The Leviathan's appearance was an almost tragic counterpoint to the ragged exhaustion of Orthoclase-Alpha's. Where one languished, hollow-eyed and dusty, thin and sick, the other was a picture of gleaming, muscled health: head held high, cheer in him, a picture of confident purpose.

Maximus was gone; that was an enormous weight off his back. He intended to return to Orion to pick up those who'd returned to their chrysalises--they should be emerging in a few days. He'd be waiting for them, to praise their attempts; he was even considering rewarding those who had tried and fallen. Oh, generous nature-! Right now, his mind was also on the farm, and on hunting. His plan for the next few hours was to check on the farm's progress, and then to hunt, and feed. A few tunnel runners, perhaps, or a Meadow calf, if he got lucky-

'Muh-Master V-Varh— argas…'

It was a bare whisper over the wind, and at first he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it. Massive limbs halted mid-stride, backed up, Vargas peering warily into the thick foliage. 'Mas-ter... Varg— Vargas.' Vargas blinked, and--('Vargas.')--turned toward the sound. Plunging into dense underbrush at a call was never a good idea, of course; it might be an ambush, who knew? But-...

It didn't sound like an ambush.

In fact, it... sounded like Orthoclase-Alpha. Then he saw it--it had broken free of the underbrush a little distance back. Into open air. Facing him, speaking to him, so unexpected and out of place that for a moment Vargas had genuine trouble processing what he was seeing. Or, at least, how to react to it. He stood in mute shock for a beat, trying to think over a dozen things at once: how has it gotten here? Does it require aid? Is it injured? Why has it waited this long? Is this a trap? Why Pegasus? What-

What would have once turned into a businesslike bluster--a loud "ah, you are here--why did you wait so long" with a looming threat behind the words--never emerged. One could say what they wanted of Master Vargas, but despite being a very old dog he was quite capable of learning new tricks. And the necessity of handling Orthoclase-Alpha with phenomenally soft, white kid gloves was one of those tricks--anything other might send it scurrying away again, sobbing, apologizing for nothing, broken beyond repair.

The Master slowly sat down, instead, and dipped his head in a sideways incline, a greeting. "Orthoclase-Alpha," he greeted, quietly; "It is good to see you intact." Now, what would come next? Some half-formed defiance (something he half-expected, now, after Maximus had finally found a voice, only to use it to run away yet again); an apology? A pledge of duty or, perhaps, a simple "reporting in"? Whatever the case, it had called to him, and he would wait patiently for it to get to its purpose in its own time.

Belatedly, he wondered if Lord Dhracia had anything to do with this. He saw none of the marks of her handiwork on it--no sign of it having chrysalized, no excess terror in it, no damage done. Perhaps she had... bolstered it, somehow? Magically, or with words?

"Come; speak. I am in no hurry," he told Alpha, his enormous bulk remaining carefully still.

He waited, quiet. Watched the leg that lifted, the glance back, the leg set back down (breath held, released).

And then, past its apparent fear--the long-standing terror and withered appearance--it spoke. It... challenged him. No--it is challenging itself. Leave it to Vargas to hear "I want to fight with you," and feel a warm and fuzzy pride in his spawn. To think, what a good child! Yes! What a fine, strong creation! It was terrified and broken, and yet it came to him to face its fears.

Ironic, and a little sad, that the one thing Maximus had demanded of him--but never earned--was ablaze now in his chest; pride, in Orthoclase-Alpha. This, to him, was strength: the will to stand back up and face a threat, no matter how much it was in Alpha's own mind, how much it had built that threat up for itself. It still perceived it as an impossibility--and yet came to face it all the same. But Vargas tempered his emotions, tamped them down so as not to frighten Alpha with the intensity of them; and he thought about his words before he answered.

"I am pleased with your courage," he began, and his voice was quiet, calm. "I will fight you, if you are certain. But," he went on, measured, so that it could take in everything he said, "I know you are not weak." Your being here proves that. "I know you can be useful. You do not need to prove that by fighting me, unless you want to." He considered, briefly: would him truly fighting it--truly going all-out and possibly beating the hell out of the already-battered creature, and in its obvious reluctance--only traumatize it further..? It was obvious that it wanted to confront its fear, however reluctantly; but would he make it worse?

