The Sentinel plodded into Cepheus, scanning his surroundings.

He had proven his worth among the Forge--but he wished to further its strength. For his own part, he had earned the right to travel--and so he was here. And--along with a higher rank--he had also earned the right to procreate.

He had, in his mind, a loose list of goals he'd haphazardly arranged. Bipedal was the most important--that, or centaur-shaped, as The Warden had become. But the ability to wield a weapon was paramount. Hands, he reminded himself--those went, well, hand-in-hand with that. And he did not want this child to be the element of Chaos. Even now--as the Sentinel paused at the edges of the Crystal Gardens--the world seemed o swim in inky black, an unsettling void dropped like a veil over the voidlight there. For a moment he was alone in this world--and an urge to destroy it surged through him. He rode it down, despite the visions of his halberd crashing through the sculptures, the desire to see their shattered pieces scatter at his power.

The whispers and shadows that walked with him, too-...

It was not good for what he desired in a child. He wished a child whose magic was powerful, even at low levels--disease took too long. Light would work--blinding flashes, or shrouding shadows. Fire, with the ability to burn with claws and kicks.

And he needed something with strong hide. Armored shells like many of the Forge bore, or spines like his own, or quills. Or loose skin and thick fur, like the Second Place winner of Deathmatch. This one wasn't a necessity--armor could always be crafted--but he was aiming, here, for perfection.

His journey brought him here, now, his blue gaze scouring the grounds, hoping to at last find what he'd been looking for.

The Sentinel spotted Hunter's shape in the distance--but had no idea what it was that he was looking at. A lump, was his only guess, from here. A dead Lesser, perhaps-? It was large, but not that large, and looked mostly motionless, though he thought he could see the glint of a gemstone. Rather than walk, he decided to take to the air, so as to get a closer look before the clank of his armor (the cost of protection) made him known.

He had to focus for a moment on his magic--to bear down and coax it from the chaos. When it came, flowing blue, it granted him ethereal wings--and wispy fireflies that danced around his form. He rose up, looking like a rather questionable angel with his black armor and skull-like face, and swept slowly over toward Hunter.

He recognized the creature about the time he set down, and hastily cast back his memory as his feet pressed into soft grass. Halberd firmly by his side, he began to speak, addressing Hunter with what he assumed was appropriate formality.

"Murderous Maurader, Vanquisher of Shadow, Demon of Battle, Conqueror and..." The Sentinel hesitated. He'd gotten some of it wrong, he was certain--for shame. "...Hunter of Beasts," he finished, his greeting confused.

But interest rose up in him. Here was the second of the Deathmatch winners--perhaps just what he was looking for.

'You can just call me Hunter, my dude.'

It was unusual for the tall, ominous chaos creature to look awkward, yet here it was: a stare, a visible hesitation as his head quirked one way, and then the other. His hand tightened around the haft of his halberd, as if to steady himself, for a moment.

"It is," he rasped (by way of introduction), "The Sentinel."

And then--faint, but additional awkwardness ensued as he considered how best to approach this. He was not the most socially apt creature on the best of days. At least among those in the Forge, he could approach and make his request quite directly--but he was, in at least a very vague sense, aware that things outside the Forge did not work in quite the same way.

How would Hunter-of-Beasts (aka 'hunter-my-dude') react to such a request?

And the mention of a sparring partner, too, had him tilting his head and reassessing, some. It wasn't like him to turn down a chance to practice, but--it wasn't why he was here.

"It was seeking... one to grant life to his stone." (And--ahh--the Sentinel had suddenly graduated to 'his.' It likely wouldn't last long.) "It wishes to create for the Forge. And the H-... Hunter's form and skills would be suited." He paused, again slightly awkwardly.

"...It... enjoys sparring, however," he added, and was apparently back to 'it' again. "It would not refuse. But if the Hunter--if you are willing... the Sentinel will pay a price for its magic given to his stone." What that price was, he didn't say; he didn't know. It depended on what Hunter might ask of him.

The Sentinel waited, and there was that strange sense of awkwardness again. Fighting--that was straightforward. It held focus, intensity, an action-and-reaction that brooked little hesitation. But even he would not simply attempt to kill someone for a gemstone--that was not even in a corner of his mind--and so he relied upon Hunter to agree to his request; and the fact that Hunter had fallen silent, now, brought an unfamiliar sense of anxiety to him.

It was faint--some part of him was already planning off ahead in case the Deathmatch combatant refused him. But--ahh. He is flattered. An interesting response, and one that only briefly puzzled the Sentinel. Of course he was flattered--not that the Sentinel held himself of such high importance, but surely having one's design in demand by anyone was a testament to his success. In fact--he perked a brow, peering, hand still tightening-and-loosening absently on the halberd. "The first. It finds this... surprising." Surely others had seen how valuable Hunter's form and abilities truly were-? (Perhaps these thoughts were not as flattering as the Sentinel imagined they might actually be.)

"Down" he did not understand, any more than "my dude," because the Sentinel was--despite appearances--not cool. But he gathered the meaning from context, committing it to memory and perhaps, to future language sin. Ahh--a question. He pushed away the threat of Chaos lingering at the edges of his mind, and attempted to do his best to answer. "Yes. The child would be of the Forge. But-..." visible hesitation, once again, and then he lifted his chin a little higher. "...The Sentinel will raise them. They will gain his guidance, and the benefit of his knowledge." It sounded more like a promise than a claim, and indeed he then backed that up. "The Hunter is welcome to aid. Its design and training are beneficial."

The idea of a jacket-? Or... shimmery hair, was foreign to him, in a sense. But he eyed it, that shimmer of color, considering. He did not know anyone who could do this--but he could find out. Perhaps the Palace's new tailor could manage a coat; the dye, he could find. (As an overachiever the Sentinel was already intending to make an attempt at both.) "This is more than an acceptable trade. Would it be willing to find him at the Door of Life, in the tunnel to Draco, in three days' time? The Sentinel will bring the..." he hesitated. What had the word been-? "Jacket. And--color."

An odd trade, perhaps, for a living child--but then, a good jacket was hard to come by.

With that out of the way, he turned to go.