In that moment, it was nice to hear praise from unfamiliar voices. He had, of course, been repeatedly told by his professors, his apprentices, that he had done his best. But Walter had no motives to inflate his ego, at least, to HIS knowledge. So it felt much more genuine, much more kind. And it helped returned just a little bit of the sunlight back into his smile, just for a little bit. It flashes back in time. That being said- he was someone with an eye for artistic detail, you see- and his hands fixated on the gloves. Almost, as if a bit of inspiration spoke, the kind that probably rattled Walter when he was much younger, sparked right then and there.

"They never get the gloves right-." he commented, throwing a sweet, very sweet jam onto a bread, and pointed. "Sometimes, I will stuff a clay, or some cotton, to make the fingers more full." he nodded. "But, over time, I grew tired of the gloves. No matter how much I enchant them- it feels 'off', or unnatural. The closest I have done was a very realistic clay animation spell of sorts- but, it required a lot of work when I felt like.. changing appearances." he explained. "Instead, I opted to create my own model that's far more ornate."

"Perhaps then, that is what I can offer for payment. Noble or not, the Cradle has always paid for it's services. Hospitality is an art! Perhaps I can create you a unique creation. Surely, that would interest you?" he asked.
 
Only one hand of Walter's was gloved, the feature notable because it seemed like he'd had a glove tailored specifically to be worn at home. As if it covered something the hand's owner didn't want to look at, much less to speak of.

So, when Malachai chose to speak around the subject at some length, the right hand immediately slipped off the tabletop, and the man drunk deeper than he'd intended. Rested the almost empty glass between them.

For a moment, there was a beat of quiet. Silence in the dining room, birds beyond the window. Walter turned his head, inhaled slowly, and rolled the right shoulder. The right hand slipped onto the chair's arm rest, below the tabletop still out of sight.

"Malachai, I don't like to repeat myself. Payment is not required. We are friends, and this is not an inn. Of course I am interested in seeing you create - as you see fit, not to please me. Do you understand?"
He tried to catch a glimpse of those ocean eyes, no longer smiling.
 
And just like that- the sunlight was gone. "Oh." His eyes fall to his lap, giving the impressions of a golden retriever that had been scolded. He had horribly misread the situation- and was now lamenting in his failure a bit, his pointed ears wilting a bit. "My apologies." he faltered a bit. "I was just offering my expertise in.. something I am very familiar with. Or.. thought I was.. at least" His own hand only slightly clicks, to the point of sounding almost bell-like in it's construction, fluid, as if it were real. "I.. won't bring it up again."

It was going to remain quiet for a moment, as Malachai looked to distract himself with something- anything, to kill the tension in the air in that moment. After a moment, a thought comes to him, and he opens up oncemore:

"So- the sights through the windows are marvelous, inspirational even. Does my room have such a view?" he asked tepidly.
 
The baron avoided looking down, as if that made the memory of his bones being crushed and his skin cut open any more vivid. Look, boy, or I will cut your eyelids off, just as well.
Eyes closed, for a nod. The world's sharpness receded again.

"I understand. But it's..." another inhale, shoulders tense. He braved a faint smile. "It's a product of something horrible that I don't like to acknowledge. To do so would be to give more credence to the person who did it. So, thank you."

Another pause, and he stood, moved the glass along his table space, and deftly slipped the hand to enable his own day drinking.
"You can see the edge of the trees and the ocean. The azure, the white, and the oval teal and motley jewels of coral farms." A hand rested on the elf's shoulder gently, for just a moment. "You will be alright, Malachai. We've had all kinds trying to breach our defenses, kill our men or steal our secrets. But incidentally that's exactly the kind of threat my family deals with well."

He drifted to the window, casting a glance outside, on the half-wild trees and the tall grass between them.
"I know this place's walls can not possibly contain your genius for long. Have you thought of what the new place, reborn out of the ashes in glory and defiance, would look like?"
 
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He goes to speak, but thinks twice against it, looking at his own hands, a soft frown. It was a familiar, isolating feeling that he had grown to accept over time. Because when his hands were crippled knobs and curls that resembled the eye of an oak tree- he sought to rid of himself of these flaws so quickly- he did not care that it earned the ire of his family. Why keep something the way it was, when you could change it? Make it your own? Take it into your own hands? Make it yours?

He looks to be pondering again- not hearing the rest of Walter's words, lost in his thoughts. Before his head whipped up at the question. "Huh?"

