Another commercial played, this one a quiet and ominous set of imagery. It showed a few Valkhounds, sitting in a group in what might have been Orion--and this seemed, at least, to be live-action. "Not everyone can be trusted," the voice on screen said, and one Valkhound began to stammer as it stood. "Excuse me, I'll come back later. I have--I just have someone I need to talk to..." and then it slunk away, its mannerisms overly cowardly, glances shot over its back. "If you see strange behavior... Report it to an Overseer at once." Now the group went back to speaking--and the cowardly beast came rushing back in, a tiny band of skinny, ugly creatures at its back, crying out for blood: "Down with the Masters! Down with work! Down with our very own creators-" The camera zoomed in on the looks of betrayal in the faces of the Valkhounds remaining, flash-frozen, each one flicking after a half-second into negative colors. It was all very over-dramatic, and all overdone, as was the final warning: "Remember, if someone is acting strange, say something, before it's too late... or you might be their next victim."

Then, with a dimming and brightening of the screen, Rodd Danger was back!

There was a slash of animated lightning, a crash of thunder, and a swirling zoom in on Rodd cracking a sparkling whip. "We're back, folks, and I bet you wonder who we'll be chasing down today! Our target's a Beryl with the number Five-Two-Oh! And Beryl's been a real, real bad Valkhound. It's been out killing loyal friends like you and me, picking them off from the shadows..."

There was ominous music, for a moment, the distant thud of a drum, and firelight as an animated, overly-sinister cartoon like a spiky bear slowly prowled across the screen. This went on for several seconds before the spiky bear found its prey--a hapless little alien creature curled up in a corner. As it stalked, pounced and eventually (in sprays of gory animated blood) tore the alien creature to pieces, Rodd narrated. "It's been looking for good servants--scouts and workers--and killing them for no good reason! And Overseer Vargas's gonna put a stop to that, now, with my help." A short, cut off few words were heard, gruff, something like "That's not-" but the cartoon went on.

Now it showed Rodd creeping, tiptoeing in an over-the-top manner, around a pile full of bones. Overseer Vargas was barely-visible in the background, a hulking shape at first easily mistaken for shadow and swathed by magic darkness. It paused, well-animated in this case, and stared down at Rodd. Vargas's actual voice came through. "Get out of the open," he hissed. Rodd's own narration talked over him, even through Rodd's character didn't open his mouth to speak: "Haha, don't be silly, Overseer! Old Rodd won't be steppin' into any traps. RODDDD DANGER knows what he's doing!" A loud thrill of music played, the growl of the Overseer overwhelmed by it.

In the next scene, Vargas was not present; only Rodd, now from behind instead of from the side, tiptoeing through pools of dramatic lighting surrounded by darkness. "Now, here we can smell this nasty critter's musk. It's close by; Overseer Vargas has been tracking it for days, and with the help of our trusty magic whip, we'll get 'im!" The music became slow, tense, pulsing through the cinema with a low bassline, drawing up the tension... and then Rodd kicked a bone, the sound of it skittering away sparking a bright thrum of action-music. "Oh, no-" Rodd said, and Vargas's muffled voice could be heard, covered up, in the background. "-ing idiot, get out of the light. I don't know who-"

The music rose to an action-packed crescendo. The camera slowly panned in on an animated set of shadows, a pair of glowing eyes slowly opening...

And then, with a comic twang and a horrific laugh track, a Cave Rat came scampering out, scattering bones as it ran in over-the-top leaping runs.

When the canned laughter had died down, its uproar far too loud, Vargas was shown slipping through the darkness between the bone fortresses once again. At times he was bright purple, vibrantly visible, but the animators had done a good job of the dramatic nature of his vanishing into the shadows when he so wished. "So tell us, Overseer; how've you pinpointed our villain Beryl? Can you tell us a little--but not too much! Don't want them rebels gettin' wise--about your methods?"

