Private Winds of Wonder

“Walter?”
She took some care not to startle him, voice soft, approach measured by distinct clicks of her heels, the noise with which her gem-blue skirt swayed against the floor.

His nose was warm. The space behind his eyelids was lit up in an amber-red. He must have slept late, Walter deduced as he winced and ran a hand over his face. Circles, sparks and fireworks in a multitude of colors danced in the shadow under the fingertips.
Then, he’d realized his chest was hurting. Something was sharply pressed, unyielding, against the whole width it.
Ah.
With a gently exhaled groan, lips not parting, the Thornley heir leaned back in the padded leather chair, away from the heavy oaken desk, and his bleary eyes slowly took in the space in the room.
His fingers clasped at the nape of the aching neck in an attempt to squeeze away the tension. The other hand, clad in a thin silk glove that ran under the sleeve of the shirt, moved a thick handwritten volume away.

“Good morning?..” he offered. Fingers pinched at the bridge of the nose, next, trying to clear out sleep from his eyes.
“Almost noon,” she offered back, a subtle reprehension in her voice.
“I wanted to make certain the numbers aligned for the next harvest year, and then there were reports from elders and the magistrate to go through,” he started.
Dolores folded hands at the waistline, palms down, forget-me-not eyes boring into him - for what remained of his common sense to evoke, perhaps. With a deep inhale, Walter met the challenging stare with one of his own, brows raised slightly.
She knew about the sleepless nights, the nightmares. Even the worse nights, by now.

She looked away first.
“Did they align?”
Walter smiled faintly.
“We are in trade surplus again this year. Road renovations can be fully taken care of, and then, we could decide to allocate funds to the drakehorse rearing facilities come fall.” Could. The recent correspondence doomed the idea for the foreseeable. Priorities had to be shifted, schedules moved. A rework. For efficiency.
She stood opposite, pulled the tome's cover up. Leather creaked, pages fell together and aligned.
Walter hoped sleep would leave him faster.

His late night hours bothered her not just for his own sake, he knew. She used to feel more in control, something challenged by his arrival last winter. Now, even the boring things must have felt more tempting, so long as they weren't taken out of her hands. He tried to include her in decisions best he could, when it came to managing the lands, at least, but did not know if it was helping, or making her feel more pressured still. They were never good at talking about their feelings, after all. Not in this house.

“A word from Hartside. Your guest should be here shortly. Make yourself proper." She headed to the door, then paused a moment. "Anthea will make you some tea with hibiscus, to wake you up." And - gone by the time he'd finished thanking her.

*

Summer in the country land crossed by a dozen brooks to flow into a larger river was blooming in a fragrant tapestry against the green. For half a day to the estate now, the road rolled up from the dales of oaks to the hilltops with whispering tall grass, and down along warbling streams and quaint, clean villages.

Orchards have finished their bloom and wrapped the carriage in shade for half an hour, trees spaced out in an undulating pattern as they passed. Branches wavered in the wind, sighing among chirping birds and rickety-crying magpies. The walls atop the stone foundations were whitened more often than not, clean more often than not, and while not all roofs were slate, a lot of them were.

The closer to the city of Bremen, the less potholes, and closer still the carriage rolled onto the paving works in progress. They were slow, grounding the whole road properly, bordering it to prevent it coming undone at the next ice melting, but the workers did not seem begrudged by labor. It would be done on time, and it would hold.

Into the Hartwoods, the road ran across and then along the Cridhefal river, diving into evergreen oaks, sun-specked and tall-shaded. The vistas rolled serene, and a small fortified tower outpost of grey stone, manned even at daytime, could have gone forgotten soon as it was noticed, one of many, evenly spaced on small roads and large.

The ocean opened up from behind a flower-adorned hillock several hours later, past noon.
An impossibly blue swath of turquoise shallows that made the slightly clouded sky feel lackluster, crowned by the tall, white cliffs protruding in a ridge over the marine domain and only rarely shallowing into pale golden-sanded beaches.
There was the city of Bremen, with its red tile roofs, the scent of salt and bronze weathervanes, most all in the shape of some strange beast rather than a good old rooster. And then, beyond, farther along the coast and close to another dark green valley grove, one could see the Thornley estate.

