ORIGIN

"There really is no need to shout," crooned a voice from a few yards back.

He was there--he hadn't been, before--leaning back against a tall pile of bones that Vanyel had walked by. He held some silvery implement to his claws, filing them this way and that, but after a moment crimson pinprick eyes beneath the hood raised to regard the half-dragon.

"I am the Collector; what is it that you... desire?" That final word seemed to hold whole realms of promise.

Weapons? Power? Admiration? Worship?

The Collector could grant whatever Vanyel wanted.

The Collector stared.

"...Charismatic. Yes," he 'agreed,' his tone utterly empty. He could hardly laugh at a new customer, now, could he-? Not to their face, at least. Well, he could, but it would be bad for business. He could not tell this stranger that they looked like a beautiful humanoid horrifically hybridized with a terribly ugly fish-tail and strange wings. The horns--those were all right. But charismatic-?

He was aware, of course, of the irony; of goat's hooves and horns, of stinking black fur. But charisma was demeanor, and thus far this creature was nothing but blunt.

It was cute, when they thought themselves so much more than they were. He thought again of broken, crumbling clay, swept away and forgotten.

The Collector smiled, beneath his hood. He reached out one clawed hand to delicately shake Vanyel's own. "We in these caves seem to be terribly lacking in charisma," he said smoothly. "Of course, I am open to trade--though my trades are not free," he went on, withdrawing his hand after offering his firm, yet delicate, handshake. "Please, join me."

A hand swept to one side, indicating open ground; two chairs were produced with a flourish of his limbs, set down half facing one another, half looking out over the expanse of Canis and its bones. "Music," the Collector began, "is something of a passion of my own. Unfortunately, I have traded away perhaps my most powerful instrument, already; but there are others you might find of interest. But tell me: why does music interest you?"

Hands worked swiftly, drawing out a small table, his porcelain tea set (was that bone porcelain-? Most likely) and a steaming porcelain kettle. It was already heated; how, was not at all clear. "Tea?" he then asked, and now were produced the little spoons, the saucers, the sugar cubes in a tiny white bowl--and, of course, a little cream.

The Collector loved these little charades. Look at them; they think they're people.

' It can change the emotions of whoever hears it! If you sing of sadness and grief, then that is what your audience will feel. If you sing of joy and content, then they will feel that too. Music is the beating of your heart and birds singing in the trees.'

The Collector sat patiently through the entirety of Vanyel's speeches, offering out the cup of tea and sipping at his own. He showed no signs of impatience; indeed he offered little nods, here and there, thoughtful tilts of his head. Internally, he was reflecting that this creature truly loved to hear itself talk, and that perhaps this might be something to take note of...

"Beautifully spoken," he began, after Vanyel had at last wound his poetic notions to a close. "Though I would like to begin with correcting a misconception. I do not create items of any kind, and I certainly do not hand out misery-! I simply collect, you see--it's in the name--and trade. The details of enchantments are not always known to me... I am hardly omniscient, my well-spoken friend." He offered a gentle shrug as he took another, longer sip of his own tea. One hoof delicately bobbed where the leg hooked over the other. "If something... darker... ever comes through my hands-? Well. Buyer beware, as they say," he said, and the glint of smile-bared fangs was briefly visible past his hood. "Regrettable, of course, but... certainly not deliberate."

The last of the tea was drained, still steaming hot; the cup was set back in its pristine saucer, and clawed fingers were interlinked across his chest. "Now: everything that I offer is, of course, in trade; and so I have a question for you. Two, in fact, my dear Vanyel. -What a lovely name, by the way. First, what is it that you offer me, in turn? And second, strings, percussion, or wind-?" His head tilted to one side, curiosity shining in his crimson pinprick eyes.

Or was that ambition, perhaps-? Or greed?

...little packages of colorful candy.

He spoke, tone soft and even, gaze unblinking. "You are not... mocking me, I trust..? That would be..." the Collector paused, as if searching for a word, warmth bled out of his demeanor to leave an empty stare and a thoughtful tap of his claws against one another. "...terribly rude."

He let this hang, for a moment, and when Vanyel moved on, he did not regain his prior friendliness. If there'd been humor in the phrasing of the 'story,' he showed no acknowledgment of it.

A pause, thought, and he shrugged gently. "Bring me the hand of the one who crafts your carvings," he said, at length, "and I will grant you a musical treasure beyond your wildest dreams. You will be unmatched. Unforgettable. That is my offer," he said.

"Ah, well..." another drum of claws, this time against the table, "I do not believe we've progressed far enough in our relationship to offer jokes at one's expense." The Collector regarded the Vanyel with a frigid sort of indifference, though that would be difficult for pinprick red eyes to betray beneath that hood of his.

Morality. A cute little thing these sort thought they'd invented and preached to no end; and, oh, how it so frequently stood in the way of a shaken little status quo and his own dealings. Where would this Cave be if there weren't the occasional limb-stealing or grand larceny? Boring, for certain.

In short, forgive the Collector for being so blasé about the half-dragon's reaction.

"My boons must come at a price—" he crooned despite his cooling attitude toward Vanyel, "I'm trust that you're aware of the concepts of 'underselling' and 'overpaying?'" He thumbed the cup's rim. "They both mean that it would not be a fair trade."

Alas, the Collector stood with a sigh, abandoning their little soiree altogether. The slow clatter of his hooves marked his ominous sort of... circling around the table. "If you wish to turn down my initial offer, then that is fine," he hummed, "but do remember that you are in no position to be so... hostile."

Ah, but perhaps he could salvage this annoyance.

The Collector completed his loping circle, seating himself once more with a flourish and steepled fingers. "A lesser prize, then—though by no means worthless! It would bear a song so enchanting that it captures the attention of any. Appealing, no?" He paused, allowing it to sit for a moment. "It has fallen into disrepair, these days, but, ah... I can bring it to its former glory. A spit and a shine, and all that."

He leaned forward in his chair, eyes glinting once again in the light. "Your end of the bargain would be to bring me those who are gifted with song. One or two might suffice, if their voices are strong. And, of course... the more, the merrier. A chorus might be quite a delight." Palms clapped together. "What say you to this?"