For most Chaos Forge hatchlings, Vargas would be there to greet them.

But this one was the Sentinel's child, and while he would certainly go and get Vargas, he bore a special kind of fascination (and indeed a possessiveness) toward this one.

Toward his first spawn: toward the child of the Deathmatch.

He'd stood here off and on for the last few days, well aware that it was time for it to hatch, and now--it was.

He watched, then, with bated breath--through his own eyes and through the strange new eye along his halberd blade--as first the clawed hand smashed forth, and then the head. He stared at the strange eyes, the bizarre antennae, the second clawed limb.

He watched as the creature spilled forth, a little under half his height but built long as well as tall. It was, he immediately observed, like a better version of Orthoclase-Alpha: more well-balanced, capable of putting its forelimbs, perhaps, to better use.

It was probably not to the child's benefit that Vargas wasn't the one present, though. The Sentinel was cryptic on the best of days, and when he was overwhelmed by the awe of a great occurrence--like the hatching of his firstborn--it became even more difficult for him to organize his thoughts. So when he took a breath to greet the massive hatchling, his initial welcome to the world was... questionable.

"It hatches," he breathed, staring in unblinking amazement. "It is strong. Child of death, Watcher of the door, it-of-many-eyes." He approved, in particular, of the eyes. More eyes was good--more eyes was always good.

He noted the many spines that littered its body, the colors that seemed like they might have passed down from Vargas himself, the long, thick tail that could probably be utilized as either counterbalance or spiked weapon. A rumble of approval issued from his chest.

He gestured first to himself, and then to the child, as he spoke. His voice still held that awe.

"It, is The Sentinel. And it... is The Warden."

It looked to him--it spoke--and the Sentinel, while a first-time "parent" (if one could be so generous with the term in Draco) was greatly pleased. He had seen enough fresh hatches to know that many hatched out wholly feral, or so driven by their own Chaos that there was nothing there to interact with.

But this one--it held intelligence in it.

Its question, however--what death--was, he gauged, perhaps too difficult for it to grasp as yet. He offered up his answer nonetheless.

"The Sentinel will speak more of these things when it has grown. But the death of the Arena. The dozens who have clashed, and fought, and fell. The Warden," (and he pointed to it) "-is the final spawn of Champion and of reward."

He gestured, a wave of one crooked arm, for Warden to follow.

"Come. The Sentinel will show the Warden to the door." He turned, keeping a very slow pace--if the Warden could not keep up, he would stop entirely; otherwise, he would be patient in his travel to the Aperture.

Along the way he briefly spoke, before falling silent for any questions, or remarks, that the Warden might have for him. "The door is the way into the cave of the Forge. The Sentinel stands guard. The Warden will guard with him." He sounded pleased, even proud; and with a sidelong glance, he added softly, "The Warden is its first child."

The Sentinel went oblivious to the confusion of his new spawn, contentedly making his way to the door. Though there was no evidence of real parental care, there was a sort of pride to the way he held himself, an "I made this" gleam in his eyes whenever he glanced at the Warden.

Its question brought his head back around, and he followed the point of its claws. His gaze fell on the oily streak that swept up from Draco's barren floor, and then slid to the Warden once again.

"That," he rasped, and then paused. Some part of his mind was amused at the idea that this was the Forge, in a childishly humorous sense. "...is not the Forge." He looked to it again, and patiently, almost pleased to be simply speaking with this new child, set himself to explaining. "It is the Black Spire. It is a place of power. Dangerous to touch. Ever-moving." Inhale. "The Forge is us. There are more than the Sentinel, and the Warden. There is the Master, and the others who serve."

He paused, intending to give the poor kid time to digest this--if even he understood. The Sentinel wasn't very good at making himself clear even to intelligent adults; he was genuinely uncertain how much of his own words would be grasped by a new hatchling.

But the Warden pushed on with another question: a good one. The Sentinel had never, actually, encountered a real enemy at the gate. Instead, he'd simply stood watch, sometimes confronting oncomers, once or twice brawling at their request, but never had there been any real assault on Draco.

