CONTENT WARNING FOR THIS THREAD

violence

gore

set exactly after, and leading from, this thread

- THE LEVIATHAN -

The creature that had crashed out from beneath the Spire was-... beautiful. A study in monstrosity, an oil painting of treachery: all sweeping lines of muscle and trailing, oilslicked fiber. The grace of it, the power, had him half-spellbound. Nothing like this had survived Jupiter's purge, so he'd thought. He had been ready to mourn them, all these beautiful monsters, these monstrous and wonderful creations, left as shattered gem and bone. And now here one was, rising like some dark and terrible angel. Alive. Well.

The other half of Vargas, the half not spellbound, was widening its eyes and thinking Oh, shit.
This one was large--large enough to fight him and, if it were lucky, or venomous or toxic, perhaps to kill him. This was why he'd been built as he was: spined and quilled, toxic and enormous. It was to fight beasts like this--and to fight alongside them. With a roar--a simple, wordless bellow of challenge met--he started toward the hatching monster at a walk: a walk that quickly turned into a bounding run, the Leviathan's full speed on display before his creations for the first time. He could not let it reach them. "GUARD THEM, ORTHOCLASE-ALPHA," he shouted, and quickly opened up a gap between he and they. Khavur and Orthoclase would be enough. They could tackle this one together, perhaps--but he knew nothing of its skill and it looked fast, fast enough to sweep past with the aid of a flap of those wings, to leap overhead and land among the children. The new creations, not yet large enough to defend themselves. And to destroy them.

Vargas could not have that.

He reached out with his magicka--a snatch, one that failed, and his gut twisted at the realization. He'd expected it, but still-...

"I am MASTER VARGAS," he bellowed as he came closer--perhaps rank might hold some sway with it; "ANNOUNCE YOURSELF!"

@Draconua

There was no time to appraise the beauty of Oilstone witnessed truly in the flesh—she'd seen that sight a million times, over a million visions. No, no, she reveled in the tactile sensation of Oil slicking away from her hide once more; a thousand years of war and conquest, all to be reborn. A destructive force given shape yet again. There'd been many deaths—many recreations. Chaos was always kind enough to give her more bodies, so long as she sought and destroyed. Oh, how she'd destroyed—

The first sound to mark Draconua's emergence was a roar from the bottom of her Oil-filled lungs.

—and how she would continue.

Here came a Leviathan, so similar to many green-eyed beasts that she fought alongside. Immense, formed of sharp edges, shaped for conquest. His responding roar shook her bones.

A rattling breath slid out from between her teeth as she hauled herself from her cradle. The crimson of her faceplate was illuminated harshly by the Black Spire's light, trails of Oil already dripping from every little pore. She swiveled to face him as he bellowed again, asking for what she was already reaching for the magic to do. It slipped through her grasp for a moment—the deceptive strength and weakness of it startling her. There'd always been that raw power each time she'd (thought she had) been remade; the innate ability to raze cities, demolish armies with nary an effort.

This was different, she realized.

No matter.
The corners of her mouth peeled further back, baring a wicked grin of hundreds more teeth. It spread wide as she straightened to meet the Leviathan—he'd said that he was a Master, but the monstrous thing was too taken by the thought of combat to take proper note—tongue slithering out to swipe along Oil-stained whites. A hissed "DRACONUA" came before she cracked the length of her jaw wide-open to release a thunderous shriek.

What she'd tried to will—no, force into being had been shattering the very earth in front of her; instead, hairline fractures formed along the ground. Draconua barely tilted her head away in time to avoid having it smashed by a rising shelf of broken rock. The stone moved to pin her against the top of the hole she'd just crawled out of. Just one forearm and her head managed not to be trapped; she dragged either across the rock in cacophonic writhing, bellowing harsh "NO!"s.

This had not happened before. What had this Vargas done?!

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

His speed carried him nearly to her, and as he readied himself to spring--all tensed muscles, all coiling limbs--the earth erupted in front of him. For an instant, as he skidded to a frantic halt--nearly colliding with it--he thought it was deliberate. He thought it was a shield, thrust up to halt him in his advance: clever, cunning, and precise. A powerful magic hurtling up at little more than Draconua's whim. And was that her name? Had that been what she'd nearly whispered-?

He heard, then, her bellows: saw the thrashing of body against the rock. Vargas stared, for a heartbeat. He had no magic to undo this; he didn't know if any of them did. This had been an accident. A misfiring of magic (and oh, how well he knew that); but would this one listen to reason-?

He did not want to see it dead, not so soon after hatching--presuming it wasn't some beast left by him, of course. A second time-bomb filled with fungus, but it could not be, not so close to the Black Spire's power--not lying just beneath it. No, this was one of His. One of theirs.

