Awareness trickled in only slowly, and he could not later have said whether it was welcome, or not. He did not know enough to gauge such things, to judge good, or bad; pleasant, or unpleasant. He knew only, at first, pure darkness: the black of the gemstone that surrounded him, as pale eyes fluttered open in his ichor bath.

Warmth, then: a second sensation to add to sight. A cozy heat that swathed him, wet and comfortable. And streaks, blazing thin lines of oily color that crossed his vision: emerald and a vibrant violet, as though corruption had tried--and failed--to seep in. For a few moments he merely lay this way, and the first stirrings of discomfort began to strike him--but before he could truly register the cramped space and the tightness constricting his limbs, a shadow passed across the light like an apparition.

Left, to right. A silhouette, one that blocked the world, so that the first movement of his body--that initial twitch of claustrophobia--was stilled by silent fear. What was it, so unknown and immense, that had passed beyond his world? Was it something, or merely... shadow, without substance?

He felt, now, as though he could not quite get enough air. The fluid in his lungs could not supply oxygen enough for one now-waking. Energy coursed through his body and it required more than the gentle sift of nutrients-

...The shadow came again, right to left, a full eclipse of the faint streaks of color in his stone. And now he saw, too, a glow: shimmering points of blue that drifted behind the walls. Then--suddenly--they were close, their light igniting the dark within his gemstone. A hand-... clawed, pressed to the shell.

He recoiled in fear, at first, but it remained, and so he lifted his own--and pressed it there, tentative, surprised to recognize that the pale shape he offered out (what little he could see of it, in that dim depth of onyx) mirrored the shadow on the other side.

He paced.

Up the tunnel; down the tunnel. He guarded the Aperture, of course, but these--the chrysalises embedded here, all three of them--were due now, any day. Now and then he paused, knelt, and tried to peer within and this last time, he could swear that he saw movement.

The Sentinel knelt, pressing his palm to the stone, claws splayed--dipping his head to try and see inside. But his own gemstone, the thick black with oiled streaks, made it impossible.

Except-... when he removed his hand, he saw the tiniest, palest imprint in its place. The press of little fingers, touched to where he'd been holding.

The Sentinel jolted in surprise--and then stepped back. It is time, then. He would not force it, of course. He did not wish to harm the tiny life within. He crouched back, on his heels--half held up by the halberd--and waited. As he did, he studied the chrysalis.

Not for the first time, he wondered what this one would produce. He did not hold the Master's powers of shaping creation, but the other gemstone, the Selenite, was a larger one. This one seemed... small, all things considered. Almost... miniature.

He did not know what that would mean for the future, and he could only assume that the spawn that he had formed would be worthy ones--but the size concerned him. He did not think himself, nor Selenite, built for scouting. A fighter, in miniature, might not be worth all that much.

Somehow... he found that he did not particularly care. He was almost... excited, to see it hatch, regardless of who--or what--it would be.

The hand withdrew, and he was left with the watching lights. He did not know what that meant--but he knew that the sense of suffocation was growing. A new and unpleasant sensation--frantic, burning--had risen in his chest.

It was the first time he knew fear, and this at last drove him to act.

The hooved claws, still soft, of tiny feet lashed out, but they had little room to move. Pudgy hands curled into fists, their not-yet-sharpened claws pressed to skin, and pummeled lightly against the chrysalis.

The first crack appeared, but no more: fluids seeped only thinly from the fracture he had made, but he could not free himself. Trapped, his instincts screamed, and his toddler's face contorted with fear.

Trapped, and helpless.

The Sentinel saw the moment the child truly came awake. Not the light touch of hands, but the frantic twist and scrach of tiny limbs on unyielding stone. Some part of him felt it, even, a sympathetic fear spiking through him (how unfamiliar), and a moment later he'd stood upright, setting his halberd down.

He reached for the tiny fracture that the baby's struggles had formed, and peeled his own claws into it, prying at it. Muscles tensed, flexed, his black satin rippling: and then the onyx cracked where it was thinnest, shattering down like sheets of glass to crack upon the floor.

