"Yes."

Malachai's eyes settled on Walter for a moment, before glancing away, shyly as if he had peeked upon something he shouldn't have. It rests on the shell. He stood by his declaration though. "My journey, before today, before even the first time I met you, has been a cycle of life and death." His eyes closed, thinking, savoring the symbolism in the spell, it's message, as if it was whispering a secret to him between his two hands when he gazed on it. "But, I think there are a lot of things like that. The waves have highs and lows. So do the mountains and the caves." A pause, before he braves to glance back up again. "And it's the one thing in this world that I have absolute faith in."

That's right. He can always rebuild himself. Make himself better, stronger. Learn things. Change things. He'll keep fighting every day to be here. He has to.

"..." A subtle wink. "I don't blame you. To be fair, I was never a fan of having hands on me either. Though, I imagine the reasons are far more sillier than yours. I can enjoy the intimacies of a lover quite nicely though- but a random person massaging me didn't bode well either. Dorrick however wore me down. He's quite good at it. And he'd never hurt me." A strange bit to add on. But he flies by it.

"When the luxury allows, I do enjoy a piano. I can't carry that around however, so I find a lute equally as engaging. Anything that keeps my hands moving."

He walks along the beach, letting his feet soak in the waves, watching the shadows of smaller fish dance between them.
 
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Lord Thornley didn't join the musings on the cycles out loud. An oak may grow from acorn, but it would not be the same as the one that spawned the acorn itself. That old thing might be weathered, moss-covered and storm-broken, until finally it yields to some unfortunate disaster.
What was he? Charred remains? Or something unnatural and new that filled the space where an oak should have been, but was something else entirely?
Didn't matter. He had to persevere. He'd given up everything - to live.

In realizing he might have ousted himself, Walter blanched briefly, then averted his eyes. His ears betrayed him, turning red at the rim, concealed with quick movement of hands adjusting the dark mane right over the top.

The company did not seem like they would judge. And looking away was a good way not to keep staring at the half-naked master artificer, and the intricate patterns tracing the shapes of his body.

"My reasons vary in degree of silliness, but I'm glad for you finding joy outside your art, just as well," he echoed to the sentiment about Dorrick. "We grow old a little slower on the days when life's indulgences do not result in pain... although, I have to admit, I didn't pin you for someone who'd consider matters of the heart when the Art is your mistress."
Almost an query, but enough of the downward tone to dismiss it. A lot of men like him preferred to not move past the skin depth.

He tossed the conch shell back into the sand. Glanced at the patterns on the half-elf's shoulder. Ran a thumb on the one remaining, and hid it in the palm to keep it, despite the uneven edge.

"You can play, and I can sing, then," he offered, voice slightly cracking over being raised above the shuffling of the waves. "In Altalusian courts, they also play a poetry game on occasion - only speak in rhyming stanzas to each other. I'm not much at courts, but the game is witty."

He stayed away from the waves, just at the precipice, as if repelled invisibly, eyes settling on the waves in longing. He'd swim and dive in his youth, on warm days of later summer when he'd get away from the schooling. Now... who could tell what would happen if he tried? Needing to be rescued from drowning because of his own stupidity would be a horrid first impression.

The waves rolled on, indifferent. Crests and dips. Spiralling tongues that dissipated into flats of foam.

Out of the shadow, he stepped into a patch where sun painted the sand and foam in gold, and squinted, feeling the warmth at the side of this face turned to it.

The waves rolled in, farther than they have before, the tide soaking his boots to the ankle.

The baron ceased to move, eyes focused on a distant point in the water, closer to those low cliffs at one end of the beach.
 
His ears did betray him indeed, and now so were his own. It wasn't intended, but he felt self conscious and aware for the deed of noticing. A guilt of sorts, mottled in the bottom of his stomach, bitter like coffee. Should he say something? Should he not? In the end, protocol, as he understood it- was just to remain quiet. After all- romance, whether being discussed objectively, or indulging in it- can be quite the sensitive topic. And Walter seemed like the sensitive type about the matter, no need to humilate his host!

At least he can take a little bit of naughty, giddy glee that comes from being admired. It meant that his form, his greatest feat of artwork, his greatest creation- was indeed very well made. And there's a little bit of pride that can be derived from that.

".. Well-" A shy chuckle. "Art- is.. it's something part of me. I don't always even realize I'm creating something. It's.. like swimming to a fish. Flight to a birb. And, it's hard to have an emotionally satisfying relationship. In reality- sometimes I can feel quite lonely." he scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "There's.. something magical over the electrifying connection that forms when you're in love. The comfort of holding them close, and the joy in watching their happiness, and watching them grow." A pause. "In that regards- I guess you can say I am a bit of a hopeless romantic."