"YOUR NAME. AGAIN," he demanded, sensing by this creature's feral roars that it was not quite of any right mind. Could his words return it to thought? It was speaking, at the very least; but would it demand its combat lust be sated before it resorted to conversation? Was it true Chaos, unrestrained--a thing he'd need to destroy (Creator forbid-!) for the sake of their very survival; or could he batter it, beat it, best it, wear it out..?

Or, perhaps, would it simply be grateful for being freed from its stone prison, a thing of its own making?

"Be still, and I will free you. Attack, and I will kill you," he growled, and reached for the stone before her.

Her size rivalled his, but his limbs were larger, stronger; his position gave him leverage where she was pinned. There was a crack, as he put his weight, braced, against it; the straining, the surging of massive muscles and another crack. Part of it splintered away, and he grunted, straining for a second grip.

But he remained tense, and ready--for this one was new, and wild, and fully-grown, and it might be grateful or it might be deadly. No part of Vargas was not keenly aware of the oil dripping from its pores, of the strange, flat teeth on its too-wide maw, of the claws of one free forelimb tearing at the air.

No: this was a creature like him, but with the Chaos of the ancient days--uncontrollable entropy.

He was... wary of her.

@Draconua

If only this had been as calculated as Vargas thought.

Her back half was just as trapped as the rest of her, hindquarters seizing with the effort of clawing at rock and trying—at any cost—to extricate herself from the hole. Only a few chunks gave way, and certainly not those necessary to give her more leverage. Another rattle of frustration spilled from her mouth. The Leviathan was making another demand for her name, but after what he'd done—"no." Draconua's faceplate twisted back to stare at him, all eyes at furious attention; not that they were very visible to him. If he'd not heard the first time, if he'd put a chokehold on her own potential, then he should fight for that name.

"Be still, and I will free you. Attack, and I will kill you."

Vargas held to his word, peeling away chunks of stone—but, she would not be beholden to them.

The monstrous creature arched her head back (which could easily be mistaken for giving him more room to work) and spat, "do not try to strip me of what I am." Her chest, compressed as it was by her own trappings, swelled. "MAYHEM. DESTRUCTION. CHAOS." If she allowed herself to be made a weakling, reliant on suckling a teat—like this body seemed to demand—then she was none of those. There was strength—power in her. He would not be to foolish to strip her of her own might, would He? After all she'd done?

No. No, she would not let the Leviathan free her. That was hers to do. He would not take this shred of agency.

Draconua released the breath she'd been holding; and with it, a torrent of corruptive void-fire aimed for whichever part of him was nearest in that moment.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas' guttural growl was a response to the 'no,' to the thrashing. Few had dared to say 'no' to him for a very long time, to deny him his demands--when had the last been..? He could not recall. But this one--this one would forge her own right to do so.

"I am HERE to strip you of nothing. This cave has been asleep-! We are reclaiming it, as the Creator demands!" Even as he said it, he wondered--Is this a test of His? Does He ensure that we are worthy-? Rigid lips peeled back in a feral grin, a sneering snarl of sorts--a grimace--at the thought.

The creature's head twisted, jaws opening--a split-second of calculation, of aim, and Vargas had a blink's worth of time to react to the sudden bloom of violet light in her massive maw. He twisted, dropping back away from the rock, as void-flame guttered out and engulfed him: one arm, his torso, part of his face-

A bellow of pain escaped him--and wasn't that the rarest of sounds?--and he hit the ground rolling, teeth gritted, fighting the urge to howl his agony. He was burnt, he could feel that, and more than that the knowledge struck him of the chaos imbued in the flame. This creature was far more dangerous than those dragons; her fire was entropy itself, distorting, twisting entropy.

His flesh, where she had struck him, curled black.

But he was not a Master for nothing--had not been made Overseer for no reason--and he rolled and kicked upright, fury leaving his head dropping low, snarling, circling the trapped behemoth with his quills on end like standing hackles. Trapped, still--struggling--and second by fractional second his brain was reassessing, gauging, ticking away tactics in his mind. Trapped. Let her wear herself out. Stalk. Recover. Keep your distance--and your angle, from that flame. He turned before he made the mistake of getting back in her line of sight, back behind the rock, a pacing stalk.

"VERY WELL, then. REMAIN trapped, and DIE THERE!" he roared, and this was at the top of his lungs. His right arm, his ribs, seared and stabbed at him where she'd hit him. He didn't think it was anywhere near fatal, but he had no intention of sticking his head into her mouth to find out if it could become so--his distinct impression was 'yes.' And he didn't know what else this one was capable of, and so he circled, and stalked, low and ready and tense, and waited.

How long would it be until she broke free-? Vargas waited, his muscles again coiling down; the moment she'd freed herself, he would spring.

If this was the Creator's test, he did not intend to fail it.

