AUT VIAM INVENIAM AUT FACIAM

Nothing stirred nor moved in the bag, but it feels suspiciously heavier than it was before they got here—and then, a sliver of light cuts through as it is opened, and the darkness dissipates, pearlescent scales glimmering faintly; there he was, Baeksa, nestled too comfortably in a bundled piece of fabric it crawled into in its attempt to snoop and avoiding the scrutiny of his guards—the silk had gathered around his scaled body in folds, warm and cozy, and every attempt to crawl free had failed. He held onto the shape too long, and grew weary; magic would pulse faintly through the golden streaks decorating the little white serpent as it slept soundly, curled against the fabric, hoping desperately that whoever owned the bag possessed the rare virtue of leaving their belongings alone.

Staring down at the snake with bemusement, she considers her surroundings for a moment. She had stopped in a bench by the side of the road a few streets from the restaurant to snoop on the bags contents, so she is still on the richer side of the city. Valdís could just kill the snake and use its leather for a dagger holt, but something tells her that is not a particularly smart choice. 

“Hello little guy,” she ends up crooning, resting the bag on the bench and considering him for a minute. “I would like to keep you, but I don’t know if you would get along with my birdie. Maybe I should drop you off at the Hanging Gardens? There should be enough food around to get fat and lazy without worry.”

The waves crash upon the docks, rotten wood holding even as it croaks. Moonlight beckons the sea close. Firelight flickers from the torches, and laughter and shrill screams of delight twists together both, the ruckus from the dockside’s taverns enough to make one’s ears buzz. A cloaked figure stands there, alone, peering at the signs on the stone. Looking curiously and lost. They turn to one side, straining their neck as if hoping to glimpse something, then the other side, where they catch a stranger’s gaze. Adrian stills, then, like prey. Then, their mouth curls into a tight, awkward smile. “Uh. Hello.” She curtsies. The edges of her clothes sweep the thick wet grime of the stone below, and she grimaces. “I—uh. I appear to be lost.” The tight smile widens, looking ridiculous. “Do you think you could help me out? I’ll—” Their dark eyes flicker over the stranger’s frame, lacking any lust, full instead of cautious hope. “I can… give you a reward?”

Eyes narrowed but curious, she continues her way forward, letting her steps fall heavier than usual to announce her presence. A disinterested brow raises at the excuse, and there is a denial sitting on the back of her tongue when the other continues. 

“Ah, so you do know the language of the docks,” she says with a considering hum. “I am not so selfless as to uproot all my evening plans to help a lost little lamb, yet not so heartless to leave you to the wolves. But my help does depend in two factors. Where are you heading, and what reward you are offering.”

the sea salt vapour clings to her linen shirt, open by the throat. an assortment of gold resting against her skin, hanging around her neck like laurels, most victory seized from the blood and brine of various treasures and ports. her waist is bound in leather, and above it, near her midriff, her linen resembles a cloth of white with smears of watery pink. " i can smell you over the herring. "  sitting upon a wooden box on the plank, morgana speaks over the silvered fin, like a tide whispering beneath a storm, the sharp edge of her voice slipping between her knife and the fishbones, clean yet impatient. and as her knife cuts down in violence, her hands and fingers move in haste.

What she hadn’t expected is to recognize the woman currently sawing away at the fish with practiced moves. It’s rather impressive in all honesty, and she keeps quiet for a long moment, admiring the work and memorizing the movements in case she ever needs to do something similar. 

The tavern smells of ale and unwashed bodies, the fires stoked high enough that the heat is almost overwhelming in the small room. Beneath her veil, curls cling to the sides of her neck, but she does not lower it. With her hair hidden beneath the blue silk, her face seems moonlike in its hue and serenity. She eyes the bowl before her with faint interest, like a woman observing a bubbling brook. Once her calm observation is complete, she stirs the mysterious contents into a gooey cluster. Meat stew, the serving boy told her. Veal, venison, pork.