So to define this answer was... difficult. He thought, at first, for specifics; his skull-like face turned toward the Aperture and he stared. His blunt instinct was to describe what an enemy might look like--but he didn't know. And that made no sense. So he fell back on strange honesty, instead. "For any who might... mean the Forge harm. The Spire, harm. If I do not know them... we must ask what they are doing, here. If they seek the Master, or another... if they are not dangerous... they are sent to him." Oh, but there was one enemy to warn against, was there not-?

"There is Order--it is enemy. It is white." He hesitated, fist tightening around the halberd's haft, because--honestly? He didn't run into Order, ever. "The Sentinel thinks it does not come here, often." And then--almost worried, now, that he wasn't doing a very good job of educating the child--he added a hasty "The Master will teach it."

He'd have to hand the Warden off, at some point later, and hope the Vargas could do a better job than this. He looked to the Warden almost worriedly. "I will teach the Warden to wield its weapon," he assured it; he could do that, at least, well--and then realized that it had none. "I will obtain it a weapon," he added quickly.

He'd have to do that, then: teach it with some form of training weapon, and then find a blacksmith, perhaps, to make it something worthwhile to wield. He'd been meaning to get himself armor for quite some time himself, after all.

Another good question--and a point of pride. The Sentinel stood a little straighter.

"They do not... all have hands," he answered. The unspoken implication, the almost smug nature of his words, was that hands were somehow special; that the Warden, the Sentinel, were extra cool for having hands.

He lifted a hand, clawed fingers open. "A weapon... such as ours. Requires hands." Then he stood there for a moment, hand out, gaze lost as he stared off into nothing. His mind, once more, had wandered--he was wondering if there might, somewhere, be weapons in the caves intended for those without hands. Blades to fasten on a tail, or spikes on the face-

-his vision swam black, the world fading in and out. He blinked; it was a manifestation, he knew, of his magics but it never failed to take him by surprise, though he ever took it in stride.

When it had faded, he focused again on the Warden. Ahh.

"Our magic," he instructed, switching topic, now that he'd been reminded--"is Chaos. At times... we must return to the Black Spire." He took a rasping breath, trying, struggling, to continue a relatively direct and clear manner of speaking. "Our magic is a hunger. Hunger that will drive us mad. The Spire will feed us." Well, it was a little metaphorical, but--it was as he understood it; and he hoped it was understandable. To demonstrate--seeming to remember his still-outstretched hand--the Sentinel curled his fingers toward himself. As though beckoned, a curtain of shadow fell around the pair, shuddering black, and then faded.

He hesitated, and then paused; there'd been something, he felt--something else--he'd intended to say, but now he had forgotten it. Perhaps it was for the best: the Warden needed time, he supposed, to absorb these diverse instructions and to ask him any questions.

He forgot, still, to lower his hand.

He hesitated yet again, but to his relief the Warden did not seem either confused nor lost by the concept of magic. In fact, it asked another good question, and that unfamiliar spark of pride rose in him once more.

I did this, thought some part of the back of his mind; I made this.
It wasn't really a coherent idea, though--the Sentinel was already shaking his head to address the question. "No." To demonstrate, he bent down, laying the polearm carefully on the ground. Then he stood, and reached up, tapping the corrupted gemstone at his sternum. The oilstained Onyx did not change, but he spoke as shimmering blue wings erupted from his back, beating once in a trail of azure. "It comes... from the stone. From inside," he clarified, even as his feet left the ground, as he hovered over the rock. For a moment, the Sentinel simply flew--risen in place above the Warden, staring down and hoping that it understood. He looked like some incredibly distorted angel; and after a moment, he set back down gently on the stone.

"What does it wish-" he asked, deciding at last to provide the child with its first choice. An important one? A metaphorical one, perhaps? Or maybe it was just a choice. "Does it wish... to meet the Master, and learn more. Or to see the Door that they must guard. Or does it hunger?"