Despite complete access to his senses and locomotion unhindered due to the ability to use all his limbs, Fahl had not travelled without issues of his own. Low to the ground, a tail weighed down by a sweeping train of fins had scraped over ice and rock (and now, arrived in Cetus, mud). No insulating feathers to retain the heat he summoned, chill air had been a constant nuisance that caused joints to stiffen and creak. Requests to stop for a spell and catch breath might have grated a tad at his patience, the distance they'd yet to go a looming presence, but were agreed to readily, exhaustion mutual though he did not express so.

In fact, those breaks proved useful. Besides allowing time to focus on warming up before resuming their journey, they were the moments that talk was easiest for him, and light jabs at their surroundings combatted dark humor. Chalk it up to his own fluctuating self-esteem, but directing jokes at oneself disconcerted him. Intestines subtly twisted upon hearing them, and politely chuckling, he would nudge the topic into more meaningless chatter whenever possible. Never did he voice the discomfort caused; as bothersome as it was, if this was how Imp coped, interference might do more harm than good, and who was he to dictate his teacher's life?

At the offer to call out into the white expanse, Fahl scrutinized the obfuscating fog, then opened his jaws. Heat stirred at the back of his throat, a tingling sensation, and though he tried to push it out, the attempt only resulted in him doubled over, coughing.

Magic was being stubborn. Lungs alone would have to do.

"Hey! Dragon, uh..." Not his dad. What could he say? "Dragon, sir? My name is Fahl. I'm here with your son Imp. Are you out there?"

He hadn't been certain what to expect—a perhaps more matured copy of Imp, brashness and foul mouth included, or a figure wreathed in flame, magical potential fully achieved. Who greeted them, though the imagined fire turned out to be in reality the conjured menace of wings and horns instead, was a near amalgam of both. Certainly a vile spit of "fuck," "shit," or the like had not yet entered conversation, but the thunderous welcome that parted the surroundings widened Fahl's eyes. In quick succession, shock, awe, and unsteady acceptance of the situation displayed as eye-searing colors transitioned to more muted hues upon each emotion's passage.

Out of politeness, he stayed a few steps back from the bit of family bonding accompanying their visit, and once the subject spun over to him, the attention was responded to with an awkward hack. Scales an olive green, thin stripes of pale yellow pricked along his spine.

"Yes, me."

Though he packed every ounce of confidence possible to be mustered into those two words, in truth Fahl didn't remember when or where someone such as Dragon could have seen him. The blame could've been attributed to a fevered brain: the Kraken had afflicted him with an illness that had, at the time, sapped his senses. The size of their squad, too, could have been a factor in his forgetfulness. But let's be realistic and consider his character as well; classically self-absorbed, he'd been too caught up in his own concerns to pay mind to the others around him. He might have been temporarily vision-impaired, but most his fellows would have been a mere spot in his periphery anyway.

"As Imp said, sir, I'm Fahl. And by Masters, I refer to the ones named Farina and Artio. The first, Farina, wanted help in Fornax, so I went. Deep underwater is this Black City, and since she couldn't access it herself, that's why she requested aid. The other Master's, Artio's, stone was stashed there by"—and here he broke formalities—"Nemean, that piss puddle, to separate them." A moment's pause prevented a launch into a tirade. "She betrayed the both of them, and at least Farina appears to hate her greatly."

"And they seem to have history beyond that. I was able to talk to Farina," he clarified, "after helping to retrieve Artio. She spoke, well, ranted about tests that Nemean did? I don't understand what she meant by that. Imp thinks she might have meant trials. But after saying that, she stated intentions to kill Nemean."

His sentiments were clear in the bile lacing his tone. Good riddance, and may Nemean suffer a thousand times over when that moment came.

"She also mentioned what is my main question, or maybe questions? Farina made a sort of deal. She said to tell everyone that whoever served the 'real masters' of the caves she'd favor. I figure she means Artio and herself. Would there be any others that qualify? Other enemies of Nemean that are Masters? And how much trust should I put in these Masters' words? I've heard, sir, that your father had power comparable to them. Do you or him know anything of this... feud?"

It was quite a mouthful but no more difficult than the original spiel he'd given Imp. He settled down in the mud after, anxiously sucking on the domed portion of his tongue.

To discover how recently he'd crossed paths with Dragon was like treading unawares upon a pitfall. His stomach plummeted. White spots spattered his throat while the scales closest to his face reddened by several degrees. Through no small amount of effort, a bewildered splutter of "You did?" was swallowed back before the words escaped into the open air. A brief gagging noise replaced what could have been, perhaps a sign that the expression of surprise would've been better outside than trapped within.

"Sorry," he rasped after the embarrassing choke upon his saliva. For a second, attention averted to his toes, the shame transferred to the ground allowing colors displayed on his hide to settle down to dull gray. "I don't know if you'd be able to talk. With Farina. I got lucky since she wanted to look at my, uh, changes." What she'd called gifts, and what he hesitated to call improvements. It seemed best to go with a neutral descriptor for them now. "She came across as... preoccupied with something. So our exchange was short. If I'd pushed for more length, I suspect her temper might've proved shorter."

What persisted about Cetus bothered him the most whenever he tried wandering here: the muck. It was stubbornly clingy as he waded through, every step a drag, sickening squelches following him. His pursuit of Dragon into the channel ended up more accidental than deliberate; the wayward placement of a foot caused him to enter more navigable territory, solidity disappearing where it landed. As goes with such a fall, a splash came after. When he responded to the question given, swamp water still streamed down over eyes, and spits cleared out what spilled into his mouth.

"Puh—pardon. We?" As in, them all? Or just the two? "I don't believe so. Should I, sir?"

Out of habit formed by the journey over, a side glance was cast Imp's way to mark his position. Speaking helped plenty, but he didn't wish his teacher to blunder into an unforeseen or unwarned obstacle. If there was a question about whether or not pertinent information might've been neglected to be mentioned, it remained isolated to his mind.