They had stopped, for a time, in Cepheus. A dip into the Palace, an order at Nedies' kitchen, and they'd shared a snack, for awhile. It was... strange, simply travelling. Companionable silence followed them, for the most part; he kept an easy pace, careful not to leave Selenite struggling to catch up.

Now and then, he'd commented on the history of the caves--nothing spectacularly exciting or revelatory. But he'd explained, for example, that the Palace was used for visiting... dignitaries, one might say. He'd pointed out the Hellswans, and cheerfully informed Selenite of their real function, and real teeth. In Ursa, he'd warned of Mother, explaining a little of what he knew of Dontacael. And here, in Leo-?

"It was not always this green," the Leviathan observed, picking his way along the shoreline. He'd seen one of the dragons--he wasn't sure which--off in the distance, briefly, and it was gone now but he'd herded Selenite (and himself) closer to the trees, just in case. Offered a warning that some of them were... unfriendly. Trouble that he could handle; but trouble he'd rather not deal with, just now. "It used to simply be the Forge. The water can get quite warm. The Blacksmith makes his Forge beneath this room, you see--in the volcano, there, there is a cave. We will head down through that, into the workshop and tunnels. He is likely to be there. And then beneath this entire room is the Underforge. I doubt it has seen activity in millennia--perhaps we can fix that, some day; there used to be dozens of blacksmiths hard at work to forge weapons and armor for armies of our beasts. Hundreds, maybe. I don't know." That hadn't been his domain--he'd never spent much time, here. Never had the chance--Vargas had been restricted almost entirely to Canis and Hydra, bar short visits he'd earned elsewhere.

But that was the way things worked. He did not resent his past.

"If he has time, if he is willing, he may be able to teach you the old ways. I wonder if any of his old examples still survive?" he added, pondering.

Vargas led the way up toward the cave, glancing to Selenite as he went--if it had any questions, there were still a few minutes left to ask them.

The coughing fit came and went, and Vargas grunted and shook his head. "Not all," he answered, glancing out over the ocean. He tilted his head upward, too-many nostrils flaring slightly to take in that low-water scent--and then they were passing into the cavernous dark.

He looked back forward, again. "This place was designed for it. I think the forge beneath, and the water above to cool it? But I was not privy to its creation so I do not know for sure. I am guessing," he added, firing Selenite a glance filled with humor, his grin twisted a little higher.

Forward, forward... "As for Ursa, I doubt it was created so. Dontacael's minions have likely done most or all of that--or the Ice Worms, perhaps! Most of the other caves are not riddled with tunnels, but there are secrets in every cave that even I do not know," he added. Places he'd always been surprised to find rebels hiding. Or places the thieves had smuggled away food and other supplies.

Anyway!

"Down around this curve, and just ahead," he finished, nodding down into the hot and smoky tunnel.

The old dictator glanced to Selenite, realization blooming: if heat affected it this badly (it was panting, leaning on the wall and--he thought?--walking perhaps a bit oddly) then it would perhaps not be fit for blacksmithing.

Ahh. Unfortunate, that one suited to work and enthusiastic for it might find themselves blocked by their own damn bodies. Ahh-! But he could remake it, could he not? "If the heat proves too much for you, but you enjoy the work, it is possible that I could reform you to be heat-tolerant," he offered.

Casual almost-murder, and so forth.

"We are nearly there, however. Just a little farther." His tone held both his usual matter-of-fact bluntness and some... encouragement? Maybe. Hard to tell, but it was there.

Down into the workshop, then--not deep into the Underforge itself, but the mouth of its tunnels, certainly. Vargas took a breath, then paused, glancing around the smoke-choked, coal-glow rock walls into which they had descended.

"BLACKSMITH?" the Leviathan bellowed.

He hesitated, for a moment. In years past--centuries past?--he'd not have been ordering the Blacksmith around. And, truth be told, he wasn't sure he had the authority to. It wasn't that Masters weren't the dominant voice in the caves: it was that he wasn't certain where the Blacksmith stood. Algol-? Algol, he could bully and tease. But there was something about the Blacksmith that demanded... not respect, but... manners. The creature was far from authoritative, but Vargas, somehow, felt that roaring commands at this one wasn't quite the way to go about things.

Spying the distant dark-cloaked figure in the deeper haze, he lurched into movement again. "I have someone here for you to meet," he called out. Does he realize I am a Master, now? Should I introduce myself as such? He couldn't remember if they had spoken, since his-... 'ascension?'

Ehh, Vargas was best at getting to business, and so that's just what he did: stepped aside, gestured to the heat-stricken Selenite behind him, and made his introductions. "V-Selenite-One, this is the Blacksmith--and Blacksmith, this is V-Selenite-One, who is one of the Forge working beneath me. WHICH, ironically! does not have a forge, nor a smith." He strode closer, but moving out from between them. "We are seeking a goal for it. If it is not too much to ask," and he glanced at the Blacksmith--he liked the creature well enough but for him to say no to a master would be considered... well. Terribly rude, to say the least. "-Then I would like to request an apprenticeship, or at least a test, temporarily--to see if forging, smithing, suits it. It has hands," he went on, stating the blatantly obvious with a sweeping gesture toward Selenite--like the universe's most monstrous car salesman.