ORIGIN

V-Onyx-Two listened with his customary scowl, the expression by now wholly meaningless past habit. Behind it, there was nervousness--he had to prove himself, he had to--and amazement at Skahan. The creature's bulk and power were immense, impressive. But half of his mind was distracted: in this heat, the sickles in his hand were growing hotter by the minute. He fidgeted, trying to maintain the whole 'angel of death, reaper of sand or whatever' image until his palms burned--at which point he at last capitulated and tucked them back in their leather loops. The wisp that orbited the first sickle circled idly at his hip.

The mention of a chosen reward, however, spiked his adrenaline far harder than taking on a momentous task, seeing Skahan at work, or even the opening of a new cave. He had always carried a deep insecurity with him. Born into a throng of monsters, one of the weakest among the clan, soft and hairless and without the jaws or talons of the rest-... He bore himself with disdain and arrogance as if to assume a greater power than he bore, and all the while hid himself--as now--in cloaks and hoods. Could the Masked Merchant change all that..? If he wanted a monstrous form, like the rest--could that be attained? Yet some part of him rebelled--defiant, a snarl in his mind that he was perfect as he was. A reaction cultivated by his own insecurity, of course, but... it left him uncertain. Lost. His hands hung limply at his hips, silver eyes staring not at the Merchant but through him. Possibilities ran rampant through his thoughts. A cold sweat, despite the heat, prickled at his skin.

When he strode up to the Masked Merchant, it was with a false air of authority and confidence: back high, head up, eye contact direct. Beneath it, the sweat was chilling and his heart was racing. He raised a hand, and in that moment the success or failure of his power would determine his fate: whether he would have the confidence to believe he was worth what he desired... or a failure to crush him into asking for a lesser prize. As it stood, his power proved his worth--at least to himself. A blazing ball of light, briefly brighter than even Hydra's desert 'sun,' formed in his palm like a little star. He held this up, staring at the Merchant (with the thrill of his own strength, his own success) and fed it to the gem. "I would like a task. A title. Something official, and something important. I will have a name, after this," he added, in some arrogance. "...One I have not yet chosen. But if you have work beyond..." and here he paused only briefly. He couldn't really bad-mouth the Forge in front of what might well be a Master--he didn't know for sure the Merchant's rank or power. He couldn't say, "beyond sitting in Draco training pointlessly." His eyes cut to the Zoisite, empty--and to Garnet-Epsilon, giving away nothing of his thoughts. "Beyond the Forge. On its behalf but outside of Draco. I will take it." A gamble, yes--was it something he would even want? But his desire for authority and power, to prove himself without the need for slogging through Draco's drudgery...

He wanted that.

Only belatedly did he think to ask, "What is this place we're opening? What was its--what is its purpose?" Because, obviously, it was being reinstated. "If it's not possible for me to work here, I would like a report to be given directly to Master Vargas which describes my performance here. Mine, and theirs," he added, with a dour glance to his Forge-mates.

He assumed the description would be praise. That they'd earn it. The Merchant reporting back directly would imply they'd done better than expected. Of course, if any of them failed... well. It was a risk V-Onyx-Two would take.

He awaited a response (should one be forthcoming) and then turned away, heading stiff-backed from the desert. He, for one, would search elsewhere. This place was too damn hot for someone draped in black.