for what basically amounts to adult kaiju child abuse

Six eyes widened fractionally.

Master Vargas rarely felt. He did not grow attached to creations, to creatures, to 'Gembound.' He had no 'family,' no 'children.' Only his work.

And yet...

And yet Titanite lingered in Eridanus, unharassed, a quiet token of apology made living. Alpha's mistakes had been forgiven, overlooked--and really, for good reason; it had never done anything unforgiveable, and it had always been a loyal servant.

But this...

Did Vargas' emotions lurch? Did his heart rise, for a moment, and sit in his throat as realization struck, as he knew, suddenly, how close Orthoclase-Alpha (cowering before him, stammering a quiet excuse) was to the brink?

Its quills were flat, its belly to the ground, its words quiet. This was terror, and it incited a mirrored bloom in Vargas' gut (and the thought what do you care? Orthoclase is a tool, and nothing more. A weapon. It is a good and proven design, but it can be replaced- did nothing to soothe this fear, if anything it intensified it and what did that mean-? But Vargas had no time to parse this out).

Three swift, violent strides, and he was growling low into Alpha's ear, savage, clipped words.

"I am saving your life," he snarled, and then a forelimb snapped out, a backhand with the Master's full power behind it, arm-spines and claws in a sweep capable of raking shredded lines across even the Orthoclase's armored face.

The scent of blood, the feel of the impact ringing through his limb, and Vargas stepped back with a snarl--or a grimace?--fixed upon his face.

The growl of his voice, the command in it (and not Command, not like that, but a desperate finality) came on the heels of the strike. "If you ever, EVER see myself, or anyone and Our Lord in conversation, you bow your head, you bow your entire body, and you back away. You back entirely through these caves, do you understand?"

He doubted himself, then, looking at what he'd done.

Had Lord Dhracia even cared-? Surely something so inoffensive as simply arriving and waiting quietly-... but no. It had shrouded itself. It had hidden. Vargas didn't think, given this obvious fear, that it had intended to spy--but he could not take the risk of his Lord assuming as much.

What she would do to it would be so, so much worse than a few healing scars.

He spoke, then, in a low growl, the fear in him driving his voice into savagery. "DO you understand?!"

@Orthoclase-Alpha

content warning for receiving abuse, gore, and a pretty severe breakdown :(

It stopped breathing at the first step, closed its eyes at the second, and curled in on itself as the third struck close. His putrid-hot breath fanned across its quills, leaving gooseflesh in its wake and an exponentially rising heartrate. Every thump of the organ sent another shiver tearing through the orthoclase's frame. Claws curled harshly into the rock, carving deep ruts. Trying and failing to steady itself, trying and failing to show that it wasn't a sniveling, terrified whelp that didn't deserve to walk these Caves again.

When Vargas's claws struck, it tried to lean away. An instinctive shying away from injury. It couldn't connect "saving your life" with harm. How could it? Epinephrine and adrenalin cut through the message, crossing every little bit until the ley lines all pointed to pure terror and a conviction: it was going to be killed, slaughtered. The snarl was nothing but full of hatred, it missed the fearful note as bits of its armor was shorn away like it was nothing. All it had to say for the sting of it was a startlingly high-pitched yelp and subsequent low whine.

Keratin clattered across the ground in chunks, neon-green bled hot down the front of its face. Its face. Its face its face itsfaceitsfaceitsfaceitsfaceitsfacemyfacemyfacemyfacemyfacehehurtmehehurtmeHEHURTMEAGAIN - Its claws slipped in the rather sizable pool of blood on the ground, nearly sending its chin to the ground. Instinct was driving it back, back, back, away from the threat, the wicked claws and blades that hurt it. Would keep hurting it if it didn't go. But, it couldn't run. Didn't have the speed to. It was trapped. It'd always been trapped. It would always be trapped. Right here until it did something right to appease the Master and save its own life and keep going, itshould'verunwhileitcould.