"I also just.. find myself a tad unlucky. Prospective partners either get deterred by the shell, crave the wealth I give, or only seek me out for vanity. And a night in bed is fun, I suppose- but I.. need a little more than that. What about you?"

Only then, did Malachai realize he had stopped. His posture stiffens, face growing with worry, and he gently reaches for the lord's shoulder, giving him a brief nudge. "Are you alright?"
 
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His mouth was dry, and head full of cotton, all of a sudden. That wave was still a few ebbs and flows away while Malachai talked.
"I think... I understand. There is satisfaction in just... making something worthwhile, with your own hands, something that would last a long time."

The other beat, however, made him swallow rising agitation. He stared at the way the cliff's imperfections made an intricate pattern of blue shadow against the bone white, with green accents.
"Hm, so... they seek you out to possess you same as someone owns an exotic artwork, or what you have and they want, or the power you possess and that they wish to control?"

It was easier to speak of someone else. Even though this was something of a trial, with the topic. Felt too similar, from where he stood. His body did not know how to respond, the conversation itself treading lightning, the warmth cautiously coiling at his core.

The shadows grew longer.
"I have... been in love, before. I don't think love alone would ever be enough, to see them when they only look at themselves." His lips pressed together, gloved hand's fingers splayed, straightening until the joints hurt, then curling in relaxation. "I don't think that love alone would ever be enough, if walks of life, and ways of mind are incompatible. No matter how much love there is... something will have to give. And if it's someone - they will break. I'd never wish that upon someone."

A nervous chuckle, slightly hoarse and breathy.
"I guess you could call me a disheartened coot. And yet, while solitude is not unwelcome, but I do not wish for it to be my sol-"

The wave came.

His gaze was nailed to those cliffs, the waves that roared under pressure between them. He was not breathing.
He was not drowning.
Tears welled up in the eyes.
"There are remnants of my searching spell," he mustered, hardly above a cracking whisper. "In between the rocks, above the tide line. And... what it found."

Color receded from his face, and, suddenly aware, he jolted away from the tideline before the other wave could bring the haunting back full force.
"I- need to sit down for a moment." Almost dropping to the sand.
 
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Malachai heard him- but didn't understand. His face filled with perplexity, further inflamed by the rush of the water beneath him as it faded back into the ocean. The lights splashed around him, but instead of welcoming them and admiring their glamour, he cursed, trying to squint and discern the nature of Walter's cryptic expression, his grip growing a bit harder with each word, another more gentle shake. "Walter?" More sincere, more worried.

So when Walter charged back to the shoreline, Malachai indeed followed shortly behind him, rushing to his aid. One hand caught his hand. The other reached to support him. He gently lowered the noble into the sand, his blue eyes large, concern, while not a look he wore well- certainly draped across his face like a thick veil, trying to curl anxiety into the emotional energy (non-magical/allegorial) into their hands, hoping to aid whatever had illed them.

As they sat, Malachai glanced over, briefly. He didn't seem injured. But his cheeks were stained with salt. A pause. Did he.. did he accidentally bring up something sensitive? Oh dear- he was just trying to be open and accommodating! Remorse is swallowed. "Walter- are you alright? Did I say.. something wrong? I meant no harm by it, I truly didn't." he expressed. "I wasn't aware-" His speech is exasperated, breathless, trying to find anything to soothe the wound he believed he had caused. His palms never left Walter's hand. Warm and protective, like the shade of a tower shield.

He mentioned a searching spell- what it found? Is that- would that help? "Did.. Did you want me to go look? Would it help you? I can certainly give it a shot, you know, I am far stronger than I look!" he offered, hopeful, that this would break the spell of sadness Walter was suffocating in.
 
The world returned from a kaleidoscopic blur, stopped swaying once he was on the sand.

"No..." He pulled in a shaky inhale, tried to smile, failed, wiped his eyes. "No, no, nothing you said was wrong at all." His hand squeezed in return, in the grip, as if to reassure he wasn't about to fall into a blackout. "I-..."

An inhale through the nose, nostrils flaring. A throat cleared. Head heavy and pressure hard behind the forehead, though there would hardly be anything to indicate it other than the palor.

"It's not you, Malachai, please don't-" Another sting of panic, just conceiving of the half-elf trying those deadly cliffs.
He had to regain control, soon as possible. Weakness was unseemly. Unallowed. "I'm sorry. I was enjoying our conversation. The..." An exhale, a lean forward, other hand gestured weakly at the ocean. Words were hard to string together, like he had to bore through each word-pearl with a blunt needle before he could put those into a phrase.

