ORIGIN

A faint frown ticked at his face, though he tried to hide it--tried to stand stiffly upright, the very impression of confidence. It wasn't a very good impression, given the way he hesitated before speaking, the way he jerked slightly at each of Renasci's wing movements as if expecting an attack. His hands, too, were still too-tightly gripping the handles of his new sickles. A surge of instinctive magic came far stronger than usual as if in self-defense: a glimpse at Renasci's magic. It showed not the power of the Forge--that Oily chaos--nor the warning signs of Order. That, at least, was a relief.

"I'm three cycles old," was his defensive, defiant answer, chin tipping upward. He wasn't new. He was old. He was certain of this with all the arrogant ignorance of youth, sure that three whole entire cycles was enough to have seen the world.

Trying to still look confident, he hefted the sickles a little (for comfort more than anything) and nodded with tightened jaw toward Renasci, looking down at them in forced superiority. Never mind the fact that he could feel his heart hammering in his chest: if this one attacked, despite its slightly smaller size--if they blasted him with magic--this was the first time his father wouldn't be here to save him. "I am V-Onyx-Two of the Chaos Forge. Who are you?"

The intended snottiness in his tone came out faltering, instead, almost conversational. Onyx-Two simply hadn't had a chance to perfect rudeness.

Some of this stranger's words confused him, made him hesitate. Cold changes? he thought; he'd never heard of the caves' equivalent of seasons, before, and was far too young to have experienced them for himself. And what did bird-but-better mean-? ...Things with feathers? he hazarded, and what he perceived as foolish phrasing brought a sneer to his face, disdain flashing in his eyes. "I am a soldier," he corrected Renasci (incorrectly--he was nothing of the sort, as yet), "of the Chaos Forge." Not, he was stating emphatically, whatever a bird-but-better might be.

As for Onyx-Three--his eyes narrowed and he stared at Renasci. It might have seemed intimidating to some, but to Onyx-Two, he was worried--afraid of giving too much information away. It wasn't strictly forbidden to speak of this, but nonetheless, the sheltered child felt reluctance and suspicion. "We are half-siblings." The distinction, for whatever reason, seemed to be important.

As for his palms--he glanced down at the sickles, then back up to Renasci; where his fingers had begun to loosen on the wooden handles, they now tightened possessively, even defensively. "They are my new weapons," he declared, again proudly tipping his chin up with unearned confidence. "The weapons of a soldier."

Part of him--the part that might have blossomed into a kind and friendly creature--wanted to ask why Renasci 'stood alone;' where exactly they lived; what they did from day-to-day. But the part that had been raised coldly aloof by a cave full of monsters simply set his jaw and stared.

"Yes." The single word, again, was coldly indifferent, reeking of an arrogance the child had not earned. It was, at its core, simple insecurity. As for the rest... he set himself to explaining. Surely this, at least, was no secret-? And the more he spoke, the more at ease he felt, if only slightly; it reflected, though, in an ever-so-slightly less rude exterior. "We begin with a V-. V-Onyx-Two. The V is Master Vargas's designation. The Sentinel is my stonegiver." A hand pulled the robe aside enough to show his gemstone, an act perhaps he'd not have been so blithe about had he known the danger of a strike to one's stone, but he had not yet been taught of this. The core of onyx at his sternum was laid bare for a moment--streaked generously with pure, gleaming Oilstone. Just as quickly, it was covered, the black woolen robe pulled tight again.

"We are named for our gemstone, and numbered as to which we are. I am the second Onyx. He was the first. And yes... we can earn our names." His chin once more tipped up with pride. "I have yet to earn mine." He had yet to earn anything. And he didn't know it, but the Sentinel had never asked for a name. He'd always been a title, a purpose, from his hatching--and had never desired more.

He looked down at his weapons, when they were asked of; the Blacksmith had given him but the most basic of lessons and it was clear in the way he hefted them now. He knew how to hold them, perhaps even how to swing them and block with them, but only in the theoretical sense of one who had been shown once or twice. Muscle memory was not yet there. "Yes," was, however, all he said. And as for flying--his pale eyes cut up toward the sea stacks, then toward Renasci, suspicious somehow of some sort of trap. "No." But the spear, the bracer--those now drew his eye. And he remembered the advice of his father: to practice combat with as many strangers as he could, so as to learn how best to fight a number of techniques and weapons.

He nodded to it, feeling his heart in his throat again, fearing what he was about to say before he said it. "We can spar," he suggested. "If you like."

His pale eyes again lifted to the harpy, studying Renasci--trying to gauge their strengths and weaknesses. But Onyx-Two was too inexperienced to be able to pick much from the form of feathers and pale skin.