Hjalmar led vargas to fornax, best he could. his feet continued to ache and it took a bit not to collapse on them as he finally sat where he last spoke to master farina.

"she should... be here." he rasped.

he looked around, thinking. the tapping of his claws could be considered annoying, tending to his burns as he did. catching on fire isnt very fun, really.

the whispers were silent, though the silence was more watchful than peaceful. they were all waiting for something.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

The trek to Fornax had not ever been a pleasant one--a treacherous way full of ice and snow--and time hadn't changed that, much. But his surprise that Farina was not only free, but moved, had left him deep in thought for the duration of the climb.

By the time they arrived, he was on high alert but also grimly prepared for any eventuality. He'd ticked through possibilities--that Hjalmar was bait, an assassin; that Farina truly didn't know that Nemean hadn't been a part of the rebellion; that Nemean herself had actually betrayed.

Hmm.

Vargas glanced at Hjalmar as the smaller Valkhound spoke, and then stepped aside, away, making room. It wasn't clear if this was a safety measure for himself, or something to spare the other's ears, since he was taking a massive breath...

"Master Farina?" he called out, in a bellow. He paused, then, a moment's doubt striking him--a rare thing, for Vargas; how would she know him? She had no idea he was a Master; would she even give him a second glance? He was keeping a safe distance, he hoped, from the shoreline; he was as far back on the gravel spit of an island as he could be, and more than tensed to run. He cast out his senses, too, warily--so that if she, or a minion, came for him through the water, he would have a moment's reaction time to prepare himself or to flee.

"I am Vargas--now a Master in the caves. I'd like to speak, if you might." He paused, then, to regard the waves, the roiling mockery of an exterior sea, the captive ocean bound by stone. Was she here-? Would she speak to him, or simply attack?

And how much did she truly know? She didn't know, it seemed, that Tamulus was dead, that Jupiter had been wholly destroyed. So what did she want with Nemean? Was this a bid to wipe out the other masters entirely, or had Farina mistakenly attributed rebellion to Nemean?

Or was it something else--something worse--something Vargas didn't know?

Under the silent, motionless surface of the water, she'd been waiting. It tickled her brain every now and then like electric snaps, to want to know how far her creations had gotten, which of the three Masters had already met their demise--but Farina knew how to be patient. She had to be patient for years. Another cycle or two were just the blink of an eye for her.

The difference was that now, she wasn't waiting in endless, scalding agony. With her legs tucked up against the fuschia carapace of her old, cracked, damaged body. With her claws starving and chattering, waiting for the silhouette of somebody to peer over the lip of her chamber above.

She had fed exorbitantly the moment she made it to Fornax. Now, in her murky nest, where blood in the sand and silt stained the water, Farina was alone. Tiny dust-shaped organisms were the only ones safe enough to float past. She had gorged for days and still didn't feel satisfied. She wasn't sure she ever would. Not until the ones she hunted--for revenge, not food--were slain too. She waited, patient, salivating metaphorically, and alone; but oh, it wouldn't be for long. She would make it safe for Artio. Then... she would find Artio. Then they could begin their work again. Without the inconvenience of traitors.

It could have been a state of sleep, but in spite of waiting, Farina could never lull herself into rest. No. Nothing could ever be laid to rest in her. Her mind was static on the screen, every blurry pixel another vengeance, another face, another monster she was planning, another great demise she was orchestrating. While she sat there, she pondered and schemed. She never rested.

A voice arrived, but it wasn't who she anticipated. One of her monsters? One of her hunted? Not even another one of the Masters, who surely had to be awake and alive--but a creation. Master Farina, it called to her. I am Vargas. She remembered and burned. Now a Master in the caves.

A Master?

Since when?

This was an insult.

To think that whoever held dominion over the caves now--was it Creator himself, or Lord Dhracia, or somebody else?--would grant that degenerate the power of the Masters--it was humiliating. That this is what had become of their livelihood. Who did Vargas replace? Her? Was this just another part of Tamulus and Jupiter and Nemean's plan? Did Tamulus know that she was free, did he send Vargas here to slay her where her original cohorts were too cowardly, or maybe just too weak to?

