He'd been told of the Tailor by his father--who had, himself, done work in exchange for armor. That armor, from what little Onyx-Two had gathered, had been exchanged for something to do with his sibling, Onyx-Three. Between the confusion of those circumstances and The Sentinel's strange speech patterns, he hadn't quite gotten the full story. The gist of it, though--that the creature Mimosa, in the palace, would create clothing in exchange for work--had stuck.

The Sentinel himself was somewhere not far off, lingering. While the Forge could not simply wander at will (not until they'd earned the right), the Sentinel had permission to escort his spawn as he saw fit. While simply exploring wasn't on the list of "good reasons," finding others to spar with or upgrades to armor and weapons--or hunting for food--all were. And while this wasn't exactly "armor," it was... something close to it.

Onyx-Two, then, was plodding into the Palace now, intending to get this clothing sorted out before heading to pick up his (hopefully completed) weapons in Leo. "Hello?" he called, teenaged voice fluctuating between deep rumble and awkward squeak. Onyx-Two grimaced, hating himself (as was his proclivity) for just a moment, before pushing on. Irritation at his broken voice was short-lived, forgotten as he turned the corner to where his father said to find the Tailor. The room ahead held a loom and skeins of cloth, sequins and beads, feathers and furs. This must be it, he thought, and reached up a hand to rap knuckles on the door. "Hello?" he called again. "Tailor?"

He winced and stumbled back, keenly aware all of a sudden of just how helpless he was. Mimosa towered over him, and despite their flamboyant colors and kindly demeanor, wore the shape of a predator. And he, short and thin and unarmed... did not.

He found himself scowling at that, arms raising up subsconsciously to cross his chest, and--Colors-? "Black," he interrupted softly. A gesture accompanied this, a little confused, as he tried to interject enough to explain. "I'm with the--the Chaos Forge. I need darker colors for... hiding, scouting." That was his logic, anyway, though some part of him was determined to cling to the "black like my soul" mentality he carried around like unnecessary baggage.

He took a breath, gathering himself. "My wings are black, but my skin is too pale. Too... soft," he added, though the admission stung, the word kept hushed. "I need to hide that." The implication, he thought, should be clear enough: he had to hide what was vulnerable, unarmored, in case he had to go into battle. Best not to advertise his weak points, after all. And for stealth--darker was a necessity. His skin practically glowed in shadow.

As an afterthought, he reached his magic out to briefly touch on Mimosa's, to try and sense just what they were. They didn't strike him as the oiled violence of Chaos, coiled and snarling as it so often was, but-

-the feedback of the Palace sent him reeling. The power of this place was Chaos, all else aside, and--there was something here, something deep down that staggered him with the weight of it. Its resonance wasn't something he was either equipped or used to handling, and before he could tamp it down he was on one knee, gasping, head ringing with its power--with little memory of how he'd gotten there.

"...Very well," he offered, at last, and if it seemed stiffly professional, that was because Mimosa's friendly barrage of words bewildered him.

He'd made it back to his feet, the brief touch unfamiliar and therefore nearly unwelcome--and then he was wandering back from the palace, in a daze. The whirlwind that was the Tailor, and the scream of magic in his mind, left him stumbling blindly off toward the forests. He was dimly aware of the shadow that was his father somewhere off behind him, but he made no sign for help. He didn't need any, really, he just needed a few minutes to breathe.

Then he set about his first task, hefting the borrowed basket on his arm as he plunged headfirst into the bushes around the Palace gardens. Black berries, he thought to himself; how hard could that be?

He illuminated himself in a swathe of golden light, picking his way through the bushes, but for the time being found only thorns. To be expected, he told himself, trying his best to find patience. It was hard; he was young, yet, but no longer was he a grabby-handed child, either. Onyx-Two took a breath, and pushed further into the foliage.

The farther he dipped into void-light, the harder it was to see, let alone distinguish one dark color from the next. Onyx-Two grimaced, attempting twice to call upon the magic that would give some normal illumination to the scene around him, regardless of how desperately faint it would be.

It came, albeit weak: the faintest glimmer of golden-white glancing across the closest leaves. It didn't provide much. It was more his own pretty shimmer, and he had to lean in quite closely nonetheless to try and distinguish this blue berry from that black one.

Still, after a moment he had his first handful: most carefully plucked and settled into the basket, though two he admittedly popped into his mouth and chewed.

...They tasted surprisingly good.

They were also, he quickly realized, the wrong color: purple rather than black. He abandoned this idea, pushing along with an irritated grunt.

Eventually he stumbled, instead, upon a feather. He wasn't sure whose it had been, but a few of them tufted together indicated a fight. He picked them up, stuffing them into the basket instead (eating the berries as he went), and tried to follow the path the feather-fallen creature must have taken into the thorns.

He continued his search, after that, finding no more berries on these nearby bushes. He pressed on, using the feathers of his wings curled forward to protect himself against the thorns, shouldering his way through the foliage.

Up ahead were more patches of voidlit shadow, and again he squinted, trying to strengthen his magic somewhat. The dim glow didn't increase; his hands skidded over dark leaves, eyes seeing berries where there were none. A soft "Spire-cursed," like some sort of irritated profanity, escaped his lips as he pressed on. There was no sign, either, of any feathers: dark or otherwise, the ground and thorns were bare.

Behind him, the first soft crunch told him that the Sentinel was at his back, probably a hundred yards behind, chaperoning him. Irritation rose, and he bit it back; his father was merely guarding him, that was all.

He had, of course, meant his Spire. Draco's Spire, the Black Spire. He held it now in his mind, scowl twitching at his face, as he searched another patch of bushes. The basket caught on thorns, and he tugged it harshly free. This void-light was the same. What did it mean-? Where was it coming from..? There was no Black Spire here, not that he could see-... But what about that thing I sensed down in the Palace? Could that be it? Did mere proximity to such power generate this light? He'd always assumed the Black Spire itself had cast that ugly glow, but... maybe it wasn't so. Maybe-

He paused to adjust his magic--and this time the very dim glow gave him the faintest hint of inky black beneath some hanging leaves ahead.

Onyx-Two knelt, setting the basket in the damp earth by his side, and spent a few moments scouring the undergrowth for more of these lost feathers, adding this second handful to his basket.

He made his way toward the tunnel exit, if gradually. Tunnel E, though he'd only seen it twice, would lead to Ursa: and if he were lucky, that's where he'd find the wool he needed.

For now, he paid close attention, though, to the bushes that he passed. "This magic is too weak," he said aloud, venom in his tone, and reached for something stronger.

The faint glow around him erupted into a flash--and before he could register what had happened, coalesced into a shining orb. It was small, a first attempt at true light, but it cast a glow he could actually see by instead of the faint aesthetic shine of his previous magic. A grin twitched at his face, briefly exposing fangs. "Better," he purred, sweeping his hand out to push aside a twig, gently brushing foliage away from the black, discarded feathers he could now see. They were like an ominous omen: like his own feathers, plucked away, but that didn't occur to him.

The voidlight faded, somewhat, the farther he went on--until light was no longer strictly required. He sent the orb into the bushes and ahead, finding to his delight that he could control the thing: guiding it, moving it as he saw fit.

A few more feathers lay here, one of them stained by blood. A kill? he thought, kneeling and peering cautiously ahead, but he saw no sign of any further gore. Something a predator had taken, then, though Onyx-Two knew little of which Lessers might sport dark feathers, here. So far as he knew, the deer and swans--the only Lessers he had seen here--were startlingly, purely white.

Feeling a little wary, now, he picked these few feathers up, cleaning them off and tucking them into the basket--before pushing up and backing quietly away.