Nervous system fried and synapses still shot through with the horrific electricity coursing through the air between them, the monster could hardly put words together. Could hardly hear Vargas over the pulsating pain of its wounds. Could hardly understand what it was he wanted other than to back off. Couldn't understand how punishment was a means to saving its life. It was a tool. It didn't need to be saved. It -

- stared up, as if jarred loose, toxic-green eyes widening and... watery? Stinging. It continued to back away, approaching the wall at a slow crawl. He wanted it to say yes. So it did. It said "yes."

But, it came out in such a wretched, choked noise more resembling half the word. Like its throat were full of cotton or glass. After so long without breathing, the orthoclase sucked in a breath. It was strangled, so strangled. It paused in its slow escape, lifting a claw to its head, exhaling shakily with a teeth-gnashing wince. It blinked, and something hot spilled out from its eyes, but the stinging didn't go away. Alpha tried again, "yes." It didn't understand. It couldn't. It just needed to go. Away. Somewhere safe - no cave's safe. Make a safe place. If it just appeased him it could go and gather itself and fix this mess that it'd upchucked all over the place for all the world to see. This wasn't meant to come out, wasn't meant for Vargas to see, wasn't meant for anyone to witness but itself.

Seven cycles of suppression and one dead mother, and this was the knee its spine was broken over.

@Vargas

cw again for blood and grimdark

The Orthoclase had always been a dutiful creation.

A child. It was not a creation; it was a random melding of life. A purpose was not imbued in it. It did not want this.

A good second, strong, unflinching. It had fought dragons, with no prompting.

It is--crying? Vargas' eyes sought out the tears, studying them, a strange sense of dissociation seeming to set him unpleasantly adrift.

Orthoclase-Alpha had never deliberately disobeyed.

And yet, because of this mistake-...

It would make a fine Overseer, one day--past this training, past this new experience.

As the ones behind me weep. He could hear it, in them--the sounds of fear and terror from the creatures-of-the-surface.

And Vargas... wondered. He who mere moments ago had filled to overflowing with the greatest honor, and power; but where was that now, with only terror and pain around him-? He had never been one to gloat in such things... only in a job well done and was this that-?

His jaw tightened, and he stepped back half a pace, and lowered himself to sit, staring at his creation.

child

At his spawn.

The urge to babble explanations--to apologize, to tell it that she would have done so, so much worse had he not stepped forward first--clamored in him, clawing to be free and he suppressed that. He had work to do-...

it did not ask for this

-He could not be distracted. Lord Dhracia demanded nothing short of perfection. Surely, if she returned now, she would ask why he had not yet begun. What he was waiting for. Why the delays, even of mere moments; what could possibly be more important than her decree-?

This is the world that we shape.

The thought was abrupt, and grim, and Vargas became aware then of the light streaks of blood across his arm and claws, where the impact of his massive slash had managed to take hold despite the speed of it.

That I shape.

All at once he did not feel triumphant, and eager, and proud. He felt drained and weary, and for whatever reason he simply sat there, staring at the Orthoclase, watching it.

"Creating you was a mistake," Vargas said abruptly, thickly, and then one forearm shot out again, but his claws did not move to harm or impale; instead the limb-that-had-torn, still touched by blood, reached for the Orthoclase's chin. It was the same touch, perhaps, offered by Lord Dhracia but there was no cold regard in Vargas, no assessment. There was only a dim, dull sort of sadness. And if it flinched--if it flinched away, he would try again, not pursuing, not violent, but insistent.

"Not because you are unworthy. But because I do not want you dead. And if They learn that, any of Them, you will be used against me. Punished, as punishment to me. Do you understand?" he told it, quietly.

Images of Dawa sang through his mind. Of Raheerah, chained without chains.

It is not my child. I do not care for it-... I was not designed to. It is an Overseer. A creation, a spawn. A tool and a weapon. It is-...