The waves rolled in, peaceful. He could calm down faster if he just engaged his reason. Right. Old news. Reason it away.

"So you know how the ocean is too volatile, and takes over the Shroud weave until it too falls into chaos, and eighteen years ago someone-"

A quick, sharp inhale, words rolling in one after the other now, like an avalanche, like he needed to explain before he'd lose the speech again. Gloved hand rested over the one that held his, the baron looking directly ahead as he reeled his mind back in, tried to filter out what he could and couldn't say. He didn't quite ease into the offered comfort, stiff and struggling to keep himself together. Was just that the tide overwhelmed him.

"Someone died there seventeen years ago, I didn't know where to find them and they were late for our meeting, I cast a spell and my mind's eye found theirs, and they were trapped, drowning, in pain, I didn't know where it was, and oh dear gods I- I didn't know where it was... Father refused to tell me where they'd found the body, or let me see him one last tim...time, and now I unders... understand." It's been years, that old grudge, that lingering grief, everything coming finally to a point of understanding.

His voice cracked, broke, but he managed in a stifled whisper. "The ocean rolled in and brought it along, my... my weave, it's still there. Just above the tide line, lodged in one of those death trap rifts between the cliffs. With everything else, it's like it mummified there and the waves spread it." A forced inhale, he blinked, sunk his face into his hand. "...I'm sorry, just..."

A moment. A minute. He'd get control over himself. He was not a child, anymore.
"I'm sorry. I'll be fine, just a moment. Oh goodness, I'm sorry for scaring you..." He stifled another sob. Throat clenched as if in a steel grip. He wiped the tears away again with a half-curled fist, and looked up at the sky, instead. "Mother Ocean can be an utter viper, sometimes, eh..."
 
He sits in the sand, attentive, eyes staying focused, nodding his head. His hand would gently squeeze, following the energy of the current, of the emotions. The tilt of his head let sandy locks fall and hang in the wind, capturing sunlight to steal all for itself. His eyes soften considerably, hearing each word carefully, committing them to memory. In this moment, Walter shouldn't be alone or feel alone. He should feel heard, and he should be allowed to express himself. When his eyes do close, for a moment, he is pulled back to a thorny glade, light blinding, and burning the very skin that now welcomed it's grace. And the ice it brought that day, despite the scathing heat, was enough to make him fervent to make this moment short, and graceful.

No one should have to grieve alone.

"Walter, Walter, it's alright!" he exclaims softly, reaching forward and bravely pulling the noble into a warm, friendly hug, forgetting the boundaries that should be there, for a variety of reasons naturally. "It's.. It's alright, really, if anything I am glad to be here. You shouldn't.. You shouldn't go through something like this by yourself. It can be a poison, you know." he warned quietly, with a kindness, a gentle shake. "She.. she can teach some very nasty lessons, the lady behind us- but there's a place for them."

He put both hands on Walter's shoulders, focusing the noble's gaze into his own, the way he'd gently rattle one of his own apprentices into focus, trying to coax light out with a lopsided, gentle smile. "It.. that was a lot-! And sometimes, things must be inspected, over and over again, until we extrapolate what divine will wants from us in the end." There is a frown that follows. "I am.. so sorry for your loss. It.. It sounded like he meant a lot to you. Maybe perhaps, we should do something to honor his memory. Maybe that would help you."
 
Shame closed around like armor.
He waited until his throat could let sound through again, swallowed, and managed a faint smile.
"Thank you. But I've been with this for seventeen years, and now I know. It all just came too suddenly. And you don't have to... you don't have to." Get the shards out in bits. Reconstruct the shattered mirror. An inhale, a bit shaky, but a grip onto himself returning. Be graceful. "Thank you for doing this, all the same."

He tried a reassuring smile. It quivered.
He wanted to be alone. Let himself wail quietly, curled up on the sand, as grief would drown him at high tide, over and over, until it would recede, or nothing would be left of him. Nobody had to commiserate, then. Nobody had to take on the weight that wasn't theirs to carry.

By the gods, people depended on him. Living people. Here and now.
This one, who had just a minute ago been happy, with his big blue eyes and gentle touch

Malachai had spoken of people wanting him for his beauty, as if it wasn't an aspect to be enjoyed like any ither... as long as there was more to it alongside. And there was more. Beauty was not just the fast-blooming flowers and seasonal leaves, it was the shade, the roots that ran deep. still... if it begrieved Walter that people only saw him as some upstart lord - how heavy was Malachai's chain, the public image of a famous artificer, scholar, innovator?
And how much did anyone truly know him?.

