The faces that came and went became a blur to him, eyes set on his work with a fanatical endearment. Only now did he take the time to give his king that attention, eager for a response, eager for approval, if not praise. Witches as children, taking on apprenticeships as teens, and pairing their crafts to create hollow soldiers late into their adulthood, the lives of vitamancers was cluttered and without rest. And even then, rarely did few have the years to become masters, such a title was reserved for prodigies. They toyed with life by nature, even if there was no sure answer where this power came from in today's day and age, as the religion of his people continued to fade with time. Orsa only took that truth past the boundaries set for them by the school. It was a cruel art, and so-called necromancers were the only ones that seemed to embrace that.<br/><br/>"It is but a hound." Orsa retorted, a note of irritation in his voice. He gave a soft huff of a laugh, as if he were a teacher replying to the inexperienced quips of his student. All the while he had lowered himself again to his knees, rolling the same curious force that leaked out of his beast's chest through his fingers, like a coin almost. He dipped his head with a tilt and set both hands on the stone, the air trapped under his palms whistling in tune to that of the monster. It seemed halfway started, rapidly clacking it's metal jaw and backing up into each corner whenever it paced forward to bump into the cell bars. The vitamancer looked as if he'd nearly lost it, on his hands and knees like a dog all his own.<br/><br/>Even so close to the ground he raised his voice so that it'd catch Mendoza's ears, "The control a man has over these is nothing extraordinary... especially one that fancies itself a hound, like I said before. And you can see that for yourself. But it can still be trained and provoked, it will rip apart your enemies given the chance, and myself if I fail to keep my eyes on it. I would not trust your men with these unless you find other vitamancers, in which case they're really the same as beast armors. The only difference is the construction, and the assembly time." He leaned up and stopped tormenting the poor thing, which had calmed down considerably and likely due to confusion, or caution.<br/><br/>A dreary sigh crossed Orsa's lips, reminding himself of less war-trodden days. "You may not have seen those, hollow armors. The carapace of man, dog, horse. They were the first to go when the war tore them apart. Then we replaced steel with stone and iron, ugly things." He set his eyes back on the caged monster, which clattered against the ground as it searched for a place to collapse, less intimidated by lack of movement in the room. "I suppose many might find these even more horrid..."<br/><br/>Standing again, this time for good. He could not dwell on imperfections any longer. For the length of time given, he should've been more than satisfied. But truly it was up to Mendoza to decide whether such services were in his best interest... If Orsa failed, he could only imagine the sort of crazed recluse he'd turn into. Stealing the spoils of battles and flocking to whatever pit he took refuge in, likely falling victim to one of his own creations among his later years. Or himself, if he continued to grow a fear of age, death, the limits to his own knowledge. What was the ultimate demise of most necromancers, the pursuit of undeath.<br/><br/>"If it's a month you're given to prepare with, I could build you a hand's worth. Given one's cavity is well guarded, it's not likely that any army you face will know how to dispatch it so quickly. They'd rip through the front lines to say the least. A better question than the extent of their use to you, would be how well these rivals of yours adapt?" Just how well could a king hide a vitamancer such as him? And for how long?