Five--then six, the animators seemingly remembering the correct number--acid eyes flicked to Rodd on-screen. "He leaves bits of his meals behind. He hides it, but the scent is there, and I have dug these meals up, confirmed them. He has been," and there was a pause, as if Vargas was reluctant about something--"get that out of my face." (Pause explained. The voice returned, more distant again.) "-He has been working his way around this region in a large circle. Predictability is a liability and it will be his end. Now shut-" A trill of suspenseful music played. Rodd's voice cut back over the tune. "AND THAT'LL BE HIS END! Like the Overseer says, folks! We'll find our varmint right after this next commercial break--and that's a promise, or my name ain't RODDDDDD DANGER! R-Oh-DOUBLE-D DANGER!"

This cut to another commercial break: loud, exciting music playing over flashing, spinning images of pairs of different Masters. Each was shown back-to-back, or as close an approximation as their anatomy would allow: the albino elf Astraea with arms folded across his chest, his back to the wings of an ice phoenix; a lamb alongside and facing away from a great black dragon. Over these images, a loud, dramatic voice played. "THIS WEEK, ON NEST NANNIES: EACH PAIR OF MASTERS IS GIVEN ONE HOUR AND LIMITED MATERIAL TO FASHION THE ULTIMATE VALKHOUND. WHO WILL WIN-?" Other pairs were shown, Nemean distinctly missing from it; instead the scenes shifted, to show the other pairs of masters feverishly working with Nemean screaming down at them from mid-air. "THIS VALKHOUND IS HALF-FORMED!" she shrieked. "DID YOU EVEN ADD VENOM?! WHAT IS THIS EVEN?! HOW DID YOU EARN YOUR RANK!?" The booming voice repeated: "WATCH THIS WEEK, ON NEST NANNIES," to a clamor of horrific closing music that sounded like metal clashing.

@Aethril

"I know," Aethril told Obieth quietly, but with gentle patience. "He was promoted. He's a Master now."

This second part answer Pollen's-- first question, at least, and as the cartoon went on she glanced between the screen and Pollen, fingers still idly itching away at the Valkhound's fur. Many of the questions were left unanswered, a good amount of them would be answered later if Pollen kept listening, but eventually--

"Shh," the Hand hushed. "Keep watching and you'll out." She wasn't mad or annoyed, of course-- but she was trying to listen.

At least when Pollen next asked her questions it was during the advertisements. "He made a lot of these, hunting different rebels," she replied. "I don't know if he's awake--" or alive "--or if he's still asleep somewhere. He's not with Master Vargas-- Vargas is working in Draco."

As soon as the advertisements were over, Aethril was settling back down. She took a little sip from her slushie and slouched over onto Obieth affectionately. She was silent throughout most of it, aside from a few little snorts of laughter.

Not during the canned laughter, of course-- but the Hand seemed to find Vargas's disgruntlement ('fucking idiot,' 'get that out of my face') fairly amusing.

This was the Vargas she knew better; if only from this one episode. Dedicated and efficient, if a little short-tempered. Maybe the promotion changed him, made him more careful? Maybe Lord Dhracia had done something, or maybe it was just because of Aethril herself.

She was quickly dismissing that last one.

Another little amused snort left her at the showing of Astraea, but this one was followed by a wistful sigh. "I wonder if Nemean is still out there."

@Obieth

Obieth went from half-attentive to wholly enraptured in the space of seconds. The flashing lights, the ear-splitting sound--the speed at which the colors shifted from one palette to another--it captivated her. Teal eyes stared, wide, her meal half-forgotten and a hot dog sticking out of the side of her jaws. She nearly didn't notice Pollen's offer, but at the last second, the scent of the candy caught her nostrils. Hot dog was spat out in favor of a curious nibble, and then a taking of, the sweet.

She murmured some vague, wordless thanks to the Gardener, and then looked back up at the screen, the conversation taking place to either side of her ignored (and half-drowned, anyway, by the cinema's volume).

Obieth leaned into Aethril's arm, staring up all the while. The commercial of betraying traitors earned a low, rumbling growl from her chest, an ominous hum of warning. It wasn't clear if she understood it was merely a show--a scene--or if she thought there was an actual betrayal happening a dozen yards away.

The lightning and the thunder crashes had her entire body jump a few inches, tensing, a flinch and a squeeze of her eyes--followed by a lips-and-whiskers-peeled-back hiss at the screen. It might have been even cute, had the thick, long saber teeth not been glistening near-black in the empty theatre.