A notion rolled in, in his father's voice, and Walter felt he was exploiting the poor man's goodness.
This ridiculous breakdown. For something decades old. From something so sudden.
For a tragic death of someone he loved deeply - which didn't need to be anyone else's concern. Other loves came and went.
From the ocean's touch he warily expected to be malevolent - which only revealed what it had claimed, those years ago.

He stared Malachai in the eyes for just a short while before his focus dropped to the lips. Because they were moving, not for anything. It felt easier not to be seen. He'd pack it up. He'd grieve later. And maybe, later never had to come if the need blunted over. He had better things to do. Other people had better things to do than entertain him being too weak for the duty of a good host.

"Malachai," hand rested on the one of flesh at his shoulder, very gently, held it there, then brushed against skin as if asking to let go. "It is truly kind, and I don't want to ask for more, from either of us. It's not yours to... Just didn't expect it would be this. Just let me get my bearings a little bit. I'll survive."

Inhale. Exhale. Get some backbone, pup. Unseemly amount of vulnerability, so easy to exploit.
"Life is for the living, that's the best we can do between the midnight hours, right? We can still watch the clouds, gather more shells, or go up, into the fields of lavender and coneflowers - or an old grove painted with dappled sunlight. The golden hour draws closer. And the drake pens. I would like you to see the beautiful animals, if not get onto one under saddle."

To weave and hide between words and distractions, return to the role he was supposed to play - or, perhaps, just carry his mind as far away as possible from what it dwelled on now.
He had to enjoy the colors while he could. The Harvest time must have been drawing close, not a thing to toy with. Not with so much magic right next to him.
Those hands were warm.

"Let's make our way?" he offered, bracing his voice and his very core to straighten up, get that bearing back. He was a man, a lord, not a wounded animal that wept on graves.
 
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"As you wish." the maven responded.

But his voice is hesitant, and refrained. His vision stirred into a frown, brows curled. The duality of the feeling. One, the mixture of rejection, the feeling that his help was not wanted, And, that was a sore one. After all- how often had he wished to be able to help in such matters when he was younger? When everyone thought to left him to death? He envied the healer, the person who could soothe pain in a moment like this. Because it meant that he wouldn't have to witness the latter;

Which is the awareness that this kind soul was in a pain, and a great deal of it. Sculpted by duty, hardened by fire. Weaknesses needed to be patched, grow, pains need to be soothed out with liquid gold and polished, but yet is let to fester and crack. And as someone who was shattered into the floor and left to pick up the pieces, he knew the pain, the task. And- he wished someone helped him back then. All he didn't understand is why Walter wouldn't want it now.

"Drake pens.. So.. what do you mean by drake?" Malachai asked.
 
Perhaps, for the entirely wrong reasons, and with an entirely wrong attitude to the pain that ran deep through the years and caused so much trouble with every other love that came and went - he did not wish to burden a barely glimpsed sunshine promising a friendship, maybe warmth, with any more weight of his grief..

Once, he was a child who believed his worth was measured entirely by how well he answered expectations, and so determined how much love he deserved.
Once, he was a stray who would take kindness from any hand and chase it by the crumb - starved, he was ready to eat anything.
But neither was right. The will to live on was stronger. The will to keep his virtues was stronger.

He was not helpless. He could stand on his own, much as he could - and help others, within his means. And, for all that it hurt deeply, strongly, and suddenly, to make him lose control, if for a moment - for all the lingering poison of shame, and failed responsibility - ...
...who knew his grief but himself? Who could make peace with his grief, but himself?
In grieving alone - there would not be a quiet underspoken price for someone's kindness.
In grieving alone, he couldn't possibly be hurt more by making himself too vulnerable.

Perhaps, with time they would grow to be close, and spend one future evening talking of past mistakes, and help one another soothe the grievances and regrets - no doubt, many more in Malachai's life than his, for the years to count.
But not like this. Not so swiftly. Not again.

He cherished the feeling of warmth as it receded, and steeled the resolve. Inhale, slight shiver to it, and exhale.

"Drakehorses," a different topic should help, and it was one of the loved ones. The velvet eyes were dim, but lost the icy sharpness of the walls come up. "I've never mentioned them? Oh my. Come."

A bit unsteady, but not dizzy enough to not stand slowly by himself and offer a hand if the elf was behind. He could explain as he would lead.

"My father says they are natural creatures that happened to be native to the region - perhaps the remnants of the larger population that has gone extinct for their predatory traits.