It did not look... decorative and floating in its grandeur, like a lot of lordly summer homes. Despite the artistic touch to the wall reliefs and lattices, the broad double windows, there was that darker wood in reinforcements of the upper floors, and much more stonework in the whole lower level of it. The tower to its side, perhaps someone's study, had a balcony that evoked the thought of battlements. The garden was kept mostly to itself, pond wild and growing into a small forest around the two-storeyed structure. Ever slightly weighted down, and ever slightly darker than its spirited surroundings.

Besides the land curving to separate the estate by sheer cliffside from the land by two-thirds, a wall of two people's height cut off the grounds, the manor, and what might have been a road down to the shore along the cliffs, from the rest of the world. Not a fortress, not quite a home.

*

The carriage came to a stop in front of the manor.

A man stepped out and into view at the top of the broad, three-step stone porch, dressed in steely-blue summer dress. On both sides of him, two servants in tawny brown and muted greens hurried, one to assist at the carriage, the other to check on the stables.
Sun dove behind a large, cotton pile of a cloud. The world dimmed for a few moments.

Water Thornley had a bearing now, the same burdened weight as his home bore now lay in the early lines faint at the corners of his eyes, sharper in two lines between the eyebrows and at the corners of the mouth. But familiar, still, or so he hoped, and trying for a smile that came to him like a ghost as he waited for the guest to step out, hopeful, intrigued - and cautious.

For a moment, it seemed the sun came out, but not necessarily from the clouds, but from the cart. A soft gold, warm, and bright against the contrast of the grey sky and steely carriage. His skin held a slight tinge of peach, of apricot, splashed evenly, as if someone had calculated each stroke of color that made up his skin. His wardrobe is simple. A white shirt, light and airy, ending at the shoulder, buttoned up. A few necklaces, distinctly unique from the drab one would see in a jeweler's shop, with unique motifs and interacting with each other. There is an orb on one of them. And staring into it, one could almost swear that a flame was flickering within.

Metal meets the plating of one hand, so detailed and refined, the image of a forest cast down to the very leaves and debris found on the forest floor. Stare hard, and you might see the birds that seem to move between the veins of the silver, before fluttering away. Different gems sit strategically, dull, but filled with an ominous potency.

And as he adjusts, he races his head, heart shaped with soft angles, his eyes lifting to meet Walter's, a peaceful, tranquil turquoise, mixed with the vivacious deep greens of a forest. Filled with life, and inspiration. They just seemed weighed down by heavy lids, and the soft bags his eyes carried.

"Walter." His tired gaze breaks into a delighted smile, radiating genuine joy. Almost in defiance of his fatigue. "It is great to see you." He reaches for his hands to give a vigorous shake.

The lord descended the stairs to the carriage and the vision. Eyes lingered with a gentle pain and humor - of course, the elf had hardly changed a day in almost two decades. Dazzling with the many necklaces, and smiling with the kindness of a soothing breeze. And what had become of him...
"Lord Thornley, these days," he chuckled under his breath, catching the hands. His right one, under the cover of a fabric glove, was so thin it was hard to feel anything but bone. Against metal. The smile froze just a moment at the squeeze, as if the man steeled himself briefly for the reaction - or, perhaps, something else was at work. "Rejuvenated to have you arrived here safely. Come in. The road was long, you must be exhausted."

*

He'd first seen Malachai as a golden cloud of a man with, summer god floating through the crowd of admirers while him and his sister watched the demonstration. Bright, crowded, so unlike the quiet at home. Walter insisted they come. He had a mission, a small hard-covered journal written in a narrow, unadorned hand, where calculations interspersed neatly with sketches and blueprints. It was new, redone for the eyes of the artificer without a mistake or stroke out of place over the long months of preparation for the fair.
And then, there was the trial of finding his way through the crowd, heart drumming in his throat, journal in pale-knuckled hands. He was a man grown, sixteen now, he could do this. He wanted those eyes the color of coral shallows to stop on him and see.

"Sir," he called out when two steps away, eagerness and anxiety splashed together in the tone, eyes burning with fervor for a discourse, "do you think that instead of rooting the base, it could be made round? The construct could be mobile if the astrolabe mageframe were to be stabilized by Waviken's ground defying contour, and one-point-forty-seven-inch diameter shroud orbs inserted within the middle layer of the frame. I have just run the calculations," a victorious grin shone like sun through the austere clouds, "if the size of the shroud stones is under one-point-forty-seven in any dimension, the weave will only have point-zero-six compounded volatility and will not run itself into Ascher's Self-Voiding Law."