@Draconua

This cave—asleep. Draconua, addled as she was by raw Chaos, paused for just the briefest, flickering second while Vargas stumbled with his flesh corrupting to black. No, they could not have been. A thousand years' wars had been fought. The pandemonium spread in His name reigned; cities were levelled. They would rebuild them, and she would come to ravage it once more. The ouroboros, consuming its own tail for as long as time marched forward—an omnipotent arrow that yielded to nothing.

Reclaiming it. Her chin lifted. As the Creator demands. From what did Vargas have to reclaim? (Note the exclusion of herself from we.) This cavernous womb was His, just as everything else in existence would be—just as she was. Why had she awakened, then, without this apparent directive?

"Reclaiming? Asleep?" came her monstrous growl. She shifted in place again, neck twisting and contorting at an odd angle to track the Leviathan as he stalked about. Draconua reached for entropy once more, and urged it respond this time—but, she didn't release it, yet. A baleful hiss, first: "you speak only of lies. The Creator would not let a shred of His influence be stolen from Him."

A claw wrenched itself in a broken piece of rock, and she released a guttural groan. Oilstone threaded its way through it; jagged spines formed along its surface. It shattered out the top of the stones that had her pinned, locking her completely in place with the dangerous promise of barbed Chaos. Even as she wanted to thrash, she could not. Thick black oozed down her exposed arm where the elbow of it had gotten caught. A bellowing roar at her own futility escaped her.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas rocked back, slowly lowering himself to nearly his haunches--perhaps ten yards off, and behind the cover of the rock, ready to move at a moment's notice. But his focus, for a moment, went to his magic--ignoring the behemoth in front of him in favor of tending his own wounds.

Magicka flowed, cooling, reassuring, the worst of the burns seeming to fade beneath the knitting of fresh, clean flesh. It wasn't healed, by any means, but it was... lessened.

When he was finished, he turned his attention back to her, recalling her words and actually registering them now, thinking them briefly over. There had been a delay, after she spoke, of some full ten seconds. He used, now, a tactic he had used on prey--screaming, thrashing prey, prey he'd wanted to give a message to, in the end.

His voice came very soft. Because, to hear it, one would need to be quiet. At times this had had its intended calming effect: when prey--enemy--went still to listen, they remained so, subdued. It would not stop Draconua, but it might give her pause for a moment, at least. "Open your eyes, if you have them. Look at the remains of Draco's womb. The far wall." A pause--could she see it, from there? From her angle? "Shattered chrysalis, after shattered chrysalis. The arrows of another Master shattering each and every one of them. We have only just retaken this cave--rebellion, of the Masters themselves, and a long sleep."

Dramatic pause.

"You are the last of them."

Another long pause, as Vargas let this sink in--he hoped. "You are the only survivor."

He stood back upright again, tensed, waiting--just waiting--for her to break free, for her to ignore his words, for her to leap for him, those strange flat teeth aimed for his face, his neck. "We are here to reclaim it, in His name. His Hand--the Lord Dhracia--has come with our instructions: we may reclaim this nest. We may try. You may serve as Chaos, and disrupt it; certainly that would be in your makeup. Perhaps that might even serve Him, in culling those who did not deserve to stand before your wrath. More likely, I will kill you, and then there will have been no survivors." Vargas studied her, the stone trapping her--he still made no move to help, not again, not after she had blasted him the first damn time. "Or you may aid us in reclaiming these caves, in restoring His will and His power to His work here, and I will get you out from under your own damn rock." He paused, his head canting slightly to one side. "You ought to see these new caves--are you one of the older ones? I do not recall your design. But none of them would stand before you." Darkly-said--not a promise, not a lure of power, but faint disgust in it. "The caves are in near-ruin. I do not know what force has protected you. Perhaps you are His favored, or perhaps you are His test, to see if we are worthy. Perhaps... it is your decision," he asked, and then he grinned.

Fuck it; he enjoyed fighting. There was so much on the line, yes-... but there was something primal in the battle, in nothing but the thrill of teeth and claws and adrenaline. If she wished to test him, he would wait for her to claw her way out from her own damn tomb--and then he'd put her back into it.

Or maybe, just maybe, she'd listen to reason; maybe she'd be their ally in this. Vargas wasn't quite sure which option he preferred.

@Draconua

Open your eyes, he said, nursing and licking his wounds (and what a flush of pride that gave her—and a muddled feeling of needing to finish the job.) If only he'd known that her eyes had been opened from the moment she took her first strangled breath in this body; that all her attention had been on him. She worried not for their surroundings. Chaos bid her see hundreds of intact Oilstones in this fetid little cave, all intact and ready for just a glancing touch to awaken them. Draconua pressed her faceplate against a spike, craning her neck. Violent beings, His creatures, walking alongside one another, sparring, making their wicked wars—

—and she blinked.

