"You'll have plenty time, especially so tomorrow. Garrick will give you a guide to look around Bremen, and... I suppose you all would do better with horses, for the time being... All the same, I'm looking forward to your collegial pursuit while you are here."

When Malachai pointed to the points among the wavy golden locks, Walter suppressed a notion to tuck a stray strang behind his own. Eyes shifted right behind Malachai's shoulder, for a moment, and then he smiled, easier.
"It is good to find belonging like that. I wasn't so lucky. And now all this," he gestured widely, not simply at the garden and the tower-study, but somewhere beyond, just as well, "is my domain. And everyone in it is my responsibility. Perhaps a better fate than most cripples have."

A rainbow sea?
"Oh... do you remember, when we met- years ago, we talked about the ocean? I never... Never completely forgotten, but the prototype wasn't finished, until recently - your letters helped Dolores make it. We could venture to the beach by the cliffs, if you feel inclined? It's an hour's walk on foot. If you... don't mind setting the prototype off for me. We could see how it goes?"
 
"That is a shame. Perhaps maybe in your spare time, you can join me and the other Mavens for some art! I understand running an estate is never ending, but there's something to be said for the warmth of working with fellow friends, and I bet it would be a delightful experience seeing your mind at work!" He gently pat the shoulder of Walter, the smile unwavering, well, until Walter threw gasoline into the sun.

Then there was far more energy and life. "Oh- why- that's amazing! How exciting! Heavens that would be amazing- I wouldn't mind that at all! But wait- are you sure you wouldn't want Dolores to be there to see it too? She did made it, and perhaps you should launch it as well! I would be happy to help channel the energy if that is the issue. Oh- and then there's the walk.." He breathed, happiness in each release.
 
Wasn't he a tall firecracker?
"What kind of art?" Walter mused. Perhaps, he was just overthinking it, and there was popularity with painting, poetry or basketweaving in this refined magi community. His heart, however, shrank in pain. His mind at work was formidable, indeed, perhaps not in the way that summer elf expected. But he'd burn that bridge after he'd cross it, the earlier insinuations clearly having gone right over Malachai's head.

"Of course. Just grab a cloak, it gets fairly windy where we haven't trees or walls to shield us. As for Dolores," he made a gesture of passing fingertips over his lips, eyes wandering away from Malachai's face for a moment, in thought and secrecy, "she is venturing for some exploits of her own, now that her time is not entirely dedicated to what is my solemn duty. I shan't say any more. Right, then, settled, a walk it is! I'll send the word ahead so they untie the lure."

It would be nice outside, all sun, heavy plump clouds and flower scents drifting in the breeze amid tall, wild growing grasses framing the narrow footpath from the grove, and down, down and around the manor-crowned cliffs to the shore and tidal stirrings below.
 
His lips curl into the smile of his mouth, casting a gaze down towards Walter, mischief flickering in his eyes, dancing against the light like the laughter of fey- just out of reach, out of vision. "Whatever kind wants to come to us!" A whisper. "Inspiration is like the weather- you can't really control whether it's a dry, hot day- or a passionate storm. Just that you have the choice to stay inside, or dance in it. I- personally, believe you would a lot more fun getting a little wet." A wink, before he moved to go get his cloak, a servant guiding him to his staying quarters.

-

This wasn't his lands. So Walter lead the way. But that didn't stop curiosity from doing what it did best. The journey to the beach was a long one, at least, longer than it should have been, cursed by the affections and attentions of a easily distracted artist. It seemed no aspect of beauty was missed by the elf, who's appetite for aesthetics was as voracious as the the wolves that howled in the distance at night. Every patch of flowers that he hadn't seen. The quiet glitter of a stream dancing in daylight as it bubbled beneath them. The vibrant hue of a bird's crest- like paintstrokes given to the sky to take where it may.

The wind pushed against the navy blues of his cloak, his eyes catching the greys of the skys above. "I will say, I envy you- to be able to claim this land as your domain, what a fortunate fate indeed!"
 
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It was the time of the day when shadows would fall ahead of one's steps. And so, Walter led the way. Summertime stripped him of the heavy cloak, his social suit of armor; he seemed content to wander in dark grey leathers and thin silk-spun pine green shirt, a steady, muted silhouette to balance out the vibrancy all too bright around them.

He loved it dearly, all of it. The softness of the earth and the duskborn birdsong, the peaceful moments of quiet where even the darkness in his head was illuminated, granted levity. He'd stop, now and then, idle away the minutes watching Malachai twirl about, strands of the half-elf's hair like gilded wheat straw in the sun, eyes wide with wonder.

