Vargas was standing nearish the Womb. There were many empty chrysalises here, but one in recent days had budded and taken root of its own accord. At least, he thought it was its own. He had been back and forth in this area quite a bit in the last few days, thinking of his next creation. Was it possible he'd accidentally given life to this one-?

More likely it was one of Totum's designs; or perhaps a holdout that had finally begun to thrive at last. It happened, now and then. The call, however, turned his head. Perhaps Aethril had seen him from a distance, but he--a mere Overseer, at the time of her arrival--had never been properly introduced. He had been too lowly for that, and he did not recognize the voice. It sounded... unlike that of those who usually graced his presence here. There was no monstrous growl, no throaty rumble reverberating along its echoes; only trilling near-musical notes. Something, then, with a soft throat.

With a grunt he left his--well, one couldn't really call it work, in this case.

"Yes?" he called, striding on his massive limbs toward the source of the call. He did not hear the chrysalis cracking out behind him. Long tail lashed as he leapt lightly atop a ten foot boulder, a scrap of old Oilstone upthrust by one of Draconua's tantrums. It made, at least, for a very good perch--quite near the Black Spire but not sharing of its burning intensity.

He had to search the shadowed light for a moment to find her: a humanoid, soft blue-skinned, clad in clothes and heels. At once he tensed. This was not a Gembound, and he could sense the faint power thrumming off her just as well as he could see her bearing. She did not ripple and stride with authority the way Lord Dhracia did--she did not carry Her immense power and drape it like a cloak, smirking, about bare shoulders. But she was not a snivelling pawn, either, and Vargas felt himself both wary and interested. Who..? he thought, for a beat, six acid eyes faintly narrowing.

He leapt down, landing neatly some thirty yards away, and closed the gap with an unhurried stride. "I am Master Vargas. You are not one of the usual creatures to come here," he said, and then looked her over again.

He remembered Attikias. She reminded him of him, but her dress was no skins and furs, and--were those high heels? Nostrils flared. Floral, sweet air--the perfume of Cepheus, he thought--still clung to her ever-so-faintly. Who is this--and what does it want with me?

He froze, for a beat.

His mind reeled, and slowly--as if he had commanded it to--repeated back the word. A Hand? ...Truly?

Acid eyes flicked over her again. Had she any proof-? Did she need any..? He could not, of course, allow just anyone who walked in to make such claims into his confidence. To give out all his information--not that much was secret--and obey their commands. But the only demonstration of such power could be... dangerous, and she claimed that Isra had spoken to her. For a moment he again regarded Aethril's clothing, considered the scent of Cepheus on her, and weighed the chances of an elaborate Gembound plot--the beginning of some rebellion--versus the more likely option: that she was just telling the truth.

"I did not know we had another Hand waiting," he began, and then--"Forgive me." It was not simpering, though; not a pleading tone, but matter-of-fact and polite. Vargas--even to his Lord Dhracia--was ever businesslike. He was about to ask of proof of her identity when he remembered his passing memory of earlier--hadn't he seen her in the past? Arriving, perhaps, or briefly touring the nest? She is a Hand, he concluded, and dipped his head. "I am glad to show you what we do. How much do you know? -Of this nest," he was quick to amend. Of course she knew all there was, but of this nest-? "Has Isra told you of the rebellion, and the great sleep?" and as toxic eyes cut back to her, as Vargas turned to lead the way to the Black Spire, he did not add his thoughts: -and of Astraea shirking his duties?
Ahh, but he wasn't that bitter; it was Astraea, after all, who had put Vargas up for promotion, who had perhaps finally realized his undying dedication.

Vargas felt a tingling unease. Slick words and crooning praise were what Lord Dhracia offered, in one hand, before offering the talons of the other. He did not doubt that beneath this front of politeness and beauty, there was a cold predator of immeasurable power.

Probably, anyway. They were all touched by His hand--as Vargas was himself. But... stronger.

"You have my gratitude for the congratulations, in any case. I am doing my best, and your requests take priority," he told her simply. And then it was time for, he supposed, a tour. He paused at the gap beneath the Black Spire, nodding to it. "Master Totum and I work here, and at the Womb in the back, where the empty chrysalises lay. We are shaping creations for Lord Dhracia, to her demands, her specifications--when she has them. Naturally, that will extend to you." He turned, eyeing Aethril for a moment. Did she have a title-? Blunt, to the point--but respectful, as with an equal--Vargas asked, "How would you like me to address you?" Was she Lord Aethril? 'My Hand?' She was, in his mind, whatever she demanded of him.

And back to answers: "We do have Valkhounds here. My first--some clumsy--creations, and random spawn combining the old magic with the 'new.' Do you wish to see samples of my work?" he asked, considering. Who was close by-? Khavur, perhaps? Nidhogg might well do...

