The Collector was whistling as he walked. It was a bright and cheerful tune, one that clashed with the dark, dripping rocks past which he strolled. He was walking with a stick of some kind: polished, dark wood, with a carved red gemstone head on top, in the shape of some snarling beast. It clacked as he came.

Nobody ever read the fine print.

And that particular contract, risky as it had been, had included a rather fun little line:

'Tʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs ɴᴏ ɢᴜᴀʀᴀɴᴛᴇᴇ ᴏғ ᴄᴏɴғɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟɪᴛʏ.'

As in: he'd never promised to keep their deal a secret. So now he strolled straight for The Black Spire, knowing full well how the irritating nature of his happy whistling would draw in the menacing, no-nonsense Valkhounds living here.

"Ooooh Master Vargas?" he called, tapping his stick on the ground, glancing around for the first sign of glowing eyes and slavering maws that his creations so loved to sport (ah, it was just like the good old days).

"Or... any of you, perhaps? Forces of Chaos? Monsters of madness? Helloooo?" He went back to whistling in rhythm with his step, stopping before The Black Spire to await company.

---

Open to all Chaos Forge.

As per usual, The Warden had been guarding. If it had met-- or, really, even seen --the Collector before, it sure as hell couldn't remember. It didn't recognise him, but he didn't seem outwardly aggressive or... Orderly. At least, not in any significant way that the valkhound could recognise.

Still, though, the great hulking beast followed him in, its glaive glinting in its meaty hands. It was, in truth, partially curious about who this guy was and what he wanted with Vargas. It was also partially hoping it'd try to start a fight, or maybe that Master Vargas would just tell it to kill him where he stood.

Its fluorescent tongue drew across its jaws hungrily at the thought as it stood loosely behind the Collector, weapon at the ready.

- THE LEVIATHAN -

The whistling made him wince, because he recognized it, and no visit from The Collector was ever one of pure joy. It always came with risks, or costs, and dealing with him made his damn head hurt.

So when Vargas strode up to the gathering meeting, it was with irritation, but he was not outright rude. After all, they served the same masters, mostly. "Collector. I am here. What is it?" he asked bluntly.

He came in behind The Collector, silent. He was silent because he was floating. He'd been there when The Collector had entered, of course; now he accompanied him, albeit at a distance, because the whistling had been loud.

Shimmering blue wings carried him forward, then deposited him neatly on the ground; he landed alongside The Warden, and looked briefly at it before turning his attention to... whatever was about to happen. He was ready, and the eye of his halberd scanned the room where he held the weapon at his side.

He did not trust Algol, nor did he distrust him, exactly. He just watched, and waited.

There were many signs that something was brewing. In the distance: whistling, Vargas' hulking form, and the Sentinel. Taking only a moment to set aside his latest project (an upgrade for his dagger) V-Onyx-Three dropped into a steady gait, loping over to the gathering crowd. The Warden was here too. They took their place a few paces away from their father, standing, scanning the room for hints of what may have brought the Collector here. Perhaps patience was a virtue, but now, the longer they waited, the heavier the weight settled onto their chest.

The younger valkhound was still trying to find its footing, focused on staying out of others' way; keep its head down, stay out of the way. Yet the grating whistling made it wince and forced it out of its hiding hole. Slithering its way towards the offending noise and towards, to its surprise, a small crowd.

It would be sent away soon, but it could afford a minor distraction, just to see what was happening. Why this stranger was here, the brazen address. If it would take too much of its time, it would simply leave, yes.

But for now... It lurked.

Virosa skulked from its place near the Spire to stare expectantly at the Collector. Or just... Stare. It could not communicate much with two, small red pupils - much like his, it noted. Perhaps this hooded stranger had inspired some elements of its own design.

It nodded and clacked its jaws, acknowledging its Master politely as it sidled further into the growing crowd. It kept any questions it had to itself, polite enough to let the visitor explain first.

Fenmyre was not so cordial, compared to its corrupted siblings. While it lived in Draco, fed from its Spire and deer, it was not Forge. The title of Master meant nothing to it, nor Hound, nor Overseer. Only Rrevalk mattered, and those loyal enough to follow him.

She had no patience for rules, or contracts, unless she could find ways to bend them. But she settled on her haunches to hear the Collector out, at least. She was hungry for new opportunities.

A grey blur rocketed down the tunnel. "I'M A MONSTER! OF MADNESS!"

Snicker skidded on its paws, with no regard to boundaries and social expectations and silly bullcrap like that. It drifted to a stop leagues in front of the rest of the Forge, circling the Collector closely, brushing against the cloak and getting grey-and-white hairs everywhere.

"And that other stuff to! Probably! Trustmetrustmetrustme!!" (dont)

Close behind it stumbled in the Opal, sensing the commotion. "Me too!!"

Its bottom most jaw was slack, a fat golden tongue lolling out the side. It liked that little cat. It had met another cat like it, once upon a time. Perhaps in whatever followed this meeting, they could... Hang out, or something.