The power that was Astraea didn't go unnoticed. Perhaps it was the shift in the ebb and flow of the Black Spire's magic, but Vargas thought he sensed the other Master's arrival.

The stag (and wasn't that strange?) had not yet visited their workspace, and Vargas had been doing his best to get his spawn and allies settled. To progress in the hunt for Mother, the spawning of new servants for his Creator (and, just as importantly, for Lord Dhracia in particular), the training of those he already had. He had been working, too, at identifying those remnants left behind that could still be returned to the state of their original designs. To this end he had some half a dozen Oilstone shards that still sparked with dimmest magic, laid out alongside what remained of their bones, for easy reference: what had been recovered from the chrysalises shattered by another Master's treacherous hand.

Was Astraea here to check up on all of that-?

Vargas doubted very much, at least, that this would be a social visit. But he was never impolite, exactly, and in his straightforward, businesslike fashion, he approached with his lanky strides: swift, to the point (Astraea, in this case), smooth.

"Master Astraea," he greeted, his voice a keening bass that rumbled in resonance with this voidlit place; and he'd decided he ought to still call Astraea 'Master,' for had the now-stag not called him Master Vargas, in turn-?

And--now what? 'To what do I owe the honor' was stiff, of course, and assumed Astraea was here for him. For them. 'What can we do for you' implied continued servitude, and he did not know where their relationship stood, in terms of authority, and he wasn't about to be the first to offer himself up as still low-ranking beneath the other Master.

Hm.

"All is well?" he settled on, coming to a halt, not quite deference but respect in his still-looming form as he peered down. If everything was not well, he was sure the fungal Master would inform him. And if it was-? Well, he'd find out soon enough.

Vargas offered a soft grunt in response to the other Master's question. Like it or not, the Leviathan was guarded: unsure about Astraea's true intentions (now, or ever); about their power dynamic; about his trustworthiness. Sometimes, Astraea seemed to show great loyalty to the nest. Other times... he was. Fickle, yes.

Still, Vargas was direct, at heart--to business, to getting things done, and he answered calmly enough. Despite the lingering tension that he felt, or more accurately, the wariness, his demeanor was genuinely smooth; wariness did not take precedence over duty. "I have not--not beyond reviving stones. Lord Dhracia has a... commission that she has directed me toward." He paused, rigid face briefly pulling into what best resembled a frown--but couldn't quite manage to get there. "I am unsure how much I can create without damaging myself, if that is even possible. I do have ideas," he added, a caveat, said with a colleague's shared interest.

At Astraea's request, Vargas would have perked a bunch of brows--if he could. He gestured with one six-thumbed hand, a nod, as if to say "by all means."

"Of course. I look forward to seeing your work."

And that, too, was honest. Not only to see what Astraea would make--but what Astraea would make alone.

An interesting thought, and Vargas stepped back even further to give him room, and to observe.

'You should be able to create quite a bit before damaging yourself.' That was pleasing to hear. A relief, even. Vargas rolled his shoulders, glancing at the Black Spire and imagining his new creations. He'd been aching to try it all out. Though he had not, perhaps, been initially made as a creator, his reformation had awakened new creativity in him. A desire for winged monsters flowing from him, clots of violence with claws and rows of teeth and rows, too, of pitted eyes in slick black hide--yes, he had ideas. A vague imagining of himself as the source of an onstoppable flow of fantastic monsters had clung to him, and he had only held back out of fear of ruining himself for the task. Of dampening his power, before he had his hold secured, his workplace under lock and key--and claw.

At Astraea's question--'Would you like to test it out with me?'--Vargas had to restrain his enthusiasm. The idea of learning--as Astraea put it--the process, and creation itself, from such an ancient and experienced Master was a good one. And only the faintest idea that it might be some sort of trick was dismissed.

Vargas was unaware of any reluctance on Astraea's part--of his dwelling on old and dormant (or dead? had the ice truly solidified, yet?) relationships, working or otherwise. He only gazed at the slick and oily shifting black as he replied: "I would be honored for you to show me! I imagine it would be likely a better result than simply..." Vargas's rigid lips tried, and failed, to twist into a grin, as he gestured with one hand; "...winging it." It wasn't any sort of deliberate reference to a thought process he wasn't privy to and anyway, unlikely to even really seem so. Vargas was only imagining the result of a guided, powerful process rather than the guesswork he'd initiated in his half-assed creation of Khavur.

Look how that had turned out. Well--not terrible, perhaps, but-... not fantastic, either.

"So what did you have in mind?" Vargas asked, stepping toward the dark stone, looking to Astraea for guidance.