His heart would clench, ever so slightly, with a notion of something missing in himself, so that the vision brought such joy.
The notion voiced made Walter's face soften with a closed, nostalgic smile.
Almost like the man he thought he'd known.
"Plenty of duties so it remains serene and safe, all worth it," he echoed. "It brings joy to my heart that you like it."

His eyes had no love for the summer sun, perhaps, and it was best that Malachai was too engrossed to notice him squinting tearfully, now and then. Soon, the cool shade of the cliff fell upon them, stealing the heated warmth from the backs and lingering on the skin. Lavender swayed in the grasses that floated further and further up from their view as they strode down the spiralling footpath.

The sounds of grasses shifting in the wind were soon replaced by the shuffle and rumble of waves rolling onto the shore. The ocean's salt and coppery scent, a rare seashell in the rippled sands. And all too blue above, the sky, and the far, vast horizon.

Between the cliffs - an unchained, seemingly bronze metal thing bobbed up and down on cresting waves. A sphere within a sphere within a sphere, the bits rotating lazily, the edges of the outmost layer dimly glowing orange in the outline of the gaps. No water within.

The baron stopped, looked at it, proud, then - back at Malachai, almost sheepish. There was still something of that boy with burning passion for the arcane in him, a shadow or an echo - persistent.
"Would you mind?.."
 
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A man of many oddities, perhaps one of them was how he interacted with the shroud.

He knew the logic, the rules, the theories. He could recite a great many paper from Suldaza, enthrall someone with the concepts and practices from ancient cults, whisper endlessly about the ways the laws of nature were interwoven into the Shroud and it's intricate weave. Yet- watch him, and he would follow none of it, instead taking the paint into his hands and twisting it in front of him as if was simply a part of who he was. The tips of both hands would blossom into a warm, green glow, that twisted colors as his fingers twist and turn into each other, growing, his hair rising slightly. When the appropriate amount of energy is built up, he pauses, holding it in one hand, the other holding up one singular index finger, as if to caution.

"Of course. On one condition."

Malachai's face hardens, in a way that could almost be considered heartbreaking- given the summer-loving sunshine he was. His gaze focused, intense, brows furrowed. His tone is soft, but sincere, like the warning of a teacher, or the plea of a stern parent. And most importantly, it had an edge. An edge he vehemently abhorred. But an edge that must be wielded at this point. He had learned his lesson. He would not make the same mistake.

"Tell me why you cannot do this yourself." He blinked. "I do not need to know it's entirety. But it is odd that someone so invested in the Shroud is refusing to power the device themselves. Coincidentally, for it to sit, until now, untested- is also strange to me. I doubt you were waiting for me to see it through- you seem to be at the very least, a man with enough discipline to carry it out." The ball swirled. "So- why is it falling to me? Is there a risk? Is there something you are not telling me? Is this going to hurt me? Or someone else?"

"Be honest. I have already watched two of my students die, and my life's work burned to the ground. My caution is just. And anger is a poison I do not keep inside myself very well."
 
Part of the answer came by itself. When the Shroud condensed between hands, there was a little more than just the slight wistfulness to the baron's face.

Pinpricks of light in his pupils appeared without a single blink, and they were their own, not reflections by any source of light. His irises sprouted thin rings on the outer rim, tiny lights strewn together that sunk down the web of the pattern to the pupil, and joined the pinpricks at the center. Sadness shadowed his face for but a moment, and the next he turned attention to the lantern lure, weaving in the waves.

A slow inhale. His right hand's fingers splayed, straightening to the limit, then curled. He swallowed as he nodded, turning back to Malachai but unable to look at him, not even at the mouth, curve of the jawline - nowhere down the middle.
A forced puff of an exhale through his mouth, his lips remained slightly parted as all the joy, and all the levity, seemed to hemorrhage from the expression swiftly, like blood gushing from an open artery.

"Very astute, I've expected no less," he said calmly. Looked around the beach, not a thousand-mile long glance, but a quick scour to ensure they were alone. Then, he looked up at Malachai. Directly into his eyes, which took some effort. "Your concern is just, but misplaced.

Best that I know, my calculations and the engineering, even inspection of the thing - the risks are minimal. It should be stable, and bring no harm by being activated. It should do the rounds about the shoreline at, well under the hull depth of normal vessels. Because this is the shallows, we should see the upper fins should a sea serpent chase it, which would prove its effectiveness. The lure, should be faster, and return to the starting point, as it is a prototype.