Being an artist wasn't just creating a piece to be observed. It was creating an experience, one that continued to play on when the eyes closed. One that can be recalled by the presence of a certain scent, or color. One that planted seeds of different color, and encouraged them to grow into a garden. Were they red? Blue? Maybe even orange? It depended on the season- but the vivacity of the colors and how far they bloomed into the heart, the chest. Let it reach the mouth in quiet gasps, the eyes in light, and the mind in imagination. Captivate them. Set their dreams free.

It was certainly not easy work, and rest assured, Malachai would have much preferred to be back in their workshop, perfecting the movement on his leg and arms. It had come a long way but lately, it was grating him again. Surely, he could make it more fluid, more limber.. But nobility chased such pursuits because often the satisfaction of time spent was something not familiar, and rather indulged in instant gratification of such moving expenditures. To put it bluntly: he had to please a bunch of rich people to keep the money flowing. A truth he begrudgingly accepted.

But, he was prone to his own flighty fancy, and his actions were observed like an tiger engaged in a zoo, enthralled when he played with a toy.

Such as when he whipped around, he blinked for a moment, the same peaceful eyes. Where grass met ocean. To see a young human, a delightful giddy grin, a carefully ornate book in his hands. And a crooked, delighted smile reaches his face. The kind of sideways grin that a child would have on their face. He takes a moment to scan the pages briefly. ".. Brilliant." A simple word of praise. And much like everything he did, it radiated with warmth.

"In theory, yes, and I have entertained the idea. My concern however would be the possibility of external intervention, such as, what if a cat came by and knocked in the astrolabe? The grounding does allow the pathway of energy to remain unobstructed- but in a mobile device, we would be relying on an ongoing circle within it. Should that break.." His hands wave into the air. "So- perhaps, that should be the next step to this design then? Finding a way to create a mobile grounding environment?"

"..."

A bit of a red flush catches his cheeks. A few gold locks fall a bit out of place in line with his embarrassment. Rude he didn't even introduce himself. "My apologies, I am Malachai, and you are?"

Brilliant.
He could feel the word shine somewhere at his very center like a newborn star, triumph bringing about a tiny dizzy spell as his breath caught. Pale cheeks flushed rose, the daring grin broadening. Eyes blue like cornflowers with darker forget-me-not spots stared eagerly, and Walter dared to drift closer and take his journal back.
"You put a case around it," he stated firmly. "Three-parter globe outer shell that rights itself. Ground-defying trigger at the bottom, triggered by impact. If can't be damaged in the fall if the internally suspended frame is not allowed to fall. Then it can roll by itself wherever it needs to go, too, transport things on top or follow some other trigger to activate once it's there."
Not accounting for going up the stairs as opposed to down, but - details. He hoped, rather vainly, that the artificer wouldn't notice the flaw or point it out right away, and dismiss him because of it.
"I-it would need a slide to go up, though," he self-corrected quickly, unable to not just mention it. It would have felt incomplete, even if it was embarrassing.

His smile faded slightly at the introductions, a blanche passed through the rose flush. Where were his manners? Nevertheless, he was quick to pick up the demeanor and the face, and offered a formal half-bow, complete with a small hand flourish. Just a hat missing, to flourish with.
"Walter Thornley, baron von Bremen, Head Maven Malachai Corym Naesatra, it is an honor."
He could bet Dolores was both rolling her eyes and also hiding that she was slightly jealous. Of them two, he'd always been more sociable, even if they both preferred quiet to the crowds.
"We've traveled all the way from the coast," he informed, momentarily forgetting himself again, excitement breaking through the cracks in his attempt at a reserved manner. Too much keen energy, an overflowing desire to talk to someone who understood.
Attention wandered to pale gold hair and the way light played on it when it moved, unruly, out of place, strands flowing silk-smooth. For a moment, his heart skipped a beat, and in the next, the boy seemed almost touched by fright, shame, as he resolved to hide emotion by hand shaking a touch longer than he should have before letting go.
His hands were warm, but not soft or devoid of callouses. Those hands worked with tools and probably held some sort of weapons. Noble boys in training often took up swordsmanship. Must have been it.

