Vargas felt as though he teetered, around Lord Dhracia. As though he were perched on some narrow, swinging cable: one moment cowering at its trembling instability and the deadly drop beneath, the next ready to plunge off, the next stable in his place. It was deliberate, he thought; her form of 'leadership' was either remarkably impulsive or planned out with incredible machinations, but it was designed to cast those beneath her off their balance. To keep them scrabbling, scratching, and afraid; to remind them that their position was never secure. That their existence relied on pleasing her every whim, on never failing. It left them hanging on her own taut breath, praying with a heart desperate with fear and adoration, never knowing whether they would face the tiniest snippet of approval doled out--or... this.

Lord Dhracia would not abide complacency.

When Mary tumbled--when she tried to follow Dhracia, and fell--it was Vargas who gently lifted her back up, propping her on her feet and waiting. It would not do, after all, to have the new 'bomb' lying undignified, even injured. One hand curled around her upper arm, keeping her steadily in place.

And then... the lights failed. Vargas' head snapped up, around, his ever-alert ferocity immediately aware of the chance of an attack--and in his mind the sudden realization that anyone seeking Lord Dhracia as a target (anyone powerful enough, foolish enough) would find her here, with her weapon... Alarm rang through him, his toxic gaze narrowing, swinging from corner to corner, rapidly searching for an enemy that was not there. Instead, he found... a face, and realization struck him; ahh, it is just our dark overlord, he might have thought, and the fact that such a thought would bring relief would, should, be worrying to many.

Child was exchanged for gemstone, and he eyed the shining thing, glistening with blood where it now lay in his six-thumbed hand. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? he thought, but did not say, offering himself nothing more than a mental shrug as he closed fingers around it and glanced back at his brood. Dhracia surely didn't mean it as a threat, a reinforcement of her power or prowess... he didn't need that, and she'd know it. Another display, then? A show for his cowering wretches?

He glanced back at them; any fear he'd held had bled away, and he was all business once again. He'd done what he was asked. She'd do as she wished, with her mad cackling and her Nemean-tier theatrics; he could do little else and he was pragmatic, in that regard.

Vargas eyed his spawn, then, and those not his spawn, and was little more than mildly annoyed with his Lord. He had done his best to promise rewards for them, for good behavior. To encourage their loyalty, to emphasize the greatness that they served beneath. He'd promised them power, if they succeeded--and what had Dhracia stormed in and offered? Chaos, death, insults. 'Nothing but worms.' Rather than a pinnacle of mysterious power, they'd been treated to a display of sadistic malice and what appeared, very much, like the lost control of a madwoman. It would take work, to fix this mess, to fix her damage, to justify any of this; and he exhaled heavily through flared nostrils. "Gather them, Overseer Alpha, and keep them together until I return. Do not," with heavy emphasis on 'not,' and a pause; "...let anyone leave, yet." He glanced after Lord Dhracia, adding dourly, reinforcing--"...And bow, next time." It did not sound commanding, domineering; it sounded matter-of-fact, almost weary.

He'd have to address them, after this, try to right what he perceived as Lord Dhracia's mistakes; to update them on whatever the hell was about to happen--if she didn't shred him into tiny purple pieces. He needed his team stable and cooperative, and if Lord Dhracia valued chaos so highly, thought Master Vargas, let her try to run a fucking organization like that. No; she gathered the competent, and terrorized them, and let them handle the details when they weren't shivering in fear or drooling at her boots.

Vargas almost regretted having fawned over her first appearance, so. The magic, as they say, was gone.

That being said--and he thought this, as he followed her, pacing obediently along behind with the stone clenched in one fist--it was a useful tirade, too. And not without its reasons. At the very least, he would never need to intimidate them again; she was the stick, and he could focus, now, on dangling the carrot (and the irony that perhaps she thought of her own offers as the carrot would never be known to him). Threat was now resting firmly with her, and it was left to Vargas to prepare only promises.

It was only as Dhracia paced beneath the shelter of the overhang--secluded from the rest, sheltered--that he wondered what this unfinished business might be. What had they yet to discuss-? Interest flickered up in him, and he glanced at the child, sparing the briefest thought for her future, hoping that she would thrive, before his attention was drawn back like a moth to Lord Dhracia's chaotic flame.

So, here he was, on that thin and swaying cable again: was it to be a piece of cake, or a dagger through the heart?

Vargas found that he was interested, either way.