Vargas had followed at a distance: shrouded in shadows, at first, and dropping this shroud only when Orthoclase had hurtled into Pegasus proper. His observations had been done with eyes, with magic, though at times he'd barely managed to track the progress of his spawn.

He nearly lost the Orthoclase in the woods, which was, perhaps, for the best; for were he too close its magic might have spotted him in turn. And when he did finally find it, it was attempting to hunt; and he saw that it fell short, and failed. A rabbit. It failed even at that? and somehow this thought, above all else, was deeply worrying to Vargas. Did it lack the strength, or the willpower? Both?

Troubled, he lingered back. Why do I concern myself with this? some old and distant part of him asked.

Memories answered, as the Leviathan lurked in the scrub brush. Memories of those few victims who had turned on him in their final moments. Memories of the traps laid by the doomed and the courageous. Memories of glittering Titanite on a driftwood bone, protests howled until the last moment. There were... if not regrets, if not mistakes, there were necessities that Vargas had desired to... Not put right, that is not--correct. But... change. Outcomes that, while they could not have ended any other way, were not the ones he would have chosen.

It was a strange and tenuous connection--these memories of the fiery victims of the old days, and of Orthoclase-Alpha. And why was he thinking of that now-? Was it regret? Was it the connection--these victims that had, more often than not, rebelled out of kinship, even love, for others? Who had rebelled to protect, or rather died failing to protect, those they saw as family, friends? Vargas had never had such links. He had never cared for them.

Perhaps it was that he saw so many mirrors in his memories of this very scene: of Orthoclase-Alpha of a thousand others fleeing through the caves, struggling exhausted into hiding, collapsing into sleep with no realization that Overseer Vargas was close behind them.

But what is this one running from..?

For over an hour, he simply watched his spawn, and he considered. He was a patient thing, a hunter that would wait hours, days, for his prey to emerge and this was little different. But he was more than waiting, now. He was thinking.

He was... deciding.

As he had done in Draco, he was deciding what to do with his spawn.

His spawn, which had grown weak. His spawn, which had lost its will. His spawn, which he had made as Overseer, cowering and unable even to properly speak.

There was, for one in Vargas's era, only one answer to such things.

He crept closer, scent guiding him more than sight. There was no need to use his magic; he was more than capable of hunting without it. When he was certain of the precise location of his target, he circled. He was intent; there was nothing but predatory sharpness in him. No bloodlust, no, not for this. There would only be mercy in this kill. But he was, as he always hunted, focused, and that left room for nothing else.

Not for second thoughts, or doubts. Not for overthinking--and there was almost a relief in that.

His kill was not a clean one... He had aimed for a snap of its neck. Something it would never feel, something it would not have to face--as was Vargas's habit. He never drew this out.

Instead he ended it a struggle, and his teeth in its throat as it rasped its final breaths brought him nothing.

The Orthoclase slept. Ragged. Stiff. But asleep.

Vargas was quiet, as he drew nearer--and he had rolled himself in pines, in peat, to somewhat mask his scent. He did not try to wake it. There was no need, and no desire to do so. Nor would he continue to pursue it, but...

He could at least ensure it had food, when it awoke, if only a small meal.

It might seem, perhaps, as though the stone-less Tree Rabbit had simply fallen and died, but for the fang-marks in its throat. Would the Orthoclase stop to examine it? Would it catch his scent? Vargas did not know, but he left the rabbit near its head and retreated to watch it, for a time.

He knew that when it woke, when it found this, it would look for him, or for anyone who might have left the food there; and it was time to leave it, now. It would find its own way, or it would not, and it had never answered to him in any way that helped it, or healed it.

It would have to find its own way.

He did not know what he could do for it, bar to leave it that small parting assurance of its survival; he knew that his presence seemed to cause it more distress, instead of the assurance that a leader's presence should create.

Vargas left it there, and returned to Draco with sweeping strides.

There had been only one answer to those such as Alpha, in Vargas's era. But this era would belong to him. That did not mean, still, that he could write the Orthoclase's future: it would find its way--or it would not. He pushed aside the hollow feeling in his chest, and left Orthoclase-Alpha to its fate.

He had work to do.