But rapt she remained, lips settling, eyes tracking the movement on the screen in silent and utterly motionless attention as the bounty hunters began their prowl. Only when the rat leaped out did she flinch again, leaping up and near out of her seat before slowly lowering herself down again with an even deeper growl.

"This is foul magic," she complained at last, quietly, to Aethril. She glanced at her Mistress, and explained; "I can't tell what's real. I don't like it."

Then she was still again, quiet, the colors dancing across her eyes--that she liked; loud sound aside (and the sound often left hollowed ears flattened back against her skull), the play of lights was fascinating to her. But Nemean's screeches, and the pots-and-pans that followed, left Obieth curled down against her chair, leaning close against Aethril. Was it for Aethril's protection, or her own-?

She tried to cling to shadows, to gather them around Aethril, Pollen, and herself, but they didn't come; and it didn't matter much, in the end, because as it turned out the creatures on the screen weren't actually hunting anyone.

It was just... Obieth couldn't quite figure that out, yet. Nobody had explained to her what a cartoon, a movie, or a cinema was.

At least she had hot dogs.

@Pollen

Draco... "Oh! Obieth is Queen there!" she let out, cheerful at the memory of that connection. Look, she knew things! She knew places! Pollen grinned to Aethril taking it all in, before looking back to the cartoon.

She wasn't sure if she liked the betrayal commercial. Why would someone do that? The Masters seemed just fine- and Vargas was doing a really good job, anyways! She settled in place when the cartoon jolted back in, and she was immediately enthralled again, ignoring everything in the world around her. Obieth, in the corner of her eye, faded away- the only tie to the real was the candy she chewed thoughtfully on.

But when the laugh track played, Pollen giggled softly, but definitely not as much as the show perhaps wanted her to. It felt a little fake. No matter- she dismissed it, shoving the memory away and simply watching. Oh, Beryl... Too predictable! Such a standard villain, and Pollen shook her head, grinning at the potential idea of this Valkhound meeting his demise.

She jumped at the break. What- who gave this person permission to make music? Who were these people? Pollen scooted forward and drank everything up with her eyes, though her ears folded back as much as they could. A moment, and she laughed at Nemean's loud anger, gently placing a palm on Obieth and pointing up to the light. "Do you think that's how you were made?" she squeaked, not quite noticing the strange discomfort that'd taken over the poor Valkhound.

After all, who would be scared of something so flat?

The return of dimmer, animated lighting and the sudden influx through the theatre of more ominous, tense-toned music hinted that now, at last, they would see their finale.

Rodd's voice talked over it, his mouth animated badly to keep up with the words. He was lowering himself to kneel along one of the passages between two piles of remains, the animation depicting the sheen of purple and green across black bones. "Overseer Vargas and I have found some sign," he was saying, and his voice was quiet, now. Not solemn, but full of seething excitement--kept quiet to prevent him alerting his prey. His hand reached down, palm to the ground, beside a massive-clawed pawprint. "It's fresh, too, so we'll be seein' our rebel soon... And we'll be ready for 'im. Remember, folks, there's never a good end for a rebel." This was said with fake, saccharine melancholy, and then Rodd was creeping forward.

In the background, Vargas's hulking shape could be easily seen, lurking in the dark but animated to stand out.

The scene shifted; more tense music played over slow, creeping animations of Rodd prowling further and further, deeper into the piles of bones--which grew ever-taller to his sides. Always, in the background, Vargas could be seen slipping along--atop the bones, higher up and farther away. But Rodd seemed to be doing a decent job tracking on his own, one hand on his whip--and when the animation slowed, a trill playing, a close-up showed blue fingers reaching slowly for that whip. Then his eye were shown: pale blue, staring ahead, narrowing: and the sound of ragged, heavy breathing could be heard from somewhere just off-screen.

