He was half-grown, now. Some six feet tall, coated in smooth, black fur and, elsewhere, in rigid scale-like skin. Often he stood at the exit of Draco, within the breathing, pulsing Aperture, staring out at nothing. He was to guard, and he was doing that: and training. Learning.

Learning to stand, for hours, doing nothing. Learning to look out of the tunnel exit, mind half-empty.

The whispers of Chaos curled ever through his mind, a black and twisting thing, serpentine and smoky. The whispers, too, were echoed--no, twinned--in the black metal of the halberd that he gripped, too large for his youthful height. It dwarfed him. The whispers themselves became visible around him, in a way; Corruption, with its dark smoke, licking at his form, at his feet, shrouding him.

He had learned to both ignore them, and to listen to them, all at once--for they were his only company here in the voidlight, and at the same time, he could not let them distract him. For the first couple weeks of life, they had held no meaning for him: most of the time, they were wordless sounds, hissing and flicking in his ears. At times, they did hold words, but these were always incitements to violence. He listened, and at times he felt the tug at the very core of all the fibers of his being (a chaotic form, a corrupted form), but he did not obey.

In time, with only these sounds as his company, he had begun to imagine (as was only natural) words where there were none. The constant sibilant whispers seemed to come together in places, nonsensical sounds creating half-heard instructions.

The Sentinel did not obey these, either, but he paid indifferent attention, the way one might strive to understand a distant, but uncompelling, music drifting across the space of midnight air.

Now, he had something new: a small metal pocketwatch, an overlay of gears and stars in dull, dark metal over its thick glass. It hung on a similarly dull chain, and the Sentinel had found that if he wound it, it would tick: a quiet, constant sound, both a distraction from and a complement to the whispers.

At times he would take it from where he'd hung it--on his halberd, or around his neck--and look at it, watching the little black hand jitter its life away, counting every second of passing, lost-forever time. Time that he spent here, watching nothing else: but did that matter?

His time was--would be--infinite.

Would it not?

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas had many things to keep track of, but the training of the most recent generation was still high on his list. That "generation" mostly consisted, now, purely of The Sentinel--of V-Onyx-One. With Overseer Orthoclase-Alpha most likely out of the picture, for a time, Vargas wished to get an idea of how the Onyx was progressing. It was almost easy--almost a relief--to settle back from the concerns of a Master to the relative ease (through familiarity, if nothing else) and interesting challenge of Overseeing. Get an idea of his abilities. How far his training has progressed. What techniques it knows. Strengths, weaknesses. Plan further training from there. That was his general thought process as he approached the Aperture-... and there, he paused.

In the distance, he could see it only barely: a black shape against the dark, the void-light doing more to hide it than to illuminate its form. The faint blue glow of eyes and jaws was half-hidden by the coiling, smoky darkness that shrouded it. There was something sad about that figure, something poetically tragic even to the relatively indifferent Master's mind. It stood alone, a child, without question, without complaint, accepting a life of standing in the dark with no compunctions. This was its existence. And its predecessor-? Vargas remembered it. He hadn't known it--only seen it in passing. But it had struck him strongly enough to request that its stone be recovered. A Gembound, yes--but the first he'd seen truly touched by the Creator's hand. One oily, smoky, but wholly self-controlled. There'd been a capacity for explosive power in it, but it had been a dutiful guardian of a thing. A dog, in its former life, though Vargas didn't know that--nor would he have known what a "dog" was, regardless.

He knew nothing of their loyalty, their faithful guardianship, their patient care.

But he had seen potential, and it seemed to be echoed in this one. If only the Orthoclase had been recovered, he thought, grimly. He'd have given up the onyx a dozen times over to get that stone alone. Not only for Orthoclase-Alpha--he really did not know if Elyon's survival would even have affected her child's well-being--but for the power and utility of its design. A second Orthoclase... perhaps one with a stronger mind... might have been useful, he thought.

He had this Onyx, though, and he would see now if its design was at all worthwhile. The Leviathan lurched back into motion, long strides taking him toward the creature in the dark.

"Onyx-One. 'Sentinel.'" Vargas turned, looking down the empty tunnel.

No one ever passed this way. It was a dead end, in more ways than one. Toxic eyes shifted back to the Sentinel, looking it over. It was growing swiftly: tall, lanky, signs of both its parents in its form. And it looked back at him with that blank obedience he had come to associate with it: a dutiful, unquestioning nature, an "awaiting of orders" that seemed to encompass its entire personality.

