the Sentinel's wounds. "Ahh, hell," the Master murmured, and reached to apply pressure physically.

Damn, damn, damn.

"HELL," he repeated, as the black form began to slump before him. He caught him, stopped him from falling, at least; but the gemstone was spreading rapidly.

Vargas hauled him as close to the Black Spire as he could manage before the stone began to settle, and then left him in the cover of some boulders--charred, jagged rocks upthrust by Draconua's tantrum of emergence. The Sentinel could rest there.

I wonder what he was about to say? Vargas wondered; the hound-beast's words, a "You-" had been choked off. Hm. He could ask it later, he supposed.

For now, there was little else he could do; he'd need to guard the Aperture himself, but at least this one had proven its worth.

Sort of.

It hadn't won the fight, but near enough to--and it wouldn't have been knocked into its stone if his magic hadn't made things so much worse. He didn't feel guilty about it. Well, not very guilty. Useless magic. Disgusted, yes. Guilty?

...Only a little.

He'd monitor the fleshbeast's stone--and the Sentinel's--and see how things went from there.