I could simply let it strike me, and play defensive, and go easy on it, he thought to himself. Unless, of course, its ferocity in its fear truly challenged him--always a possibility.

He glanced out over the meadow, an alternative also striking him. "Or we can hunt the meadow deer, and you can prove it to me that way. They are dangerous," he warned, looking back to Alpha--"even to us. That is what they are there for,"--to be a challenge, and large prey, for the most monstrous of the Nest's creations.

He studied Orthoclase-Alpha, slowly pushing back upright. "I offer that as an alternative. But if you wish to fight me, we can try. Only, be sure that you are ready for it," he added, quietly. It might have come across as doubt--a niggling intrusion, perhaps, of you are not ready to the Orthoclase's challenge. But it wasn't--it was genuine concern.

Whatever happened, with Orthoclase-Alpha finally standing here before him--speaking to him--he did not want to break it again.

He probably should have let it go--gently accepted the Orthoclase's words, and made a decision for it. He would--he would do the latter; but the first? "Just let it go?" It wasn't the Leviathan's way.

Everything was a test; and everything was a lesson, and if there was a stumble along the way, it was his duty--as Overseer, as the Orthoclase's creator, as its trainer, its Master, and its parent--to teach it. "At some point, you will need to make your own decisions," he told it, and his words, at least, were gentle.

But then Vargas stood; and he stepped back, and he tensed down, a little--not to spring, but bracing himself. It was easiest, he reasoned, just to do this here: to give it the chance to strike him. He would see where this took them. And he was also guessing that one reason for its hesitation might simply have been disagreement. It might have wanted to fight him, but feared disagreeing with his alternative suggestion: so he would simply fall back on its initial one.

"We will fight, then; a spar," he added, his voice cautious now. He had no idea how far feral the Orthoclase had gone, how violent it had become. "No very serious injuries."

A breath, braced, and then he added: "You may begin."

After the first thirty seconds or so of hesitation, he had offered some assurance: "You may have the first hit." He'd, otherwise, not moved. It was almost sad--no, it was sad--to watch Orthoclase-Alpha dance, dipping back and forth, dodging and combatting nothing more than its own damn fear.

And it was his fault, wasn't it? Or was it something more? He still didn't know.

He had braced himself, but there was no reason for it, in the end: Orthoclase-Alpha stumbled over its own step, slowing and grasping--nothing, leaving Vargas at a loss as to what to do.

He stared down, and hesitated.

"Try again," he said at last, patient. He offered no pity in his tone--that might shame the Orthoclase. He offered no harshness; that might frighten it.

He was as toneless and immobile as a wall, and as without hostility. But how would Alpha see that-? Vargas hesitated before speaking again, unsure if the "wisdom" he now offered would be seen as foolishness, as confusing-... "Your own greatest enemy right now is yourself. I cannot help you to fight that, but I can wait until you hit."

Would it understand?

Was he even right?

Vargas's words had seemed to have some effect. Just what that effect was, the Leviathan could not say: Orthoclase-Alpha, though, shifted its gaze and seemed to focus.

Vargas didn't try to move away--not at first; only just when the snag was about to hit did he jerk back, and even then--deliberately--not enough to avoid the strike. He was going easy on the Orthoclase, of course. One wrong move and he might frighten it, spur it into that horrific fight-or-flight-... He was still surprised enough that it had even come here, in the end. And every little twitch, every jerk and every glance, still showed its terrible fear. Except... it was more focused, now, wasn't it..?

He decided, quickly, to offer nothing in turn that it did not first strike at him. Nothing that would escalate. Nothing it wouldn't (he hoped) perhaps expect. So when he stumbled down, one lanky limb pulled easily out from under him, he yanked for one of Alpha's with the other.

Of course, it helped that the Orthoclase had an extra pair of limbs--it would be far harder to knock it down. But for combat and for its peace of mind both, right now, perhaps that was for the best.

Vargas himself was half on the ground, regardless: propped on the dirt and down at half his usual hulking height.

He was still wondering where this would take them. Would it need to unleash-? Beat on him, for awhile, before it felt... itself, again? It won't be that easy. Nothing so fast and simple, not unless Lord Dhracia had worked some kind of bizarre magic on it.

But-... he would wait and see.