Action-! Violence-! Suddenly, abruptly, there was an ear-splitting roar: and a huge and jagged bear-like beast, solid silver muscle and thick, quilled fur (the tips glowing acid green) came barrelling from the shadows. The music reached a high-pitched crescendo, and Rodd engaged in battle: when the bear leapt for him he lashed his whip, magic flaring with overdone, animated sparkles along its length. Each time the Valkhound charged, Rodd's whip lashed it down, drawing blood or snaring a limb and jerking it to the ground. The roars grew more anguished and, despite Rodd's lips not moving in this scene, his action-packed voice could be heard yelling overtop it. "No rebel's got a chance against R-OH-DOUBLE-D DANGER! You shoulda stayed in your lane, traitor!" The music became quite upbeat as the terrible villain was fought down, and now the bear backed off, animated jaws again not moving, to a rather badly voice-acted voiceover.

"YOU HAVE UNDONE ME," the Valkhound roared, overly dramatic. "I PLANNED TO KILL YOU ALL, ALL YOUR LITTLE HELPERS AND HELPLESS SERVANTS, ONE AT A TIME! BUT YOU, RODD DANGER--DAMN YOU! YOU HAVE STOOOOPPED ME!" There was a pause, a crackle, the animation seeming almost to freeze--to skip. The music pitched even higher! THRUM! WHING! "BUT I WON'T GO DOWN ALONE..."

The Valkhound reared onto its hind legs, the ground (badly animated) shuddering, shaking the entire scene. It was at this point that the animated Vargas leapt down from behind, a slashing of spiked arms and massive jaws taking the Valkhound down from behind in sprays of animated blood.

Rodd cracked his whip, still upright, and crowed in triumph. "You got here just in time, Overseer! But that rebel never stood a chance... against Rodddddd DANGER!"

Music swelled. Vargas's muttered insult was lost under the roar of canned applause. "And that's all for this hunt, folks! Remember, always report any suspicious activity to your local Overseer... because you never know who'll end up like this. But if they do... Rodd Danger'll be there to save the day!"

A moment later, credits rolled, the silver-quilled bear-beast tumbling lifeless onto the piles of bones it had been living in, Rodd offering a cheerful tip of his hat in salute to the 'camera' from behind it.

What a wonderful show!

@Aethril

Aethril leaned into Obieth a little, half-smushing the Valkhound underneath her as she itched the very back of her skull. "It's not magic," she tried reassuring quietly. "It's... like a moving picture. You can go right up and touch it and it won't hurt you. It's not real."

She glanced between Pollen and Obieth for a moment. Queen of Draco? Vargas probably wouldn't like it which meant Aethril was a fan.

The Hand was only half-watching now, her attention mostly on the Valkhound. She was concerned, vaguely, that Obieth might actually try to touch the screen and get startled by the various Noises of Rodd Danger.

Absently, she ate the rest of her pretzels while slouching on Obieth. Vargas did what Vargas did best-- what he was designed for: straight up murder. It didn't give Aethril much information past what she was already aware of; but perhaps, here, there was the reassurance that Vargas didn't care for rebels in the same way she did.

Aethril sighed through her nose as the credits rolled, thoughtful.

@Obieth

Even as the lights danced across her reflective eyes, Obieth was murmuring her affirmation: "Queen of Draco." In her mind, she was: she didn't care one whit for those other beasts she'd seen in passing. So far as her feline-framed mind was concerned, she was black-clad royalty, and since she had come from that cave, her self-granted title only made sense. She had no idea that it might have been considered presumptuous or out-of-line.

She flinched back, once or twice, from the loud noises: but her eyes remained rapt on the screen, darting this way and that to follow the action. Aethril's reassurance pulled one ear toward her, but her teal gaze did not waver; and when the rebel finally showed itself, the sudden tensing of her muscles would undoubtedly be felt beneath the Hand's-... well, hand. Thick fangs bared, whiskers lifting, muzzle wrinkling back as she hissed and snarled at the screen, primal fury directed at this rebel. Some innate hatred flickered through her like black flame, a warning, a recognition of the enemy.

Was it something sealed into the very fabric of her being, wound in with careful thread by a Master's touch? Perhaps Pollen's suggestion was right (and it did earn her a puzzled glance); maybe she'd been made, a rushed creature imbued with Nest loyalty beyond what was blind and into zealotry. Or maybe it was the work of the cartoon: mastercraft propaganda, effective in its clumsy simplicity.

And then it was over: the images fading, a bloodied body falling away.