She had only just gotten free. She wasn't going to be imprisoned again.

Farina launched herself out from her muddy burrow, skirting the bed of Fornax then swimming skyward, until the elephantine crab was nearest the surface. From above, they would see just the ripple of the water--perhaps a shine of ominous pink in the low light--before a lashing of magic would erupt from the waves, aiming for Vargas.

@Hjalmar

The creation expected many things, honestly, to come from this.

as he listened to vargas introduce himself, he expected master farina to ask questions. maybe, possibly, even be angry hjalmar asked for help.

as the water bubbled and rippled with light, he suspected she could be casting some sort of spell, to watch out? to see if hjalmar had brought enemies, or succeeded? if vargas was truly who he said he was?

Hjalmar was not expecting the sudden blast of magic, resembling that of a ghostly claw, directed straight at vargas.

"m-mASTER VARGAS, MOVE!" he cried out. he knew he couldn't reasonably take that hit, it was aiming several feat above his head, and to even reach it he'd need to practically climb the leviathan.

"Master Farina, please, he's here to help, i assure you!" he tried to cry to his master, why was she doing this?! vargas was no traitor, surely!

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

He saw that frothing gulp of sea as it dipped to take in the sudden vacuum beneath it, and then the brief gleam of malevolent pink-violet that he knew so well: so close to the hue of his own skin, the color of so many of the cave's greater creations, the seemingly-preferred shade of chaos. And despite Hjalmar's warning, Vargas had no time to avoid this strike. No way to. This was a lashing magic, one reaching for him, gripping his very cells; this was not a blind hit that he could leap aside from, and avoid.

He jerked nonetheless, claws sending the gravel rolling as he flinched, pulling back and away--but no, the magic had hit and already he could feel unwellness coiling up through him, through his gut, through his limbs. Faint panic sent his heart thudding: how bad would it be? Would he stumble, pass out, fall; would he fade into his chrysalis, only to have it torn away? For the briefest of instants he wondered if Hjalmar had been in on this, the bait, the lure, but no. It had warned him, and had no reason to--it could've been gone already, fleeing the scene and leaving him to die.

Vargas-... sneezed.

He hesitated, then, the briefest of instants, trying to summon up that magicka that had been infused to make him a master. This was not his element. He could not purge her sickness, but perhaps he could hold it at bay long enough to find out what the hell was going on.

Toxic eyes lifted to narrow at the roiling waters, and he calculated his chances, briefly. In the water, he had none. He'd not penetrate that shell with any ease, even on land. Her claws could drag him down, cut him apart; she could breathe there, he could not. He had to stay clear of the water. And here? She could reach him with her magic. And he did not use his. Always my weakness, he thought irritably, memories of airborne dragons thrumming through his mind.

"What is WRONG with you?" he bellowed, stepping swiftly backward, farther from the shore. A spell of dizziness washed over him, weakness, his magic still curling back at it, battling it far too weakly. "I came to inform you that those you seek to end are dead, bar one. And to ask why that one is on your list. Or have you betrayed, as well-? Are you not working for the benefit of the same nest that I am?" For an instant, rage welled up in him, a snarl fighting to cross his face--lips too rigid to support such a gesture. But the feeling was there. The urge to shout at her, full of frustrated fury, to tell her that he and he alone had been keeping this nest from destruction, the past few cycles.

Ahh, the egotism; if only he'd known how insignificant he--this whole place--really was, but he did not. The work was there, though, laid before him, and to every side he saw the others failing, or disregarding their duty, or simply not caring.

Or, betraying.

Never mind the shame and stigma of his-...

"Are we allies, or are we not? I am not here to waste my time; I am here for the benefit of our work. Unless my work is no longer yours." Always to the point--but this time, with venom in it. And all respect for what should have been his fellow Master, suddenly gone.

