V-Onyx-Two was looking over the new forge in Draco. He knew that his sibling, Onyx-Three, had been the one to build it, and even though they had done so with help, he couldn't help but feel... Jealous? Anxious? He couldn't quite put words to it, truth be told.
The problem was that Onyx-Three were doing, progressing. Three was a strong fighter, yet also ambitious to aid the Forge, and not in a way that spoke of power-hunger. It was genuine, and so it gained very real praise. Him?
Onyx-Two was still struggling to find his place, to catch up, to pretend he was something other than a soft, pathetic little creature with weak flesh and no natural weapons to speak of. He cloaked his softness with black cloth, and held enchanted sickles with which to fight, but he hardly knew what he was really doing yet.
Then there was the matter of the Masked Merchant. He'd been waiting now for some time for word to come back, his reward-... Where was he?
Likewise black cloth, twisted antlers, staring holes that pretended to be eyes. The Masked Merchant moved straight past Onyx-Two, and onward. "Master... Vargas..." he rasped, and his voice echoed and carried.
He paused only briefly, head half-turning, hand lifting so that one finger crooked in an indication for Onyx-Two to follow.
Vargas was not too far off--lingering vaguely nearby, as he so often did, rarely leaving Draco. The voice calling his name gave him pause, head coming up and tilting; it took him a moment to recognize it.
Now, what could they both want..?
"This one... has aided in opening Centaurus. He will be named... Emissary... to Centaurus. He will update you... on its status." Anything further, he simply didn't add.
It had been Onyx-Two's requested reward; anything else was uninteresting to him. Centaurus and Draco did not need an emissary. But it was easy enough to say the words, and it couldn't hurt to have a flow of information between the two caves.
Onyx-Two came up slightly behind, half-alongside the Merchant, and stopped. He stood more upright as he was spoken of, struggling to look impressive and dignified. It was hard. He wasn't aware that the Emissary task was entirely unnecessary. His request for a reward in aiding Centaurus had been for a large job, a title, a responsibility outside of Draco. This, the idea that he'd actually have work to do, was somehow startling... and he quickly struggled to assimilate the information.
He felt like he didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve anything, really. So he'd scrabble and pretend and take it, pretend he was good enough, pretend he'd really earned it.
He hadn't. What had he done-? Gathered a couple lost gemstones, cast a few spells..? In no way did that justify a title or a real job. "Rock collector," maybe, but Emissary-?
He tipped his chin up, looked Vargas in the eyes, and didn't say a damn word. He'd be the Emissary, and he'd pretend.
Vargas blinked.
This was the first he was hearing about this--about any of this--and he had to take a moment to run it all over in his mind. When he spoke, it was slowly and carefully.
An instant later a thought occurred to him. He'd gotten a gift, recently: a whisper of magic from outside the cave, wished to him by Zoisi--
He didn't consider it for long. It would do more good than harm, and it was within his rights, so far as he was concerned. If anything, it'd be irresponsible not to check.
He glanced to Onyx-Two, pulling on that magic that resided in the little ring now punched through his left ocular horn's tip. Emotions crashed into him, through him, and for an instant he felt that familiar drowning.
Anxiety. Insecurity. Near-panic.
He dismissed it at once, struggling not to show how badly these sensations--so alien to him, particularly as strong as they were--rocked him. Not that he never felt them--he did--but this was on another level entirely. He reevaluated Onyx-Two, staring for a moment. He'd thought this one so confident, arrogant even; he was dismissive, flinging jokes and insults here and there at his allies and keeping always to himself. And for a moment he was at a loss. He couldn't simply ask why the other was so nervous. To do so would probably be to genuinely panic him, breaking him into stumbling words and stammered fear.
This gift was proving useful.
He looked back to the Masked Merchant.
He didn't bother to lie. This did not interest him, these petty politics of the cave. Had Onyx-Two asked him to lie, he'd have told Vargas that he'd done so, and been uncaring as to the result.
"I will depart," he added, but paused a beat, to see if there was anything more. Then he left, turning to rustle away in a shifting of black robes.
Onyx-Two tried to remain calm. To keep that head tilted back, not to swallow hard in terror, to stare into the Leviathan's many eyes.
He wasn't sure which eyes to look into, which made it awkward. But he did his best, heart pounding in his chest, his hands--gripping the handles of his twin sickles--cold and clammy.
Master Vargas's thanks for the Merchant informing him of Centaurus' opening felt like a snub. A rightful one. His hands gripped harder, the realization that he should have said something sooner souring his gut. Failure. Failure. Unworthy.
Hatred bloomed, its old familiar heat, and prompted him to speak.
It wasn't about insecurity, or fear he'd be cast aside...
Vargas considered.
He could say nothing of what he'd sensed. Reassure Onyx-Two, and let them continue down this path, with some support.
Or he could speak up and get to the bottom of it.
He left it at that, for now, curious and thoughtful. He wouldn't lead him, or reassure him, yet. He wanted to know the truth. With that truth--assuming Onyx-Two actually provided it--he could begin to rectify the situation... or so he hoped.
Belatedly he remembered that this approach had proven disastrous with the hyena-child. But then, this creature hadn't been traumatized at an early age by visions of the past, and Vargas hunting and killing Gembounds in them.
Panic roared through him. He stared up, external facade ice--frozen in fear and that false front he always presented.
He cracked a little, a tremor of uncertainty fleeting across his face, his jaw tightening.
I'm small. I'm weak. The last weren't quite thoughts. Feelings. Things he couldn't admit to himself, not completely.
How could he phrase any of this to be less damn pathetic-?
Even if it were truth, it felt like a damned lie.