Vargas held a moment longer, and then dropped his hand with an exhale, whether Alpha had allowed his touch, or not.

"Our Lord Dhracia is Hand of our Creator." His tone was dull. Empty, now, of the joy he had taken in her presence. Somehow, all the power and strength she had wielded with but a breath seemed to pale before the sight of Alpha bleeding, cowering, and weeping. "She is the most powerful being either of us are ever likely to encounter in the flesh. And she has just killed another Master. Perhaps more." He pushed up, and turned away, his gait slower, almost hunched, as he strode up alongside the humans--ignoring, it seemed, them and their own tears. He paused, his back still to Orthoclase-Alpha, and he spoke again, quietly.

"Listen to me closely, and hear what I am saying, Orthoclase. This is a 'last chance,' but it may be an impossible one. If I fail--if we fail--this entire nest may be destroyed."

You were not made to tolerate weakness-

Vargas looked back, eyeing Alpha.

But is it weakness-? I don't think so. It would face these wounds from a dragon, and never flinch, never weep. But because it was me-...

The massive, hulking monster, his own spawn, bleeding and weeping and not because of the damage, no--but because his Master, his creator, had struck it, wounded it, and it had never been anything but loyal.

The thought tore at him, at once, and it wasn't meant to, and half of him felt an alien urge to go back to Alpha, to pull it close and to murmur apologies but he could not do that; he was a Master, he was Vargas, he was the Leviathan and to show weakness would mean both their deaths and Alpha would not allow him that close, would not want him that close, not after he had done this-...

He simply stood there, for a moment, beside the humans--looking back over his shoulder at his spawn in expressionless silence, anguish unexposed tearing at his chest.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

continued cw for blood and breakdown

The shadow looming over it shifted back, settling. Alpha was greedy in its panic; that wasn't far enough away. It wanted to go entirely, be out of reach from this threat to its very existence. His words ("creating you was a mistake") didn't hurt - no, it paled in comparison to that initial blow, that initial shattering of what trust it had in the master. It'd been on a shaky, weak foundation, but it'd been there. As long as it obeyed and continued to impress, he wouldn't sink tooth nor claw into its flesh. The orthoclase could've thought that it was in the wrong - he'd said that it did something wrong.

Perhaps trust wasn't the right word for it. Faith? Faith. The faith and security it had with him was entirely gone.

A bloodied limb - that's mine - reached out for it again, and Alpha winced reflexively away. He adjusted, then tried once more. Once more, the hybrid shied away. An unspoken plea: don't touch me again. It would've growled weakly, were it not afraid of further punishment.

Vargas spoke, and it still failed to understand. The gravity of these two creatures' presence, these two humans was impossible for it to grasp while its still-juvenile mind crawled through the slices marring its face and what they meant. Here and now was apparently worse than anything the Leviathan's failure could possibly bring. Alpha couldn't bring itself to care, only barely trudging through that last, impossible chance.

Tears and blood ran desperately down its snout as it stared at its claws, trying to muster the courage - Hell, the energy - to give a response. "Can I... go?" Alpha croaked, at last - and curled in on itself again. It should've acknowledged all that he said. It should've asked what it could do to assist him in this task. It should try to contribute. It'd been punished and it should be able to get up like it was nothing, like the moment'd passed -

But... it just wanted to go.

It didn't know where.

It didn't belong anywhere.

@Vargas

He said nothing about his Overseer's failure to acknowledge his words, to acknowledge that at least it had heard them if not agreed, or understood; but then, had it heard? Vargas eyed it.

It was a mess--blood and tears and curled-up form, and this was his doing. It was cruel, perhaps, to think this way, but Vargas did not leave his messes for others to clean up and this was now his responsibility.

Its request would be denied.

"No," he told it, but his tone was empty as he turned away. "Come with me. You will go to the bird, first."