The truth is simple, and personal."

Reluctance, the right arm flush against his body slowly being raised, loose at the wrist. Unnaturally thin fingers curled.
"The rumours about my decrepitude have truth to them. Without your help, there is no one else on the beach who would be able to do it."
Oh, that hurt, and his voice dried out for a moment, hissing to a stop. He inhaled, slowly, and continued.
"Dolores doesn't know the whole extent, but she knows some of it. I couldn't lie. In my..." another inhale, half an exhale. "In my travels, a certain misfortune had befallen me. It's not my hand, it's all of me. I can never weave again. I'm not even..."

His lips pressed together into a line, paling, and he pulled them through the blunt front teeth before releasing. Eyes slid off of Malachai's face - they've gone from direct eye contact to a spot on the cheekbone, then further to the side at the lock of hair swaying peacefully in the breeze.

"I'm something else now. And the fewer know, the better. I don't think I have to explain why."
He turned away, and cast a longing look at the lure's orange contour, then further, to the dark grey cliffs. A breeze came, cool, fresh and salty.
"Sufficient?"
 
Malachai holds the energy, feeling the knot of magic he had ceremoniously assembled twist into chaos beneath his fingers, the subtle hum of the engines beneath his metallic fingers that let the manifestation stay alive within the twists. It's quiet hum competes with the rush of the tide, the soft thrush as it crashes into the sand they stood on, leaving white lace in it's wake as it pulls back into itself. His eyes study Walter for a moment, narrowed at the ghastly twitch of his fingers. Silence keeps the distance, an unwavering stare that finally softens into a surrender, with a response that was both delightful, but also sharp, grimace staining each word.

"Well, I suppose that would make two of us then."

He turned, and whisked his forearm forward, sending the energy sailing towards the buoy. Energy smashes into it, gallant and explosive, much like the vibrant man that it was cast from. The combination of magic swirls into the device, and sends it spiraling into action, a gesture that seems to content the artificer for a moment, watching it with a sharp gaze, letting the tension he built up follow the tide into the waves and beyond.

"Now, we must hope that there's a sea serpent nearby to see if it takes the bait." he chirps, letting aggression slip from him. A glance from the side, over his shoulder, looked wounded and apologetic. But, he says nothing more, and refocuses his gaze on the contraption, to see if it comes to life as Walter envisioned it.
 
Walter folded his arm behind, resting the knit together fist at the small of his back. Shoulders straightened, and he pulled dignity back over the confession. For a few longer moments, he was not looking at Malachai, or at the device.

He was looking at the waves, the will'o'wisps still dancing at the bottoms of the pupils. Then, he blinked, and waited for the dizziness to abate.

Hurt stifled the response he could have given. Two of them, huh.

One, whether by craft or instinct, making choices that cost him everything but what was needed to rebuild - friends, colleagues, vast channeling and knowledge of the Shroud, ability to bring about the boisterous and bright persona to hide or brush off whatever missteps made. And him, who could not get over his change to keep everything together fast enough.

He heard the hum first, sigils lighting on the inside of the sphere's layers, the inner layers coming into motion like an odd layered gyroscope. Faster, faster, cutting air, orange heat-less glow of protective contours repelling the water. Walter's eyes drifted to its movement, the bronze sphere leaving shore as it descended, until the orange edges of the rotating outer layer were but dull echoes through the thickness of the teal.

For a long while, it went away from view.
The baron waited, posture impeccable, the mask of benevolent calm back on his face as everything that he felt beyond was deemed an inconvenience. He had better things to concentrate on.
A minute, another. Silence. Seagulls over water. Waves crashing against the shore. Shadow shifting over the sand, growing longer.
The orb returned, and bobbed in the waves between the cliffs.

"It works," the baron noted, "at least in that it is stable. Thank you, Head Maven. It was... good to watch it go. Shame the serpents didn't bite, perhaps, they are more nocturnal than I supposed."
There was a resolute quiet to the voice. Not a word of further improvements to be made.
"Watching the ocean with a new sight is... quite peculiar," he added. "Shall we take a walk along the shoreline? One can occasionally find a curious patterned shell or two, if you enjoy that sort of collection."
 
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The maven observed Walter as the contraption shot off, doing exactly as Walter planned it so long ago. It was both a success, and a solace it felt. The noble looked so calm, relaxed. As if he finally got the answer, the completion he was looking for- and as an artist, Malachai could respect that. The ability to finally let a creation go. But, he could only imagine, it must've been painful watching someone else bring the creation to life- instead of completing it yourself. A pain to letting a child go to something better.