"Your Overseer, Orthoclase-Alpha, is away for the time being. I will take over, for now, your training. Tell me what it has taught you," he said, and then thought this over. Yes, that was good. "We will begin with that."

He turned, as the Master approached, as the Master called out his name. The Sentinel was a mostly fearless being--he was missing some necessary piece in a regular living being, some instinctive preservation instinct that would shout 'flee,' that would warn of danger. Yet still there was some tingling knowledge--despite the fact that Vargas had never threatened him--that the Leviathan was potentially deadly. It was a distant sort of wariness that crept up on him, that murmured through the whispers and into his watching ears.

The Sentinel listened, taking note of each word, the pocketwatch ticking in one open hand and the oversized halberd held in the other. His gaze, though, remained fixed firmly on Vargas. Overseer Orthoclase-Alpha is gone. Master Vargas will take over. Report.

The Sentinel looked down at the pocketwatch for a moment--with its false metal sky--and snapped it shut, hanging it carefully back around his neck. He then turned fully to face his Master, dredging up the Orthoclase's lessons and laying them out verbally in a neat row for the Leviathan to see.

"Master Vargas," he began, in his bass, rasping rumble. "Overseer Orthoclase-Alpha has taught me to fight, with hands, and feet, and a weapon. It has taught me not to kill. Places to hit, without killing. This is not what the whispers tell me to do," he mused aloud, but pushed on immediately afterward. "Except when a thing is large, and dangerous. Then it has taught me where to hit, to kill it. It has taught me of the eyes, and the throat. Of the thigh. Of the back. Of the joints and limbs. To cripple, and to injure. It has taught me how to deal with magic, as it can. How to stop a magician's focus. It has taught me to restrain, and to call for help. This is what it has taught me," he finished.

Each word had been slow, but precise. Thought out. This was the list of its training--the Orthoclase had, perhaps, been somewhat lax in its apparent depression (not that the Sentinel knew anything of that) but it had certainly laid a solid groundwork in the basics.

Now, he waited, to see what Vargas would instruct that he do next.

- THE LEVIATHAN -

The black skull-face spoke to him, expressionless, eyes as empty as its head seemed to be. That wasn't to say it was stupid--it didn't strike Vargas that way, not by any means--but it was emotionless, a hollow, empty vessel to fill as he saw fit.

He was not sure if that was a good thing, or bad. At least it wasn't disobedient, but he missed a little fire. I should encourage that, he thought absently, tucking that away on his extensive "to do" list: "figure out how to make the kids fiery without being assholes."

The rest of his assessment was simple enough: Orthoclase had taught it some solid basics, and it was obedient and had retained this information. Now to see if it could put it into practice, then. Vargas knew that he wasn't the optimal sparring partner; his mind at once went to Ruby-Beta, but the Ruby was nowhere to be seen. He'd have to do this himself, then, and see how well it had turned out. He knew, vaguely, what Chaos-Two had taught this one, too--but it was the fighting that was of interest to him.

"We'll spar, then. Fight me as you would a real enemy," he added; "I won't cause you serious injury. Try not to do serious damage, either. But I need to test your skills, and from there we will decide how best to work with you."

Vargas turned, pacing a few steps away, and then looked to the Sentinel--so pitifully dwarfed by his presence. He sighed a little, internally--not audibly-; this would not be a useful battle, really. But hopefully it'd give him a half-decent starting point, assuming he could properly pull his punches.

"Whenever you are ready, you may begin."

The Sentinel peered up at Vargas. There was no real sinking in its stomach, or the like: merely a straightforward assessment that he could not win this battle. Or rather, that his chances were exceedingly low. Vargas was double his height or more merely on all fours, hunched over; never mind his bulk. His reach was immense and a single strike from one of those arms could likely kill the Sentinel. For that matter, the larger of Vargas's arm-spines were nearly as long as he was tall.

He had a halberd, for what that was worth--but it alone was not enough.

The Sentinel, despite his reticent nature, was not a stupid being. Already his mind was calculating, gears too-often stagnant grinding into motion. Trickery, his mind was whispering; maneuvering.

He lifted his halberd, holding it as he'd been taught--not perfectly, but well enough--and turned to face the Master. And without hesitation, he launched an attack from his half-grown, six-foot height: a lunge, halberd out, intending to draw Vargas into a dodge or a grab to the Sentinel's right.