A stray scent--warm and meaty--reminded her of her food below; and with renewed possessiveness (and that predator's jealous urgency) she returned to wolfing down the last of the dry-crunching popcorn and the bits of hot dog half-severed within.

@Pollen

As Obieth jumped, Pollen flinched back too, but she kept reeling back in to the edge of her seat as action flared up. A bonafide monster came for Rodd, and Pollen gasped, fully engrossed in the film. Battle ensued, and Pollen didn't even batter an eye to the blood, not particularly noticing any animation errors- she was simply too deep in the story to care anymore.

Vargas had come to save the day, and the episode ended, the bear's lifeless body dumped with the patterns of language scrolled by. Pollen, too, joined in its applause, cheering- they had won! She laughed behind her teeth and looked up to Aethril, eyes round as saucers. "Is all researching like that?" she squeaked, excited. She wanted to research, too!

But, she looked between Obieth, then Aethril, and then her own diminished food stores, thinking. "Is there more?" She pointed up to the screen- not demanding, but she certainly had a very pleading look on her face. It was fascinating to her, and she loved Rodd overcoming the odds and defeating the rebels! She wished she could be like him- maybe she could do that with gardening, somehow?

Imagine, if she could meet him! "Wait, is Rodd a real person?" She realized, eyes going even wider- as somehow possible despite how big they were already- and she leaned over as far as she could to Aethril. "I want to meet Rodd Danger! He's so cool!"

And here marked the beginning of the Rodd Danger fanclub.

(i'm assumin the flick is Over so.. @Aethril )

"No, not all research," Aethril said very thoughtfully, idly itching away at the hard collar of Obieth's neck. "Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty. You look around for things, ask people about other people or their whereabouts, send someone to look around a room for you. This kind of research is the fun kind of research." But it was also, as it turned out, marginally a little unhelpful.

She knew Vargas didn't like rebels. She knew Vargas preferred to work on his own. She knew Vargas was diligent in his work-- but could she really let herself be frustrated, already knowing, partially, that Rodd Danger wouldn't tell her anything she didn't already know? Why was she wishing for something else?

The Hand leaned back in her chair. "Oh yes," she told Pollen. "He was created for this kind of thing-- along with several other Valkhounds, of course --but I'm not sure if he's still out there. If he is, he might be asleep." Poor thing. Aethril knew, first-hand, that sleeping for that long was particularly rough.

It wasn't something she wanted to go back to, personally.

Aethril sighed a little, her fingers drumming against Obieth's neck. You don't do that to rebels and change your tune some time later, at least, she thought-- and this, somewhat, brought her some comfort.

"Don't eat so fast," she told Obieth softly, half-concerned she might choke, then glanced out across the Valkhound and Amber. "What do you think of Vargas?"

@Obieth

Her tongue was rasping up the last of the butter and salt when Aethril posed her question. The rest of the conversation had been a background sound, a lull; Obieth had hardly noticed it, as the words had not been directed at her.

Plus, her maw had been busy gulping down meat chunks.

But the question lifted her gaze to meet Aethril's, and she considered it. She didn't have the age--the perspective--to really understand, however, what the Hand was asking. Instead, she gave her own, personal take on it.

"Vargas," she murmured, and there was a purr in the r, and a hiss in the s, at her absent rolling of the word on her tongue. "I liked... his voice." It had been a loud one, rich in timber, good to listen to and to feel vibrating through her chest. "The green parts are good to look at... yellow? The ones that glow. They are very pretty. But he was in the way," she added, a little indifferently, and went back to swiping tongue on now-empty gourd. Lips peeled back and she started to gnaw at the thing itself, but the taste--buttery as it now was--was not to her liking and she soon stopped.

Vargas had "been in the way," too, with his warnings and misgivings. He'd partially stood between her and her new life--between she and Aethril. Aethril and her soft-scented room. Aethril and her swishing, sparkling fabrics. Aethril and her beds. And meat, and gardens.

Obieth very much liked beds.

In a fit of questionable generosity, Obieth lifted her licked-clean gourd--neck stiffly arched to carry it--and attempted to present it proudly to Pollen. It was a plant, sort of--right? So Pollen would love such a gift, obviously.

@Pollen