So when Malachai was offered to walk along the beach, he was more than happy to comply. He felt Walter probably needed that gesture, the warmth that Malachai knew he was capable of offering. He closed the distance, folding his hands into the pocket, flashing a sunny smile down on Walter. "Well, lead the way- I do enjoy a good walk in nature.. and- I do enjoy a good seashell." There is a soft giggle. "I had quite the collection at the Hall before it burned. But, I'm confident I'll rebuild it again." he sighs, their eyes scanning the horizon for the colors that may pull him into his next creation.

"At least I will have wonderful company for this walk." he offered. A little flattery never hurt anyone, right? He'd want something like that when he might be feeling sad.
 
It was but a prototype. A working prototype that would need an attention and insightful mind not afraid of pushing the limits of conventional understanding. It would need many corrections, and further development, trial and error, before it could be put to good use by the sailors.

A mind for risk that Dolores didn't have. A skill that he no longer had.

To bring in outside help would be spreading word of his decreptitude.
To bring in outside help would not guarantee success, or that it would be done at all... and his funds, and attention, and time could be better allocated. Especially now, when Head Maven needed help not for some dream project, but for a real place and real people.

And so, the childish dream had to die.
The prototype would be torn apart for other projects. It was... comforting, that the theory worked.
To feel the heartache over it was irrational. He wished that it stopped soon.
...perhaps, it was saying goodbye to everything he'd had, once.

"No way to be led along," a gesture, broad, at the entire shoreline that stretched in a way either-or, and ended at sheer cliffs on one end, and lower cliffs that had the ocean waves break and run flush through them - on the other.

Flattery was met with laughter. Less humor than humored. Light, unintrusive, amiable disbelief. Understanding, of a sort.
A sway of the hand, banishing the notion.

"The savoring of company is like wine with southern spices, you ought to mull it slowly, let time provide all flavors as it warms the heart. No-no, tell me, are you a person who walks on beaches, Head Maven?" A curious glance, the baron's gait slowing as he dedicated his attention to looking for seashells and meandering just outside the wet strip of the rolling tide. "I've known men who supplemented their thinking process with painting, bathing - even archery, imagine. What do you fancy?"
 
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There is a bit of shyness, a bit of a blush that comes to his cheek, as if admitting something about his own personal self was something delicate, that could disappear the moment you blink.

"I am, Lord Walter. I do enjoy the beach quite a bit. The shifting color of sands, the twist of lights in the sky, the treasures it can pull out.." he said very longingly. "The roar of the waves crashing against my feet. Sometimes, I would even walk barefoot or go for a spontaneous swim. Not- that you would have to worry about me doing such things right now, of course! But it is a trend. It's a very soothing activity for my soul." He paused, contemplating.

".. I like-.." A thought. Truthfully, not too many people asked him questions like this- and it made him wonder these items about himself. What DID Malachai like? The thoughts mull over his face in contemplating, growing hardy, shifting like a slow, earthy clay, before he finally speaks. ".. I do find that I journal quite a bit. I also enjoy sculpting- I can't quite explain it. Something about taking your hands and pushing something into shape" His hands move with the gesture, the flow of muscles convulsing, as if he was imagining shaping the pottery into his hands, twisting the silky earth.

"Fond of baths. And swimming. I also like cooking- I think. Or perhaps it's the eating part more so than the cooking. Experimental cooking. Trying new things. I find a lot of inspiration from flavor sometimes." he looked at Walter for approval. Was that a good answer?

"What about you, Walter? Do you have pastimes you favor?"
 
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The baron watched him talk, mind absorbing but also half-absent as it wandered over from the delicate elven features of the half-elf's face down the neck, and over the intricate patterns on the metal arm.
They were just being friendly, that was all, not that he would enjoy the smooth, almost too perfect skin in the glimpse of a shoulder. But the latter had to be fleeting. Gods forbid attention lingered on the moving mouth, either.
A slow inhale.

"It is the season for such activities, you know, although the ocean waves do have quite a strong pull," he offered. "But if you were feeling inclined - here would be the spot, the cliffs and shallows break the rolling tides quite nicely, and the waters are more welcoming."

He stretched his shoulders back, and focused attention on the beach, crouching to pick up a shell out of the sand. It danced between his fingers, a small milk-white thing with dark red srtipes and blunt spikes - then folded into the hand, out of view, and the man stoor.
"Me? I... used to journal quite a lot, indulged in poetry. The art at large never found me, I'm afraid. But I do enjoy a good blueprint, dabble into architecture here and there..."