"I want to make it go underwater," he proclaimed. "Make it small, and faster than the sea serpents, to give them chase."

His eyes flickered a bit with joy. The idea, and the passion- ah, he remembered an era where he would just manifest ideas, and not take into account reality. Reality taught some painful lessons- but, it was an excellent teacher, and sometimes in of itself- the greatest inspiration to the creative mind. Walter was it? Walter most likely will have to learn it for himself, as is the way of youth. But, there was confidence that he'd find his way through. The spark was quite clearly there.

Absentmindedly- he entertained the prospect of a pale blue, with hints of lavender on something capable of levitating. Perhaps there was an idea there waiting to be found in a field of mouse-ears.

After hearing his idea, he leans in a bit closer, and raises his hand, gentle, but educational. The kind of performance your favorite teacher in school would have done. "I see- well then, perhaps then, I shall give you a new challenge to consider." he grinned. "Do you know why Suldraza prefers their airships despite the sea? Hypothetically, the same technology could be used in the water- and probably move faster, right?" A wave of his hand.

"Not quite. Studies recently found that- for reasons we haven't quite identified yet, though, we have theories and ideas- the oceans are saturated in shroud. Perhaps not at the coastline, where the water is a bit more thinner, but out at sea? Even a well trained weaver can find themselves suffocating on the ocean without proper training." A pause. "This might even explain why we see such phenomenon like sea serpents within the oceans. I encourage you to observe the beach at the peak of a storm- or when the rings are at their highest point in the sky. You'll feel what I mean."

".. Now, if you could create a device that does as you intend, but is able to withstand the saturation.. the idea would very well revolutionize the world in a few months time. Think, of what a technology like that could bring."

"The volatility issue," the youth nodded readily. Having grown near the ocean, and clearly having a head for arcane engineering, he knew. By the look of him, he had ideas, too, at least theoretic ones.
He would have gone on, then, but another spoke up as a slight tension brewed from some whelp of negligible importance stealing the genius' focus from much more prominent guests - with such impunity, no less. People shifted, words unspoken, subtle body language unanimously cutting the excited noble boy off, returning the topic in the lingering pause to Malachai's own creations and possible investments by the bored people of means.
Would he figure it out, the shroud saturation dilemma, someone teased, or let that young admirer of his to resolve such a dilemma instead? Surely, some things weren't elevated enough for an artist's mind.

Walter had written since. Letters, graphs and reports of trials for his pet project came in thickly packed envelopes every three months, asking advice, thanking over and over for input, sharing that he was following Malachai's own inventions too and asking after the specifics. The packed envelopes arrived four times, and then there was silence. If the Head Maven wrote back, the majordomo of the house would have sent a much shorter missive of apology. Master Thornley had left home, and was travelling in an unknown direction for the foreseeable.

Silence lasted for quite a while. And then, the baron had written once more last winter.

*

...And now, was leading the icon of his youth through his ancestral halls.
"There will be time to reconvene proper after you've rested, Head Maven," formal words, but 'dear friend' in the tone. Face worn by worries and age lit up a touch more. "You can call on the servants if you need anything. While my household tends to sleep at unsociable hours, I often keep a late vigil and so there are attendants who stay late, as well. Has the road prior to Bremen presented any complications?" That it was safe throughout Bremen, he seemed to have no doubt.

"Not within your lands,- that is a blessing." A file is forced to his face, grateful but tired.

"Thank you."

His hands push his hair back into place. He smoothed the wrinkels of his tunic, a little oblivious, arguably, to the sugar in Walter's tone. There was too much going on to appreciate the small nuances of social interaction. The way it was implied, Malachai's ears perked up, in alarm. "W.. Why, rather generous of you, lord Thornley, but- there are others with me. A handful, but I must stay by them, as their leader. They are currently in one of the inns, near- what I suspect is a church? Either way-"

"I do appreciate the generosity, however. I was hoping to make some more long-term arrangements, at least, until I determine where I will be moving the Mavens since our previous home is no longer welcome. I also must warn you, I may still have enemies who may still be quite unsatisfied by my cunning. All of these things are items you must be aware of. " It's warm, but filled with hazard.