Her own creation cried as her fury vented into open air, not delighted by the attack on this disgrace, but warning. Water swelled at the shore, the push and pull of a claw—TRAITORS, ALL OF THEM, EVEN MY OWN CREATIONS—rising from a side. The muffled gunshot snap of it reverberated through the waves. Prokaryotes swarmed, bubbling and festering around a putrid magenta carapace. Farina set her limbs beneath her, preparing to lurch from the water entirely—

Oh, but the insult recovered, bellowed, claimed her faults. Watch the dial turn from a simmer to a ravenous boil as the crustacean rose further from the depths; the rippling reflection of light-on-water was visible, clear as day, and all those pustules and barnacles lingering on her shell. Putrescent-glowing eyes glared with such a persistent rage. This Vargas was a damnable fool—no Master so new to the title would broker the might to speak down. Insult. Disgrace. CONTEMPTIBLE.

The waters would bleed green the second her claw broke the water—

Yet, yet, yet—he promised information, allyship—like her Master-slaying creation had cried out. Another muffled claw-snap echoed from down below. The limb's ugly grimace set just above the waves, blurring into a facsimile of mercy before retreating. Tamalus, Jupiter, Nemean—SIMMER, SIMMER, SIMMER.—two gone to an end? Destroyed beyond recognition, beyond regeneration? Reduced to the primordial sludge from whence they'd come?

There was no delight in that fact. No, no, she would not believe it. If not by her command, her will, then whose? "WHERE ARE THEIR STONES, THEN?" she roared into the conscience of both hounds, "THE VERY SUBSTANCE THAT ONCE MADE THEM?" No vile celebration—no, no, she would not believe it until they had been presented. "WHO HAS AT LAST PUT THOSE VIPERS TO DEATH?" Had those stains upon His cave been wiped away at last, as one clears the side of a railcar of graffiti? Had their Lord Dhracia or Creator at last realized their being the root of all wrong? Oh, if she'd only seen the day those reviled beasts—

"THEY TRAPPED ME IN THE MAW, SURRENDERED ME TO THE WILES OF TIME, BETRAYED ME AND THIS NEST," the waves rocked as she did, lapping at heels and elbows alike unless either valkhound moved away, "WHICH ONE REMAINS? WHICH ERRANT FOOL?"

Then, at last: "WHO ALLOWED YOU TO WEAR THAT TITLE?"

@Hjalmar

he cowered- he hated cowering, but the might and rage radiating from his master was so great he could near taste it. the water grew green and he feared for the worst. to think only hours before, he was perfectly ready to find and kill this nemean.

when it all came to a pause, and farina asked her... questions, he debated keeping his mouth shut, for almost all of which he didn't know the answer to, but one. "Nemean, Master Farina. she is the only surviving target. i have not heard from my siblings since i departed your assignment, so i am unaware if they know of their target's demise" he spoke. his words trembled, only slightly, betraying the attempt at calm in his tone.

he looked up to Vargas, hoping for answers. the waved lapped at his claws and he moved away, hissing as purple flames lit only moments in his startle. the whispers were murmuring, nothing coherent. the council was just as confused as he was.

He didn't want to be a traitor, but when faced with the dilemma of whether or not his master was one herself or not, he couldn't possibly make that judgement yet.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

The rage did not abate.

Not his; not Farina's. She was at least speaking, and so he responded in kind--no battle of titans was forthcoming, not immediately at least. But his own fury--the leashed and bestial wrath of a Leviathan--filled his words with his own acid, his own form of bubbling rage. His had not been born of simmering heat, but arduous work, toil beneath his Masters' commands for centuries. She had had her era of command; now she dared complain that she'd been tricked, trapped, complacent-?

