Ahh, a moist owlette.

The cries had drawn him quickly enough, his stride tearing him along the rock with the scrape of claws on stone. He was eager to see this one. He had a real need of messengers: any time he wanted to send someone to find something, or find someone, he found himself at a loss. Garnet-De--no, he reminded himself, Overseer Cain, was suited for it, but their responsibilities lay elsewhere. And were important, too.

So hopefully--in summary--this creature would find a lot of use, and perform it well.

The shrieks and crack of stone had been hint enough (it wasn't like he'd been doing much else just then), and he approached with interest. "Ahhh... there we are," he rumbled, sweeping up on the small, downy pile of magenta.

He came to a halt, peering down at it. Now, normally, this would be where he'd give them their name, address them, ask if they understood him. But he realized, as he opened his mouth, that "V-Carmeltazite-One" was kind of a mouthful.

Think fast, Master Vargas, he thought to himself wryly. This was probably something he should have considered before he was staring down at the pile of pink-purple fluff, but honestly, he always sort of assumed that everything would fall neatly into the rigid roles that he'd provided. "Carmeltazite?" That did not.

Ehh, screw it. "V-Carmeltazite-One. You will be known as Messenger, for now. You have been created to serve me, in the Chaos Forge, in the travel and delivery of messages. Do you understand?" he asked. He was eager to get started with this one--and it looked just like he'd intended, with toxic eyes and twisted horns.

Although, after the Deathmatch-? It is almost a mockery, he thought, and a cold thread laced through his acid veins. He tried not to think about that.

Well, it seems eager, if not highly intelligent, Vargas thought--but language might come later, he knew. That was fine. He watched as it splatted, and none of the previous glances or darting observations were lost on him. Well, most weren't--admittedly it was somewhat hard to follow something's gaze when its eyes were glowing.

Still, when its broad maw parted to WHO? at him, he was pleased: a terrifying visage, to say the least. He liked it.

One massive arm was offered down, as a person might offer fingers to a bird; he attempted to give Cheshire some grip on his hand. "Come," he told it; "we will find you something to eat. I am Master Vargas," he went on, pointing to himself with his other hand (rocking back on his haunches to do so), "and we will begin by showing you Draco, yes?"

Once again, he was glad that Aethril had given him back this stone: its design had been... inspired, and he thought that it might turn out just fine.

He was pleased, of course; it showed attentiveness, it was already learning, it was obedient. "Good," he answered, nodding to his single word of approval. He carried Cheshire along, glancing to its point of interest.

"That," he told them, "was your chrysalis. You, yours. You hatched from it; we all do. As for Draco?"

Long strides carried him toward the Womb. The Room That Lives. So aptly named. And he gave Cheshire a moment, too, to adjust to his words; one thing at a time. No sense in overwhelming the creature. "Draco is our home. The Creator's nexus of power in this cave." A pause, as Vargas realized that "nexus of power" might be a tad overcomplicated a concept for a new hatch. "It is the place we live in and work in. The place that we protect."

A nod was offered forward, and he kept at his same pace. He could take the Messenger to introduce to the others; meanwhile, on the way there, he'd try to explain to it what it might expect. "You will serve as our mouth," he said, glancing at it, pausing to reach his other hand up to gently tap at its maw with one front-facing thumb. Then he lurched back into motion. "You will be taught to move unseen and unheard, to listen, to learn. To carry our word and our authority through the caves." Perhaps a little overly complex, again, he realized. and huffed softly to himself. "We will teach you. You will grow."

At least, he hoped it would: as it stood, the pile of downy quills wouldn't make for a fantastic flyer. He had to hope that it would grow, yet.

Vargas considered the child's question before responding--purely to ensure he understood what they were asking. "Who," and "we," together could mean a couple of things--was it asking who had authority, and questioning if it was the two of them? Or asking who "we" were, as a whole?

He himself was not frustrated in turn--such confusions were to be expected with a new hatch--but he did think about it before answering. "Our authority. We are the Chaos Forge. There are many of us, and you will meet more soon," he went on, noting the child's movement as it maneuvered higher up his arm. He kept note of it; he did not normally like things at his neck or near it, but it was unlikely to be able to do much damage so young. And anyway, it was easier to travel, this way. "Your world will be one of caves, the caves that we all live in. These caves serve as a nest for the Creator's soldiers: we create them, train them, and unleash them in His name." Too much--or too little? It seemed to gain more by practical learning, and so Vargas decided then and there to get to work.

"But first, we must teach you basic things. Rock," he began, and pointed out at a random rock, and then another; patterns helped, in teaching. "Ground. Crystal." (He pointed at a shard of gemstone lying abandoned on the 'road'side.) "Claw." Pointing to his claw, and then to Cheshire's own talon.

He went on that way for a few moments, listing things with patient ease: "Arm," and "teeth," and "tail, quill, eye."

Soon enough, it would be "entrance"--door, gate; Aperture. But they weren't quite there, yet.

Vargas suppressed a snort of amusement, managing to stifle it to a humorous exhale. "Wing," he advised, with a nod. It was catching on quickly, then--not only gaining vocabulary, but using critical thinking to compare. He was about to start in with the rest of its body parts--beginning with "beak"--when he realized that it had no beak. Of course it didn't; he'd designed it that way.

What else, then?

A touch to its feathers, that scraggly down, and: "Feathers."

He walked along, lopsided, as one hand was used for his gestures, his lessons.

"Talons. Eyes," and for this last he pointed first to Cheshire's, and then to each of his own. He'd need, he reasoned, to find it a reflection at some point; water, or crystal, so it could see just what it looked like.

"The Black Spire," Vargas offered, as they passed beneath the Aperture, and he gestured to the distant structure. Now there was a lesson worth learning. "Don't touch it. But we work near it. It is the Creator's power." Too much, he knew, for a young mind to grasp, but important to say it nonetheless.