ORIGIN

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He hadn't thought to really pluck at his own wings. His own feathers were relatively young, still--but maybe a few were loose? It was more than possible that some of his childhood down yet remained, nestled in among the growing primaries--and once he was safely away from thicker cover, Onyx-Two sat down and curved these wings in front of him.

The left one, first--he pulled it before him, combing fingers carefully through it, tugging gently at the softer, older feathers. Then the right; and it felt nice, felt like what he imagined preening must be like for birds. I need to take better care of these, he realized, noting a few tattered edges.

He ended up losing himself in this for awhile--and when he was done, had come away with what he imagined were the final materials he would need. And when he stood, flexing his wings outward, he noted how much better they felt--cleaner, the skin more lively. Lesson learned: take good care of your wings.

He made his way, on foot, back to the palace and left the pile of black feathers near where Mimosa was working--past that he didn't disturb them. "I'll be back with the wool," he told them, and made his way back out, basket over his forearm.

costume credit - big-ashb on flickr

black dye materials: 5/5

He was gone for some six hours. When he returned--after a long trek, a hunt, and two rests--it was with a decent armful of rather shaggily-cut wool from one of the rare Woolly Deer of Ursa.

Exhausted, he plodded in to see Mimosa. "Will this be enough?" he asked, settling the wool in the basket to one side.

He certainly hoped so, because the hunt had been anything but easy--and he most certainly did not want to repeat it.

A rest was just what he needed--and a bath. That, and one small meal later, and he found himself far less tense and weary. With a clear mind, he came back--and obediently tried on the clothing, feeling more at ease with Mimosa than he had with virtually anyone else he'd met. They were so easygoing; there was no sense of pressure on him. And they clearly loved their work.

It was good work, too, he found. Too large, for now--but that was a given; the Tailor had seen that he was young, and guessed--correctly--how much he had left to grow. The trousers, then, were turned up at the cuffs, the robe a little long, the hood hanging across his forehead. But he knew that he'd grow into it.

"Thank you. Is there anything else I need to do?" he asked, turning from where he'd slowly been spinning in front of the tailor's mirror.

He listened quietly, solemnly, and in the end offered a simple nod. "Thank you," he said again, stiffly and formally polite. "I need to go to the Blacksmith now, actually. Perhaps I will ask him." It was overly formal, again, but casual conversation was something that Onyx-Two had quite literally never engaged in.

And for a moment, he was at a loss as to how to proceed now. Were it his father, or the Master, he'd have offered a salute; as it was, after some hesitation, he settled on a low and respectful bow before backing from the room.

On to the Blacksmith, then--and his new weapons.

As Onyx-Two made his way from the Palace, he found that the clothes moved comfortably against his skin. And he found, too, that he loved the way he felt covered, concealed against prying eyes. No more were his weaknesses, his soft skin, on full display for predatory stares. A smile ticked coldly at his lips: it was one more advantage against the stronger masses of the caves.

Archon

Archon

Game Master Dark

Archon

Game Master Dark

Archon