He hardly noticed Hjalmar's words, the Valkhound's attempts at reasoning. They were admirable enough, but Vargas's attention was on Farina's snapped fury. "LORD DHRACIA HAS CLAIMED THEM," he roared back, with all the authority Her name carried resonating in every syllable. If Farina took issue: let her take it up with their Lord. Let her challenge her for restitution. "Nemean remains, and she was my Master. I would see proof of her betrayal," he added, in a tone of demand, with the congestion of Farina's sickness adding a roughness to his words. If Farina insisted Nemean had turned traitor, Vargas wanted evidence. It wasn't that it was unbelievable that Nemean throw discord around like a flashing light, for the fun of it; it was that this Nest held its purposes, and Nemean truly turning on them was abhorrent to him. He had to know, for sure, before he took this to Astraea.

"As to who allowed me to wear this title," Vargas went on, drawing himself up to his full and angry height--he paced forward two steps, not close to the lapping foam but looming nonetheless, regardless of Farina's own immense carapace. "THE CREATOR HAS RESHAPED ME." Let her challenge that, any more than she would challenge His Hand. Never mind the other, simpering Master who'd put him up to the job--the laziness that had decreed a replacement would be needed. His Creator had reshaped him: in power, if not in form.

"THE COMPLACENCY IN THIS NEST WAS DISGUSTING," he went on, and suddenly he was giving vent to fury he'd long held, to opinions he'd never dared voice as Overseer. "Betrayals! Lazy sleep! All work, stopped!" a clawed hand gestured in disgust. "One Master missing, another trapped away in, what, a hole?" Venom dripped from his words. "We will return to our WORK." Vargas's all-important creed. "And that is WHY I AM HERE. Because first, I need to know--I require proof!--that one of our Masters is yet a traitor."

His voice dropped. Softer. Menacing. Undoubtedly Farina would not care. Vargas did not care. It was how he felt: furious. If Nemean had truly turned, he would be angry even with her: she had no right. Her games had a line they should not cross, in his mind. And if they were more than games-? If she played her little wretched moves to her own tune, now, to another's goals? "Do you have that proof?" he asked.

Lord Dhracia. Contemplation, in the bubbling froth. A glimpse of soothing balm (justice served) was weighed, one side of a scale, against the long-awaited fury of revenge. Would she accept that punishment had already been meted out? Granted by another's hand? (Hand?) Would she settle, calm, return to something like peace?

While her carapace still filled with water through its boiled holes, while her Artio, her Leaf, still lay dead somewhere-? BETRAYED? For a moment, that opportunity shone before her: the possibility that all had been righted, that wrongs were now past, that justice had been served.

But-... no. NO. She had waited too long for this. She wanted-... she needed-... revenge, she needed-... Nemean. Another gunshot clack of pincers, and violent fuschia rose again from the water, the immense misshapen legs clicking forward, dragging her toward Vargas, and were her chittering mouthparts grinning-? Could they grin?

"NAMES will not save you," she spat. Lord Dhracia. Creator. They could form what they wished, but if she chose to destroy him, this Nest would not suffer. She was here now, after all. She was putting plans in motion. But-...

Forward, she lurched: immense shell rising higher, farther, dragging with a horrid screech along the pebbles. "YOU WISH PROOF?" she asked, and cackled. Hissed. Screamed? "COME AND TAKE IT, THEN. VIEW IT IN ME. GLIMPSE MY PAST. PEER INTO WHAT I HAVE SEEN. TOUCH ME, AND SEE IT: IF YOU DARE!" Would he be so bold-? So bold as to dare to lay a limb on her, with her spine-rending claws so close?

The challenge was laid out, and the Master waited, the silence stretching as she stared the Leviathan down. He was large: but he was soft, and he was sickened. She did not fear him. But he was also not her concern.

No... that dubious honor belonged to Nemean--that little shit of a monster, who Farina would see writhe and die before her.

@Hjalmar

Hjalmar looked between both of the masters, the loud noises hurting his head. he came to vargas for help, and he's only been able to watch his master attack another, and even now he's not sure of what occured, or what he's supposed to be doing here.

he didn't have anything to say. all of this was up to vargas, and if he couldn't do anything, then well... not much he can do about that.

he sat back, watching dutifully. he would wait until asked to speak or act.

@Vargas