The Sentinel dropped down, arms opening, and the flood of liquid rushing over his long limbs was followed by the strange sensation of a child falling into them. A heavy, soft, pale child: one without any strength yet to hold itself, its head too large, the wings at its back useless yet for aiding it, its own ungainly limbs untrained. He caught the child, steadied it, placed it on its feet and then when it failed to keep them, on its rump in the grass, instead. "Here," he rumbled, gently, and moved his halberd to where it would not be too close, a skidding of corrupted metal off to one side. "You are..." Safe? Home? "Hatched."

That was, in fact, true.

"I am The Sentinel. You are V-Onyx-Two." He paused to see if it were listening. He lifted a thumb, placing it beneath the child's round chin, tipping its head back to look into its face--and yes, its head was too heavy for it to hold upright, just yet.

And he looked it over.

Pale skin, without any notable armor to speak of. White eyes, with a faint glow. A small size, comparatively. At least it was bipedal, and it had hands--and wings. Those would serve it well. But the rest-? It could not bite, with that face. He was unsure where that blunt mouth, this soft skin, had come from.

Still, finding it attentive, he took a breath and pushed his doubts aside, moving on. It was--as Vargas had taught him--a creature's spirit that mattered... but he had hoped for its body to also be formidable.

"We are of the Chaos Forge. We serve. We answer to Master Vargas. ...Does it understand?"

The sudden rush of cold air had him shivering--and the arms that had caught him, cradled him briefly, did nothing to hold him close and keep him warm. He began to shiver, reaching around himself in a clumsy, useless attempt to hug his body heat close. Tiny teeth chattered. He found his head too heavy to lift, now that the supportive fluids were drained away. Found a weight at his back, another at his tailbone--limbs he'd been unaware of, until now. The tail, even, was very much in the way when he sat, but there was little he could do about that now.

'...Hatched.' The big shape--black, blue-lit--was talking, and Onyx-Two struggled to look up, to focus againt the sudden dim light, which appeared blinding compared to the onyx he'd been living behind. He could make little of the words. Was that his name? 'V-Onyx-Two'? He tried to mouth the words, lips moving, but he found it difficult to say. "Oh...nix..." he half-whispered, and then reached hopefully for the Sentinel. He sought another word, one to express his discomfort--one that had little to do with the things the large, apparently 'safe haven'-sort-of black shape was telling him. (And he did not know enough of monsters and skulls to fear that face.) "C... Cold." It was a soft plea, and then he'd cowered down again, shivering.

Cold.

The Sentinel peered, for a moment, that unfamiliar feeling stirring in him again. The Warden had been... not a child, exactly. Another monster, a good creation and one that he felt proud of, felt that he could rely on. But this-... This was helpless in a way the Warden had never really been, and the fiercely protective side of him was deeply stirred by it.

He reached for it, pulling it close again. He cradled it--cradled him--in his arms, close to his admittedly cold metal-sheathed chest, and sat back. It would take a moment for the armor to warm, and not to be just as cold as the child was. "The Sentinel will attempt... to keep it warm."

His gaze strayed, for a moment, to the other two chrysalises--but no, it seemed this one was first. He was loathe to simply leave them unattended. And he could not fight, not with this one requiring constant protection, even carrying. He'd need to find someone to look after V-Onyx-Two, and soon. For now, however, he held the child close.

"You are... safe," he settled on, at last. And he felt loss, for the first time, that his element was that of Chaos: he could produce nothing to keep this child warm.

Even the flicker of magic--that seemed to specifically answer this wish--was too weak to aid him, and the faint trickle of heat did very little to help.

@V-Onyx-Two

He cowered against the black metal, his shivering only growing stronger. He clutched for the father that held him, but there was only more cold for him there.

"Cold," he whispered again, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling his hands in against his chest.

He felt it when the Sentinel abruptly lurched into motion--felt when a decision was made, when his parent abruptly started a march off down the tunnel toward Pegasus. He didn't know what it meant--but it was, somehow, reassuring.

He kept his eyes shut, clinging, drifting toward a cold, trembling sleep as the world around him rocked gently to and fro. Magic--by instinct--reached to find some warmth, but it did nothing...

...bar leave a quiet, invisible instability settling in the tunnel behind them.

exit both