Propriety had many faces. Being a host was one of the variably fortunate ones, and this was a chance seized. For all the misfortune that came with the prior location being destroyed, Walter would wager gladly - with the following that Malachai had, it wouldn't be long at all till someone funded the dream rebuilt.

"Head Maven," he entreated, tone warm but carrying a little bit of weight in how the words were uttered. Indigo eyes - different, darker, deeper, no longer cornflowers and wonder - narrowed in half-jest, 'do you really think I wouldn't know where all sixteen of them are exactly?' But instead, he said, "this place is the safest that my land can offer, and the easiest to defend against not only open hostilities, but unwanted intrusion, as well. We have enough rooms for your mentors. Your students will be in Bremen, housed in a local inn or two, half an hour away by a fast horse."

He gestured with a gloved hand.
"How would that agree with you? The road was precarious, but you are here now. It is on my honor to protect and provide for you and yours."
That he had enemies too, could remain unsaid. It wasn't the guest's concern.

Malachai flashed an uneasy smile at Walter, glad to see how eager and confident Walter was at offering so much support. Who knew that there were people so passionate about maintaining the art and knowledge behind creating and shroudweaving. To preserve the liberty of expressing the mind. A warm, comfortable feeling. But- Malachai did rather recently did just watch their school get burned to cinders, with no allies to defend them. And who knows how far their adversaries would go?

His eyes held back his apprehensiveness, opting instead to smirk a bit. "Not, quite.. sure how comfortable I am having my students so far from a guarded reach- but I imagine- that they will enjoy the town scene quite a bit." His smile is crooked, forced optimism. Yes, of course. They were young after all, and they're going to probably enjoy trying all the new food and the attention of being artists, probably chasing skirts. Heavens knows-

".. Speaking of- I do have to ask, what.. is exactly your plans for protecting my retinue? Do you have forces stationed in Bremen? Or- is there.. some sort of arrangement?" His hand brushes the back of their hair, trying to control their breathing to the best of their abilities.

The purported enemies would have gone after Malachai, Walter thought quietly. After Malachai, and not the students, first and foremost because Malachai was the charismatic driving force behind the school. If not him, then professors, to eliminate the minds of notice and the learning they could grant, decrease the main value. The students, at best, could be considered bait - but then, given it was his people keeping an eye, there was no guarantee that the bait for Malachai would reach the elf's ears before Walter would react.

"They are young," he offered in reassurance. "They will be looked after, no doubt just as exhausted by the weeks of travel and looking over their shoulder."
Perhaps, he thought, the Head Maven might have done better with some bigger family, the Tourmalets, for instance... but the Tourmalets had agendas and enemies alike the ones that have seen the school burned, he reckoned. Here, at the ocean-cut corner of Altalusia, none expected much.

"I do. The most overt would be the guards trained better than most other I've seen, and rangers with a degree of experience against more than wildlife." Word by word, they meandered towards the stairs of the main hall, a keen eye kept on the other. "And here, at the estate, I have a particularly apt host of loyal servants. It would be sporting should someone try to infiltrate."

A pause. A careful gesture, knuckle of the index finger barely brushing against the sleeve. Concerned eyes.
"You're out of breath." And alongside that lower-voiced remark, his hand never raised to check for fever, but an arm bent instead in offer of support if needed. He did not ask if the Head Maven was feeling poorly - stress, fatique and relief were a potent mixture he knew well. "Do you need to sit down? Something to calm the nerves?"

The smile gains a bit of confidence. Just a little. He truly did seem that confident. Well, let's hope that it was deserved. At the very least, the most dangerous of the Maven's threats were in close range, near himself and his dedicated guildmembers. That much was to be certain. A heavy sigh. He would hate to use them in the face of war. They were truly only meant to stop an adversary, not create it. But- he would at this point. He would have to, if it came to that point. For the better of all. At least, that's what he told himself.

And has told himself, every night. For years since their invention.

It was only then did Malachai become aware that they were, indeed, exhausted. Their eyes closed, a bit of a pink flush rushing over their face, and they quickly create distance between Walter. "Oh! Well, I suppose, you might be right." He flashes a fake smile. His fingers dance around the engravings of his metallic hands. ".. Perhaps, if it is okay, let us get something small to eat. I don't think I remember the last time I ate."