A pause, realizing he was still too close to his duties. Forehead wrinkled slightly.

"I used to enjoy hunting, archery, swimming and climbing. I used to like fencing for sport, I recall. These days, I'm grateful to have a quiet moment enough to share with someone or a good book and not attending to my many varied duties. A proper bath, especially the way they do in the south, proper building with different chambers and all, would be divine," same as the hands of bath workers providing the massage, pulling out all the strain from those back muscles... perhaps he was just growing old.

"Oh, and I suppose I do sing, quite well, I'm told." A chuckle, the last hobby sounding far too childisho the guest, perhaps. But it was true - he still sang, when nothing else remained between him and the dark in his head. "And," hands came up to mimick, the gloved hand delicately holding the imaginary bow and fingers dancing on the neck of the instrument. "I've a decent skill with a fiddle. Can be a bit limiting to play," hands came down, "but it's been less than half a year since I've picked it up again. Might figure something out."

He crouched again, and plucked another shell. This one was broken, but had patterns on it, like some odd inscrutable writing.
 
Malachai took this as an invitation, not thinking twice of any implications or what sort of messaging he was spreading. He was in his element, his natural habitat. The breeze of a southern wind, mixed with the salt of the sea- the feeling of sea grass beneath his feet as he traversed. If one had any idea how much time Malachai had spent waterproofing his arm, his leg, parts of his abdomen. Without thinking, he removed his shirt, gently folding it, and tossing it aside, and pulling up the edge of his pants, to keep the bagginess from bothering him. He moved to be about waist deep, letting his hands dance across the surface of the wave.

As the cool rush of water cleansed and rejuvenated, he splashed the water onto himself, letting the hair soak, the sunkissed skin now sparkling with the light around it. He gently shook a bit, a dog shaking off water from where it needed to be- beads of water still holding their place- the silver of his architecture blinding and sharp. But what made this display most interesting, was on the side of his body that had his arm and his leg- a wide tattoo, careful circles, ornate, with metal pushed into certain places. Stones, not shroud, but clearly serving a purpose in the grand design. The pages of an inventor, sprayed onto his skin.

He reached down, pulling a nautilus shell. Careful, he shook it, knocking, making sure it was devoid and empty, it's luminous color shimmering- a careful craft from the ocean itself. He paused and held it to Walter. "Quite a specimen! I love nautiliuses. You know, they believe to be a symbol of rebirth!" he passed it into his hands. "Perhaps I can have Dorrick offer you a massage- he's quite skilled. It's apparently very famous amongst his people. And you could bring your fiddle, or maybe I'll bring one of my instruments, and I can play with you. I bet hearing you sing would be enchanting." The same sunny smile. The same unawareness.
 
He looked up, and it was the elf's back that caught his eye. The stare lingered, drifting down the middle between the shadows of the vertebrae, swung to the top of the scapula, slipped down the side.

He was standing in the cool shadow, but some sun's warmth must have lingered at his face. Walter felt his face, nape, and... oh. No, not doing any of that, too many implications. Too much... disbalance.

But maybe- maybe there was nothing wrong in simply watching? So long as it did not bother anyone - and Malachai was probably too far in the moment to notice a single thing. More reasons to observe, really. He could help as necessary, and probably discover how the volatility agreed with him these days, too.

Walter didn't drop his gaze until his eyes and then the inside of his head started hurting, and the wind along the cliffs started carrying a noise that almost sounded like whispering, or shifting of the invisible fabric folds.
So many intricate enchantments.
He could feel his heart sink.
It was as if Malachai's arrival was a trial of its own. Someone so intensely wondrous, and full of life, and magical.
Look, but never touch, like he could no longer touch the weave.
Because he barely knew the man.
Because he was a lord with power over him.
Because he was an obscurata, a thing that would horrify him if he'd ever know.

Walter stared at the broken shell in his fingers. Those weren't hyeroglyphics, of course. Shroud inscribed itself in an attempt at written language, the chaos molded it. Brown on white like black ink on beige parchment. Incomplete message from the Dark Mother. He ran an index finger on the break line.

"Oh, that one is beautiful." Eyes traveled to the one Malachai found. "Was my inspiration for the lure, you know, at least at first. Does rebirth speak to you, then?"
The offer of massage had him almost sway his weight back as he shook his head.
"Oh, no. Thank you, I just- after a certain point in life, I do not fancy strangers touching me." Or being naked on a table. "We could play together, for certain! And, I have written a few songs, too. What do you fancy for music-making?"
 
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