Just 'Aethril?' This gave Vargas pause, but he pushed it aside a moment later in favor of continuing his tour. Continuing his service. "Nearly twelve cycles," he told her. Nearly a year he'd been at this. "Lord Dhracia wishes a creation delivered every four, and so it has been. The most recent--I would show you, but she has only just collected it," he explained. "What I can show you is one of my first creations--half a random spawn, of course, but in part shaped by me." Khavur, he knew, was likely off with Chaos-Two somewhere--they were free of children for the time being. In fact, he deemed it appropriate to mention this. "While we wait for the next to hatch, my people are given free time--between training, of course. It will take time to get the nest back to full efficiency. We are creating spawn, testing them; some fail," he explained, thinking sourly of Chaos-Two. "Those that succeed will create more, and then we will have enough to work with. Have you seen the Gembounds-?" he asked, glancing back again.

It was a question rooted in curiosity, but it was a door to another conversation, too: Vargas found some of their strange forms to be of interest, usable perhaps for his work. "Some of their predator forms are quite efficient. I have made use of those--after testing, naturally--for my own work. One of my two Overseers is half 'cat.' A fine predators, and an excellent assassin. Should you see it around, Overseer Garnet-Delta has nothing but my praise." ...Concern again trickled through him as he came to a realization, regarding his little grunts: Lord Dhracia had promised him that she would never punish his people for his failures. But this Hand had given him no such assurances.

Or had that been his phrasing-? Damn it. Hopefully it would not come up. "Excuse me," he said, and then turned to bellow: "CHAOS-ONE. SENTINEL." There he paused, and waited a beat. "V-Chaos-One was one of my first creations. The half-spawn I mentioned. The Sentinel likewise is a shaped stone, returned to service. I can particularly recommend the Sentinel," he added; "Both its magical ability and its physical power are impressive."

"Hm. We can go in search of it--Garnet-Delta, that is--but I do not know where it is. If it is preferable, I can direct it to visit you--will you be remaining here, or returning to the palace?"

Ahh, his second Overseer. Now there was a sore topic. Vargas shook his head a little, as he awaited the arrival of one or both of his spawn. "Overseer Orthoclase-Alpha," he began. "Some of them have been emerging with complicated emotional patterns. Not something I imparted in them," he added, "but I think a result of their somewhat random conceptions. That one was dutiful, at first, but its behavior became... odd. Distracted, lethargic, disinterested. I have temporarily dismissed it until it can solve its issues and perform adequately." I haven't seen it in a few cycles, now. But there was no point in passing on that grim tidbit. Ahh, but a good time to broach his agreement, then... To see if this Hand was here to prove that his Lord's promises were only a devil's contract. "Part of my agreement with Lord Dhracia is that none of my servants--the Chaos Forge here in Draco, I am calling them--are to be punished for my failures, my transgressions. It was my hope that this would ease their minds some. It has not seemed to, as yet. Luckily, Garnet-Delta seems to bear no such failings." Stiff. Formal, but yes: diligent.

It was Nidhogg who arrived first, by virtue only of its idiotic speed: it was a serpent of sorts, in build, long and lithe and ridiculously agile. It had, and still occasionally did, spent time clambering up walls to escape the Leviathan's clutches, not that Vargas particularly cared to chase it. "Good," he told it, with a curt nod. It was long, sinous; black and lit with toxic glow. "This one is one-quarter 'Gembound.' Some form of marsh reptile, crossed with one of the old shapes, and then myself. It is training to be an assassin, but it would be more suited--if we had the luxury--to be sent away as a weapon. It is half-feral." His tone was matter-of-fact, and indeed Nidhogg was eyeing him with barely-restrained predatory intent, coupled with--and shackled by--fear. "The moment someone shows weakness it tries to kill them," Vargas explained, but there was a sort of indulgent almost-warmth in that--as warm as he ever got. 'How cute,' he seemed to think; 'a little assassin.' Add a smiley face to that thought. He clearly thought highly of murderous intent; of opportunistic predation.

While Nidhogg skulked close by, all skittering claws and toxic quills, the Sentinel was slower to arrive. This one was tall, silent, halberd whispering and shadow-shrouded. Its face was stuck in a rigid skull-grin, but it was remarkably soldier-like as it approached Vargas and set the butt against the ground. "The Sentinel guards the Aperture of Draco. Undoubtedly you passed him on the way in," Vargas explained, eyeing it--if she hadn't, well, they'd need to have some words. Or perhaps he had simply lingered in the shadows, and let this one pass; he seemed fairly consistent in picking out threats and offering them challenge before they could get too far. "He is skilled in combat, if you wish to test him."

As for a guard... "He is attentive, and dutiful, and does not often require sleep. If you wish a guardian you may borrow him, or keep him if you like; I can create either of us a replacement. Assuming he pleases you," he added.