He paused, turning only to lightly lift the ends of two ropes (ropes he did not want, had not asked for; ropes that represented honor, and pain, and glory, and agony, and power, and servitude, and life and death)--and to give a light tug on them as he began to move.

"After that-... You will have permission to rest, if it is required, and then you will return. We have much work to do." And his tone was weary; but his mind slowly churned, without that eagerness, now, back to the task set before him.

The one would die; that was almost certain. And his Lord had commanded the destruction of them both, when he was done; yet a glance back reminded him that this was but a child, crying, and when he looked back over her head, he could still see the larger, spined, bloodied 'child' behind it.

The Leviathan heaved out a heavy breath and turned away, pacing down the tunnel.

He would need to see this form thoroughly, inside and out as instructed, and then--after resting his magic, for a time, as he had just created his first true design--begin his work.

And what did he need Alpha for..? Did he, or did he want it there for some other reason? His mind reached for a purpose for it, and found one.

"I will need you to gather as many of our creatures as you can; we will need to spend all we have to ensure that nothing interrupts Lord Dhracia's plans."

Caves save them, if they failed; fate would not be kind.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

No - no. No. Of course not. It should not have asked. It should've known better. Another failure to add to the running tally. It was getting to be pretty sizable. It should just keep its mouth shut and get up - stop embarrassing itself in front of the creatures it was suddenly hyperaware of. They were bound in ropes, predestined for servitude, but witnesses either way. Alpha's tired gaze bore a hole through the furless one, briefly seeing Attikias in that silhouette, minus the tail.

It arched its neck so its head was tilting down, and slowly hauled upwards. The world spun into a monochromatic blur, and its stone sputtered at last. Magic wove in and out, concentrating here, stitching up there, somewhat compensating for the blood lost. The cast was nowhere near enough to completely heal over the gouging, but it steadied it somewhat.

Vargas paced off, ropes in hand - the monster waited until the end of his tail was a good eight feet off to begin trailing. It was not the close kaiju-at-the-hip following of before, but the wary, head-lowered creep of a terrified animal. The response to his command was minimal, but better than any prior ones - a simple, easy, "yes, Master." A weariness caused only by incomplete catharsis settled in its bones, making its voice equally as hollow as Vargas's. It was low with scarcely any intonation. Just simple speech, almost reminiscent of a newly born Orthoclase-Alpha overwhelmed by mere existence.

It blinked, and for once its eyes didn't smear over or send another trickling down its face.

@Vargas

He paced along, tempted to give the ropes a savage jerk to vent his simmering frustration; but it was frustration with himself and though he had not known Lord Dhracia's thoughts, his own mirrored them, for a beat: it would not be fair to take it out on them.

Long limbs kicked up sand in small puffs as he walked. Silence greeted the Orthoclase's dull agreement. Lifeless; had one strike torn the spirit from it-? Is it truly a worthwhile creation, then? Vargas wondered vaguely, and he had no answer for that.

Without looking, he reached back his magic, he aimed for Alpha, he sought its bleeding--he would not tell it as much, no, would not even indicate; but it lashed back, Master or not, powerful or not, and seized his limbs with cramping. He paused, struggling not to fall, and pushed to one side of the tunnel, lowering himself to a stiff, briefly-stumbling sit.

"Go to the bird," was all he told Alpha, voice rough with pain, but he would not tell it.

They had work to do.

He had work to do.

He had work to do...

whoops

exit Vargas!

It glanced up from where it'd sunk somewhat into itself again, quills drooping and or lying slack on its nape. The spirit hadn't so much been ripped from it, but momentarily exhausted. Broken apart like those pieces of its armor and scattered all around the place. Not yet given the chance to slowly cauterize its state of being back together, it couldn't help but to fly into autopilot - or would the better word be survival mode?

Vargas was squatting towards the wall, still holding the bipeds close, and ordered it in.

The orthoclase nodded mutely - hardly appraising his sudden state, and shambled to the doctor's ward.

exit