Once, Head Maven floated through the viewing halls like a beacon of sheer enthusiasm for the work. It was painful, watching that difference now. Has it always been there, Walter wondered, has his youth blinded him to another.
Poor thing, a bag of nerves and attempts to look cheerful, and more fearful yet. His arm not taken lowers. Instead of the room, he invites and takes lead to a dining hall. Servants like shadows. Voices carry peculiarly and do not echo, as if the walls eat them.
What kind of home was this to grow in?

"It is. You are an honoured guest."
The fakery... Hurt in a way he could not quite describe. Perhaps, it was just his new nature. Perhaps, it was mourning the vision that he recalled from his youth.
"Anthea will have something light, dred fruit and candied sourwisps provided," he ordered, and steps retreated in the direction of the kitchens, pausing when he queried, "would you have preference for tea or something stronger?"

The long, heavy table must have not seen many guests, but Garrick came out to serve himself, and was setting the table layout with a quiet precision, perhaps educating a younger servant who was watching. The majordomo preferred to be but a shadow on the wall unless the lord needed him, pulling out the chair for the guest to sit, giving subtle gestures as commands.
Once they were sat, an awkward silence beat.
It seemed inappropriate to ask after the travel. Or the weather.
"I'm happy to see you, as much as I am sorry for the reason that you had to travel," Walter offered. "How... much is beyond reclaiming?"

An extra pot of honey and flower tea was set beside the half-elf. A sweetened and soothing something, with chamomile, and a pinch and another of something else. Anthea was still fond of her herbs. Walter could only hope they helped.

".. Tea is fine for now."

Because Malachai was pretty sure that drinking would be unwise, in any capacity. Especially given the man's tolerance to alcohol. Which- was really a joke because it was nonexistent. Malachai had the constitution of a soap bubble and if he so much as smelled alcohol he could possibly experience a hangover. His breath hesitates before he speaks. "Well- the entire building is nothing but cinder and ruin. So, the paintings, the sculptures, that is all gone." he sighed quietly.

"I also lost the vault we were using to fund the school as well. Confident it was seized. Unfortunate- but at least everyone's alive." He reached for the tea, and puts a rather large dollop of honey into the tea, almost akin to the type of serving a small child might put into their drink. Very much a sweet tooth it seemed. His eyes hovered for a moment, as he took a sip of the tea.. or rather the cup of honey with tea in it. "... I did salvage my most valuable items and creations. I salvaged a good chunk of the archive. And I have.. the..-" A cough. "The tools."

The tools. Probably what caused this entire affair to begin with. Naturally, Walter being such a fan of Malachai would know of Malachai, and his legendary tools of destructions. Weapons, created for warfare that once were used to fund the guild. It's no secret that Malachai had stopped their creation years ago, finding violence abhorrent- but there were a few that were never distributed. Namely, because Malachai felt that their use would be a crime against humanity itself.

"... So, I can actually pay for my stay here!" he added cheerfully.

"Then, most of it save for money and the finery," Walter summarized quietly, eyes downcast in thought. "Though stressful, you've done an excellent job," a glance up, features slightly softer, "preserving what matters. Everyone will be kept safe as possible, on my word."

Unfortunately, Walter's soon absence from home had cut him off from the ability to follow the news of the scholarly community. Perhaps, for the best - the beautiful mirage of golden summer locks and ocean eyes was still filled with hopes, light and a bit of childish yearning.

He raised his hand, shaking his head with a sigh.
"You don't need to pay, Malachai; though we might be of lower rank than you may prefer, we still are a noble family." Nobility was not a word, it was responsibility. Obligations upon obligations, sometimes privileges, but mostly knowing that everyone you are above - relies and depends on you, and you must not fail them. "I invited you here. I would not take as payment whatever you might wish to do."

As a light breakfast was served, mostly the ready breads and fruit and fast-boiled eggs, there seemed to be a noise at the courtyard. Walter, who seemed to have eaten already, stepped to the window, wine glass in hand. A light frown touched his features as he watched the goings on for a moment before returning to the table. Now, when last they'd met, the man's right hand was not gloved. Now, he didn't seem to remove the thing, fabric folding oddly loose around the fingers.
"Pay it no mind. Just the family guard. Please," a gesture at the spread. He'd only partake symbolically, a piece of bread and cheese to solidify guest right. Some weavings were ingrained deep.