He looked perplexed, before suddenly, as if an explosion had reached his brows, they rose, like a golden billowy smoke, eyes sparking bright with color, as he spoke, in one breath- the entirety of his thoughts. "Oh- I have not. Though I will admit, it is the one, optimistic thing I am looking forward to out of this! I had been meaning to remodel the old building for years, it no longer suited what the Mavens have become! I wanted something that could truly capture the dimension of all sources of inspiration, from the sands of Suldaza to winds of the Edjer Highlands- and everything in between. I have yet to really think about the base architecture itself, but I wanted to try and make the new home have a bit of everything that had inspired me over the years. I also hope- that my professors, my apprentices.. my close friends- they would get to put their touch as well- to show the true beauty of love and collaboration. Friendship!"

He then proceeds to spit into a fit of coughs, accidentally swallowing his own spit.
 
He waited for the man to clear it out, patiently, head turning without the rest of the body.
"I've... not done much as an architect, but I have a few contacts. Much thought to be put into the minutia. The undercrofts, the foundations. The tax codes of the locale."

The lowered gaze cast a shadow from the thick eyelashes, making the eyes appear dark. Friendship, love, collaboration. All very noble things, weren't they. All very good things.
A shadow passed over his face, suddenly feeling the bite of lasting solitude. Even here, with family, in a house full of servants.

"The climate would have to agree, too - I know a few scholars from the south who would miss the heat that I, in earnest, cannot bear. I'd like to introduce you to a few collegial friends, actually, if you fancy. One Warden of Wonders Cerridwen Castille, from the South, for one. She is so keen on shroud-altered creatures, dragons among them too. Stuck digging somewhere while dreaming of going where she wills. I wish so dearly that I could enable all of you. Hopefully, the restoration of this land will yield enough to contribute to that end."

Duty. It was a weight on him that promised to turn him silver-headed before long.
"Once you've rested, I'd like to take you for a ride outside. The walls of this home grow smaller fast to a spirit like yours, what with all the precautions we hold dear."
 
There is yet another forced, and uneasy smile. The kind of pathetic smile when a dog is unsure of what their owner was saying, but willing to try and do their best anyways. "Very.. kind of you. She sounds like a very interesting person." His stomach curdled as he forced out a more charismatic version of himself, bedazzled and shining like the sun. "There is so much inspiration to be pulled from the creatures of shroud- I do not blame her, and have written endless entries in my journals about some I have stumbled upon in my travels." And like any curdling feeling, it was spreading and threatening to close his throat.

"Perhaps in more easier, calmer times, we can consult her and share thoughts indeed." He added. For a moment, he pondered his execution. Did it sound right? Did he sound excited to see her? He had to learn how to master this outgoing demeanor to become as successful as it did. But it was tiring, and he had but a few spoons to continue facilitating it as of late.

Sometimes, he just wished he was home, wrapped in his trees, scribbling his imagination and setting it free upon paper.

The ride, however, sounded quite welcome, and he turned and focused his attention clearly: ".. That does sound truly, truly lovely, whenever you have the opportunity."
 
He could hear the subtle tone shift, the mien. Ah.
"Perhaps, when the times are more peaceful," he conceded, a permission to let the topic lie. "It's been a long winter. Seemed a shame not to rekindle some acquaintanceships." A quiet deflating sigh followed, slow, allowing for a pause. The silence was almost welcome. Being a host to silence was easy, it wanted for naught and expected Nothing. He carried plenty of the latter, after all.

Distortion like a distant whiplash, he could feel it against the back of his scalp, a ghostly welt. Discontent.
"Don't be in a rush. I will be in the study, or in the garden, in the interim. And absent on the morrow and for a day henceforth - have to oversee the paved roads being built."
Not very engaged, but the quiet beat of 'too much pressure' has passed, and he'd caught it. Why add more uncertainty.

"I have a few trinkets in my possession, curios to entertain you, if you find wanting for something to ponder on." Walter strode to the table, poured himself more wine, and resumed the vigil at the windowside. "We seem to have both changed plenty in the past decade and a half, despite appearances. Do you think it's for the better?"
 
He felt.. exposed. As if Walter read his mind. Or, perhaps, he had truly started to lose his touch. Bother.

But the question had him pause for a moment, his gaze thoughtful and perplexing. And- after a moment, he speaks, with the type of hushed, guided, romantic sort whisper that a poet would give to their journal. Or a teacher trying to tend curiosity to blossom, their tone gentle and encouraging, but sincere. And perhaps, but for a moment, what made Malachai exist and persist, the core of who he was spoke, and when it did, it was infectious in it's intent.

"... Perhaps, if you asked a younger me, I would have told you 'yes.' Perhaps, if you asked me, a few weeks ago, prior to this- prior to the burning, I would have told you 'no'. But- I think now, I've come to accept that there is never a 'better' when it comes to change. Like a painting, each chapter in life is painted with it's own colors, and values- and messages are hidden in them. And, like each painting- there are some that you favor more than others. There are some that you love, and grow to hate. Then there are some you hate, and grow to love. But, to say one is better than another- I don't know. It's almost as if saying one color is better than another, when in reality, the situation decides that- not the color itself."

