Draco had been untouched for what might have been millennia. Its dark stone surfaces glistened in its lurid light, its humid warmth fetid with stale air. The great Black Spire in the throbbing dark sent twisting fingers of ominous vibration curling along the floor, through the walls: the groaning--was it real, or imagined?--of shifting stone.

The stillness, broken in that time only by these heartbeat thuds and the crunch of breathing rock, was parted rather than shattered by the entrance of the Leviathan, Master Vargas. His form belonged here, shaped of the same magic that owned this place. Sleek limbs carried this hulking, toxic-hued monster in through the narrow Aperture, steps near silent. He was unobtrusive, his halt a graceful one, the swing of his head quiet as he lingered in the very entrance to the cave.

Toxic eyes narrowed, examining every crevice, every narrow space. The shattered chrysalids, long-empty and hollow, dry as husks, presented no threat. Nothing living lay within them. Too, the Black Spire itself at least appeared... black. Oily, as it should be, though would he find its far side marred and webbed by Hive? Was it as silent, as safe, as it appeared at first glance? A second pass of narrowed eyes found the broken arrows in the shards of crystal. Not empty for millennia, then, he thought grimly, a well of anger rising in him. She had killed the unborn, and if Vargas found sin, that was among them: even the weakest deserved some chance to fight. No matter how slim.

Scent came next. This place had always held an almost organic scent, the odors of the fluids of the cocoons and the fetid stench of the monsters who lived here lifting an acrid air. Now it had long settled, but some remnant lingered; a foulness, a faint taste on the tongue of something metallic and rank. A promise that this place was not mere rock. But he scented nothing fresh, nothing living--not from here.

And lastly, the Master cast out his magic: a sight beyond the physical, a search for the red haze of hidden heartbeats, of something lurking in the vibrant and unnatural dark.

Vargas' tail swept slowly behind him as he scanned, and then he half-turned to those who followed. He had called out to the Sentinels--all of them--to follow him here. And Totum, he knew, would also be close by: ready to assist if the Hive were present. Does it have the ability to hide itself? he wondered; will we step in only for the veil to fall away, and reveal that this whole place is full of its foul webs, its perfect honeycombs of ice and order? A low growl of thought escaped him, one forelimb raising halfway; this one held two gemstones, and a shadow-swathed halberd beneath one arm.

"Be wary," he warned, his low growl an echo of the grinding of the Spire. "The Hive may well be here." Another few precious seconds ticked away in his exhale, in his next breath, as he again warily studied every inch of Draco that he could see. He doubted it could even survive here, but given how long it had had-?

His gaze cut to where he thought that Totum should be. "Anything?" he asked, trusting the other Master's judgement. Lord Dhracia had chosen them for a reason.