Gone in an instant.

A strangled noise escaped her. This was not right. Stone crackled beneath her as she squirmed, another point piercing her hide. Vargas spoke of rebellion amid the Masters, a long sleep—and He would not allow that. He did not allow that. Draconua spat on his pause for effect: "no. There has not been a sleep. I have lived a thousand lives. Fought a thousand battles. Rained destruction on a thousand armies." This life? Wretched, dreary, false. "Time and time again, I've awakened—been remade to serve Him. Every body of mine destroyed in the Creator's name." Now, she was supposed to believe that a rebellion silenced them?

Now, she was supposed to bow her head and let this beast free her? "No, you will not."

Chaos swarmed beneath her surface like a festering rage, and at last she could force it through the rock. The foundation of Draco quivered beneath her, and—with a strained roar—she wrenched it apart. Her claws tore through the shattering stone, finding purchase at last. Her hide twitched, Oily blood streaming down the lower half where it'd been brutalized in the hole. Draconua hauled herself out from those confines and at last let the womb's stale air wash over her whole form.

There, she stood, drawn up to her full height and barely listening to every little lie dispensed—Hands with their instructions passed along for Him, a threat of death hanging over her head, the caves being almost in ruin. Perhaps you are His favored, or perhaps you are His test, to see if we are worthy. Draconua lowered her head, hussar-like wings unfurling from where they'd been folded at her side. Their sanguine points glinted in the light. Perhaps... it is your decision.

"I would burn existence to the ground, if it was His will," the Hound bayed, faceplate tilting down to cover her chin and neck. A challenge in the form of gnashing teeth and scraping claws came: "prove to me, then, why I should not do what I have done for eternity. That you are the Master you claim to be—with all your falsehoods." Even with overwhelming proof lining the walls of this tomb, only violence would cow her. Brutality was the most honest form of being.

Draconua awaited, muscles seizing and bulging in her limbs and her neck.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

A hefty sigh escaped him as she spoke. "You've been asleep, you moron," he snapped, but it was with the full knowledge that here was one who would not listen to reason. The time for speeches, unfortunately, was over; he could not afford a chance, could not waste time speaking, when she might take that moment and make an advantage of it. There was no time, even, to flinch from the shattering of stone.

He launched himself for her without warning, whilst her words still lingered righteous in the air, his full bulk thrown for her throat. His jaws closed for flesh, his forelimbs gripping, tearing; but it was all only a vehicle for the main damage. As he leapt, one forearm pulled up, so that Vargas' weight came in behind the three-pronged, six-foot spines of his muscled limb: an aim for her neck, her throat, her--jaw, whatever it might be. To tear and simply do as much damage as possible to her in that first strike.

Whatever happened next, he would have her badly damaged from the start, if at all he could.

The thrill of battle filled him, the roar of his pulse in his ears, fury in his veins; the Chaos Forge half-forgotten in the Aperture behind him.

He had spent cycles--cycles!--fighting for these caves without landing a single blow, playing politics and dancing around Lord Dhracia's demands. Now here was a flesh-and-blood target offering violence for him to spend himself upon--and he would do so, with eagerness. Master Vargas had gone through the motions of peaceful bargaining, of explanation. Draconua was no useful ally to him: Draconua was an obstacle.

Vargas had never been one to tolerate obstacles.

Round: 1/?
Attempt: Berserk attack mostly w/ armspikes
Defenses: A GOOD OFFENSE-
Injuries: Burns :(


@Draconua

Content Warning
This post contains potentially sensitive material:

gore

violence

A split-second of movement, her shifting her weight to receive an impact, and the Leviathan was upon her. Hooked claws tore through sinew, serrated teeth rending the meat of her nearest shoulder. Draconua's wavering shriek of pain was strangled by the vicious backhand. One after another, arm-spikes guttered through the flesh of her throat, and each one inched closer and closer to her windpipe or some essential artery. Oil sputtered from the laceration, each junction of flesh split roughly into two. A brutal strike with the potential to be lethal.

One that she should have made first. No matter.

The monstrous Hound writhed in Vargas's grasp, her own hands coming up to vie for a grip on his forelimbs. Either one of her wings beat down on his hide—claws-first. Every motion had tooth and claw sinking in deeper, but her chaos was deadliest at close range. Draconua shoved at him abruptly, the coarse hairs lining her undersides prickling and fanning out with pent-up electricity.

Bolts of entropic lightning leapt from her body, cracking like whips. They clamored violently for Vargas's form, even as her own musculature stuttered and seized from contacting it.

Round: 1/?
Attempt: Make Vargas seize up with corrupt lightning
Injuries: Gored through the jugular and lower jaw, numerous lacerations across body, fairly deep bite on shoulder

@Vargas