"The only thing I can say is: I think- the last painting, it ended in reds, oranges- and, it was time to finish the painting. I might not like my work right now, but I will probably look upon it the way I have looked at other chapters in my life. I now have a blank canvas to work on, and I need to put my thoughts into it." And with that, a friendly, playful smile. "I simply need help deciding the colors or what I wish to paint."

Then a wave of his hand, and he stood. "I think, I am going to go walk around in the gardens a bit more. They remind me a little, of home."
 
He listened, wine in hand. Ruby red in a shaped glass that had a pattern like morning frost, glinting in afternoon light, silvery through the windows. Took a long draw. Stepped closer, landing the glass back onto the table. Rested an elbow against the back of his chair, and leaned slightly forward, conspiratorial.
He smiled, too, flush blooming lightly on the face, head tilting slightly to the side.
"That's the attitude," the words rolled from the tongue warm and smooth, sparking with pleasant low tones, like spice and honey. "I will bring you the pigments I am able, dear Head Maven. You just focus on the art."

The baron straightened, glanced over to the exit as if it was calling.
"Good choice. I'll find you there, after the day's duties are done. Shame I never did get to plant that tree..."
 
He didn't really understand Walter's desire to prepare him so well. Nor did he understand why he was called 'dear' right then and there. Then again- he didn't really frequent this region too much, and it most likely was just a custom or something. It just felt a little off. Perhaps a little more sugary than he was used to receiving. Usually, he got that kind of sweetness from lovesick fans who cared to dance the night away underneath a painted sky.

But of course, Walter was not one of them, surely no. Malachai held a chuckle within himself entertaining the thought. Walter seemed like a rather stoic and withdrawn fellow- someone who was fairly particular. As previous lovers had pointed out- he was a tornado of color and moods and he could only imagine the poor torture he'd put him through as a lover.

He hums a little tune to himself as he is led to the gardens.

---

And this, is where he unironically was for most of the day. Perhaps it was his inner elf that called to the plants and trees the way those back home did. Either way, he found himself sprawled between the folds of a particularly flowerly, quiet patch. Morning glories and daffodils provided his shade, as he experimented under their shade, the tips of his fingers stained colors unimaginable, as he stained and curled and shaped each petal, as if there was an idea waiting to blossom into existence, but he wasn't quite sure where, or how to get there yet- and was too focused on this singular moment that he had become completely unaware of time- or.. where he was for that matter.
 
It was a wistful notion. He'd been a young man, following Malachai's glory like a vortex of butterflies, fleeting and short-lived, more vibrant than the sun and more colorful than the Rings-painted night. Every smile and bit of acknowledgement had meant a world, and filled his heart with warmth, with excitement in a few ways he was only learning about, quite late for other young men his age.

A lifetime ago, perhaps, he'd keep the artificer-artist's portrait close, write poems and caress the painted features in a dreamscape that flew so far above the ground that it could forget where the fall would take it.

He was young, once, Walter thought as his fingers unfurled short strips of reports from the outlooks and missives, at the study. Guard attracted for an incident. A possibly blighted wolf killed, investigation ongoing. The state of the roads. The acknowledgement of the sovereign tax paid before due date. A few town elders asking for their questions to be sent along. State of the fields. Ox golems acting strangely. A border dispute between hamlets. A great wolf sighted walking through a hamlet on two legs (oh, Illyn...).

What remained of him now? Well... Whatever survived, he reckoned. He was once so desperate to be loved he'd go chasing anyone who acted kindly. Acted like David, soft words and steady hands and glimmers of hope instead of golden truth.
He could get by on so little, and do so much in craving more.

The last one... the last one must have been where his heart had finally bled enough. Miah. Sweet darling Miah, the spark of connection - and the growing heartbreak of distance.
There was nothing he could have done, more than he'd done, he knew.
Be free.

A hard lesson to learn, but he did learn. He would put on a smile, and joke and perhaps even flirt if it felt like a friend wouldn't balk. And... nothing of it. The bonds that yielded naught deserved naught. And everything else - was duty.
There was no reason to balk, he posed no threat of serving and expecting closeness of any kind. Rather run along than chase.

*

He'd found himself at his favorite spot by the pond, feeding the little black and red fishes within. A glimpse of color caught the eye - perhaps, the fluttering of a butterfly, or a quick-wilting bloom in fall.
He chose to not disturb, and settled on the carved stone bench by the water, spread the writing utensils besides, and rested the planchette with his journal on a knee. Didn't have to have perfect handwriting as he'd work on the thesis.