A feint, in the end--but would the Master see through it?

Round: 1/5
Attempt: Feint right with the halberd
Defense: none. negative defenses. smol.
Injuries: --

- THE LEVIATHAN -

It did not respond--it gave him, in fact, zero warning. Obedient- was the single wry thought he managed, before the halberd was thrust toward him. Easy enough to dodge, he thought; a swift movement to the side and he'd simply avoid the strike.

The blade whistled by, and Vargas had time to reflect that it had been too telegraphed, though he didn't attribute enough cunning to the Onyx to even guess that it had been fakery. Young, he thought, forgivably forgiving, untrained. He'd have to teach it how to use more skill, in maneuvering, and less brute force.

Round: 1/5
Attempt: Sidestep
Defense: Just Big.
Injuries: --

No sooner had Vargas moved than the Sentinel reversed direction, swinging the halberd entirely around his body as quickly as he could. The head was heavy, the entire weapon too large for him, so that the momentum that it picked up on its swing was not unlike a shotput hurl.

The axe-blade hurtled around for Vargas's right side, then, and the Sentinel did not hold back: he had no reason to. In his mind, this would not be serious injury... it was unlikely, at least, to cut the Leviathan's limb clean off. But he aimed his blow as best he could for the elbow joint, intending to smash it, to cripple the Master, even to break his limb: to do enough damage right off the bat to give himself an advantage.

'Fight me as you would a real enemy,' the Master had said, and the Sentinel simply obeyed.

Round: 2/5
Attempt: Smash Vargas's right elbow with the halberd blade
Defense: none
Injuries: --

- THE LEVIATHAN -

To say he was surprised was an understatement. His estimation of the hound's spawn ticked up a sharp notch as the relentless assault turned into trickery: a savage blow swinging around on the heels of Vargas's own dodge. He planned that- Vargas had a split-second to realize.

Had it been a seasoned opponent, he might've realized; but from a near-child, he hadn't expected it, and he was both impressed and startled. Not only that, but he had time, if barely, to note that Alpha must have done a rather good job at teaching it.

That was all, though, that the Leviathan really had time for: the blade was crashing for his elbow, and he barely had time to leap slightly to the side, enough to lessen the blow, enough to snag--with a glancing, clumsy grasp--the halberd's haft in the six thumbs of his left hand shortly after.

He jerked this, then, aiming to tear it free from the Sentinel's grip, with a grunt. He'd kept his arm from being crippled, at least, but a distant portion of his mind noted that the hit had still--if barely--connected, and it would have been a good hit.

Round: 2/5
Attempt: Riposte: block the halberd, and then steal it
Defense: --
Injuries: --

And just like that--quite abruptly--he was put on the defensive. Vargas was simply too fast, too agile, despite his bulk; the blow was merely glancing, and then the Master was snatching for the haft of his weapon.

The Sentinel knew instinctively that if he lost his weapon, he lost, too, any advantage that he held: physically, Vargas was simply too large and powerful, and the Sentinel's natural weaponry comparatively nonexistent. Even if Vargas lay helpless and still at his feet, it would take real effort to finish him off without a weapon: his claws were not that long, his jaws not that strong, not against something the Master's size.

Your spines, he thought--or was it the whispers, insisting it to him? If he lost his weapon, he could attempt to use, perhaps, the spines across his forelimbs. Was that doable-? Could he kill, with these?

Perhaps he would find out, but not now: he dropped the halberd's weight to the ground, letting it crash into the rock with a ring, so that Vargas's grab for it swung over it--and his thumbs gripped only empty air.

Round: 3/5
Attempt: Dodge the grab
Defense: --
Injuries: --

- THE LEVIATHAN -

This thing continued to surprise. Its reactions, he noted, were exceedingly quick: it held a lightning-fast combat thinking that would serve it well.

A strength, he noted, putting that on his mental list: "quick thinking."

Now it was time to go on the offensive: it had left itself open, in a way, in fighting to keep its weapon (which, on its own, was not a bad decision). Vargas gave no warning; he barely crouched before he sprang, almost spider-like, for the far smaller target. If he hit, he would grip it, pin it, crush it to the ground, and see what it did from there.

Were this a real fight, he'd have then gone for the kill--but for now, simply incapacitating it would do.

Round: 3/5
Attempt: Leap to pin Sentinel down
Defense: --
Injuries: bruised elbow :(