They have no wings, but no hooves, either - between a horse and a lizard in build.

Quite fast, and climb, and swim, too - and while they are perhaps outrun by a decent horse in pure speed, they make up for it with endurance.
I wonder if they have been made by the ancestor, though. The first Thornley. He didn't leave a lot of personal notes behind when he'd gone missing..." ...the first time.
 
The maven cracked their head, tilting a bit. Predatory.. horses. That are somewhere between a lizard and a horse in build. His mind was already trying to paint the visage in his head, having never encountered a drake horse before. Unconsciously, he blended things such as komodo dragons and ponies. Or maybe it was like a unicorn and a sea serpent. So far, the combinations were not coming through with any sort of aesthetics.

He followed behind, listening carefully, remaining open-minded to what might come his way.
 
Up the cliff, and along the hillside to the drakepens they went, where three large creatures rested on a sectioned off plot of grass with a large white rock protruding almost from the middle. The borders were nominal - no proper fence, nor gate. The things could climb it anyway. Enchanted 'collars' were leatherstrips, woven into their wiry mane in tight braids.

Large things, long bodies and long tails with a flat brush of fur at the end. Angular heads, reptilian, horse-like features ending in an almost beak-shaped, though still skin-covered, mouth. Behind that mouth - teeth. Omnivorous, with bite strength enough to end an appendage. Crests ran from nose to about middle of the back, the plating of some dragon's cousin ancestry transferring into fur so short and smooth, the animals had a shin to their coats like metal.
Unlike horses, they seemed to have more tones than grey and shades of red-brown. One lounging on the rock was the color of patina and seafoam, the other's almost jet mane sported shades of purple-blue.

"Geist!" Walter called, stepping inside the barrier of vertical rune-inscribed stones.
A dappled silver-grey third drake answered the call, getting on its feet and prowling to the barrier, a low crocodilian rumble in the chest, head tilted. Long, muscular legs ended in clawed paws, rather than hooves. And yet, just like a horse or a dog, Geist almost sent his rider out of boundaries with a push of a giant head.

"Ho- oh, easy, boy, easy-"
But while Walter patted on the mount's neck fondly and reached to pluck a grass stem stuck between the keratin plates on the crest, Geist's attention shifted to Malachai. Forward-facing eyes affixed to the elf, unblinking, and the creature leaned its head a little lower. A low hum, and a few clicks in the throat, dry like a mallet hitting a wooden bowl.
"Friend," Walter insisted as he caught it, and put his hand on Geist's nose crest, glancing at Malachai over the shoulder, a happy grin stretching on his face. He had fangs, too, and an unusual amount. "Feisty things, but loyal. Bond strongly with the rider, too. Want to hazard a pet?"
 
Healthy curiosity is met with apprehension and rightfully so.

Reptiles, from the parts where Malachai had travelled were not quite as friendly. Hissing, was a sign you're too close. Sometimes, they'd lob poison or what have you- or heaven knows what else. Still, the vibrant colors of their crests were enough to capture his energy. His mouth slightly ajar, but his hands did ever so tremble. "Erm- are.. are you sure? I mean-" A hand tepidly reaches out, cautious, to touch whatever part the strange creature would let it.
 
The narrow nostrils puffed a breath of air - hot, like its distant cousin's once, perhaps. The mercury-sheen creature leaned its head low, sniffing at Malachai tentatively, Walter's hand staying on Geist's creature's neck. A low rumble, like a croon, vibrated in the underjaw all the way to Geist's chest.
"It's alright," Walter's voice dropped low, even, reassuring as he did his best to hide the excitement. Geist was not the most exquisitely colored, compared to his siblings - but he was the smartest, the best learner, and held his own in a fight.

Geist's head was harder to the touch than a horse's, especially on the nose, where the crest flared in defined ridges closer to the ears, But the body was warm to the touch, a bit heated even on the scales and plates - the drake had been lounging in the sun.
 
Excitement entraps the maven, and a trembling hand finds itself against the warm scales, watching the light dance between the plates of the creature. A sparkle- a dance of light, tapping against the scales, the heat pressed against his fingers, the thrum of this creature's 'voice'. It was truly, a magical creature, one likes which Malachai had never seen before, and found his touches growing more confident with each stroke against the creature's neck.

"H. .Well.. He's.." A few words stumble out, too giddy to express the emotion. "Oh he's so-.." Pause. "Warm?!" Not quite the right word. "Delightful." There we go. Malachai's leg bounced against the ground, trying to contain his excitement, his poise.
 
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