On the First Things, such as the descriptors of the primordial nature half-manifest into aspects but not necessarily aligned with the world.

Obscurata, and their variety, commonalities and differences, the possibility of dual element, the more chaotic - less controlled? Changed by the obscurum, the Night - possible host of the Shroud, also, great unknown, prime vacuity or container.


Thoughts like a stream that branched the closer it ran to the ocean.
 
The thing about Malachai, is that imagination bled from him, uncontrollably at times. Perhaps it was due to years of having to hobble from room, to room. Years of being left and forgotten outside, to burn or endure the sinking mud. Years of the shaking quake of his grip fighting his thoughts, his feelings. Inspiration would flow, and build, like a damn, and once it did, it flowed, an unstoppable tsunami of feeling, thought, and conviction, all without word. Color and action dictating each gesture from start to finish.

Sometimes, Malachai forgot that he was still on Khurun, when the world just so easily flowed like it was one of his very lucid dreams. The colors stain to the grass, distorting them, as if it was some sort of ink that dyed each leaf. Suddenly, an idea struck him, and he sat up, quickly twisting around. He looked down at the flowers, and thought- for a moment. "..." The flowers shimmered a blend of colors, rippling quiet, with his mood, a deep sultry, aquatic bluish-green. Then, like a conductor performing a ballad, he whips his hands up, and the flowers respond- suddenly turning a sharp, soft pink, with bits of orange and pink rippling. Like the oceans at sunset. His head tilts again, and he twists it again, the center turning into a royal blue- stretching out to the edges like a wage, white blossoms crashing against the borders like waves.

Another twist of his hand, and the blossoms turned into lovely, vibrant shades of red, orange, like a fire, dancing, flickering towards the center. He continued to play with them, until he twisted his head to see Walter. He returned to his focus.

Then he remembered- that he was just taking liberty with his host's garden, and that was probably not good, at all! The colors turn flashing colors of neon yellow, sickly greens, embarrassing, blush pinks in a quick moment, before that embarrassing pink covers not just his cheeks, but the flowers he controlled. "Oh.. erm.. Um." He paused.

And he waved his control of the weave away. "I'll just um."

"All better. Erm. Sorry."
 
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The floating colors did catch the corner of his eye, attention meandering from writing to the shifting in palette. Oh, how familiar that sensation was, still remembered. Anything and everything under the fingertips, so long as you knew just how to make it manifest. An intoxicating sort of power to have.

The section of the garden seemed quite attached to Malachai's pondering, and Walter smiled. Let him.
A start, apology. The lord glanced up.
"Most curious, I don't remember ever seeing the blooms adopt those colors," he noted peacefully, eyeing the pink hue draining from a stray sprout of ivy. Maybe there was a plant with pink leaves that bright, somewhere in the world? "Should I take it that my guest feels a bit better? I can leave till better time, if you would rather have more time to yourself, Head Maven."

He was in no hurry, after all. There was always something to do when it came to running the lands, even if it meant stepping a little into Dolores' usual duties. And then again, he could always ask the Hound if the traces of Sightless have been picked up, and...

He made sure the ink had dried, and closed the journal.
"Your professors have arrived, and are well-situated. The manor is the liveliest I remember it. Unusual for the place."
Like he was waiting to mention it.
"Where does your mind wander?"
 
Malachai's sunny face started to turn beet red, the kind of color you'd find on a freshly cooked lobster. But, at least, it was held in place by a slightly giddy smile. "Well, you- you know. somewhere, out there, anywhere really, anything can happen." He had way more eloquent ways of saying this. But right now: he wanted to die.

His fingers twist into each other, the click of metal against itself as the other hand teases the engravings on his fingers. Hearing that his professors had arrived made the smile grow bigger, and he stood up far more straight- the fire leaving his face. "Really? Oh, that's great news. I look forward to touching base with them, once they are settled!" he muses, his voice doting and sugary. If one didn't know better- the way he spoke of them; you'd swear that they were his siblings. Truth, sometimes, could stain a pool with sadness.

But ask him about it- and Malachai will find a way to turn water to wine. In that moment- such an example was put forward, in a way that's candid, but bright.

"... Sometimes, I lament my heritage." he sighed, pointing to his ears, that peeked mischievously from his hair. "Too flawed for my family. Too 'perfect' to be human. It sounds like I am complaining of silver platters." Malachai chuckled. "But, in my youth, it was terribly isolating, especially given my shape at the time." A pause. " I've changed my mind on that- however. The Cradle is my family. They mean the world to me. And I had the luxury of finding them, learning them, and choosing my family, something, I wish others had that same joy in."

".. unless, you are referring to the flowers. In which case- um.. A rainbow sea." he put it neatly. Because that quite clearly answered all the questions Malachai. Every single one.
 
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