A clump surfaces from the mass, all sinew and no fat. Neither veal, venison, nor pork. She ladles a few pieces onto her spoon. Brings it closer to her nose. Sniffs it. Does not recoil. Eats it. Does not recoil. Her face seems a shade paler, perhaps, but that could be a trick of the light.

Chewing slowly, she tries to decipher the mystery contents while rumors drift to her ears by mere accident. Her asset is late, but she has never been one to waste a spare moment. Most concern idle gossip, the affairs of common life and loins. But one must sift through the silt to find gold. The woes of greedy landlords and runaway sons soon give way to tales of more insidious torments. Forsaken battering against Aurea's outskirts, turning bustling villages into silent yards of graves and plague. Death tolls that go unreported within the city. The unseen, unheeded and unremembered.

But not by the speakers.

Not by her.

Her eyes finally lift from the bowl, reflecting the candles, distorted, dappled light dancing across the surface of a frozen pond.

They find a silhouette.

Perhaps the person is a familiar face. Perhaps they are causing a disturbance. Or perhaps they simply seem as though they might possess a trove of information. Glance after glance follows until, finally, her lips tilt.

An invitation.

The Ghostlight Market is still hours away, and it is not one of the days Dora is meant to be sitting behind the counter at her box, so Valdís is free to roam the city and find a way to amuse herself that does not call too much attention to her. It would be very annoying if she got another offer for a coup against Rook while they are already dealing with another mess. She simply does not have the mental capacity to plan a series of assassinations while keeping an eye out for anyone suspicious trying to get close to her and the court. And she doesn’t think neither Rook nor Jackal do either.

Unfortunately, that drastically limits the time she can loom around threateningly as Hawkmoth, leaving her with little choice other than to pick a random seedy tavern on the shadier parts of town and Lady Fortune grants her a stream of amusement or another. 

At first she finds nothing but the usual atmosphere as she settles at the bar with a pint in hand and lets the words of the common people wash over her like a lullaby. Back pressed against the edge of the counter, she sips at her drink as her eyes wander around the room, until— It’s not necessarily that the woman is out of place in her beauty, just that beauty found amongst the commons is rarely the sort one can deem ethereal. It’s the sort of beauty Valdís is sure that Tal would use as a basis for a long poem or song about the night sky or the moon. A privately amusing thought to her, as she has already taken to comparing her nuisance of a bard to moonshine. Yet there is no denying that both share a certain pallor, a certain air that strikes her interest as a glance. 

It’s enough to keep her watching, hiding her amusement behind her tankard at the careful examination of the bowl before her. The stranger’s first mistake, really, to ask for a food where the cooks can attempt to disguise the origins of the ingredients. 

Valdís is hiding a snicker behind her tankard at the fact that her source of entertainment for the evening had eaten the mystery stew, when their eyes meet. Lowering the mug slightly, she raises it to the side in greeting, smirk wide and entirely unashamed at being caught staring. 

Taking the invitation for what it is, she pushes her away from the bar and crosses the room in light feet, a low hum following her path until she draws the chair in front of the stranger and settles with a mix of boldness and confidence. 

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞.  the  scriptorium  of  the  yukimoto  estate,  the  cold  room. 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧.  open,  to  supplicants  or  time-wasters.

though  a  futile  gesture  if  only  because  of  the  way  its  members  tend  to  get  that  wrinkle  in  their  nose  while  out  and  about  —  among  both  commons  and  mage  alike  —  house  yukimoto  paws  halfheartedly  at  the  appearance  of  generosity  by  offering  its  literary  and  artistic  services  for  one  weekend  per  turn  of  the  moon.  nayuta,  for  her  part,  does  not  miss  how  these  requests  always  seem  to  come  to  her  desk  as  opposed  to  her  numerous  peers.  such  an  expendable  quill  she  must  wield.  but  it  is  no  matter,  she  tells  herself.  she  could  think  of  it  as  resistance;  another  moment  stolen  from  their  labor  pool  was  another  moment  she  could  saw  away  at  her  house's  pillars  until  it  collapsed  under  its  own  miserable  weight.  such  ventures  rarely  yielded  tangible  results,  besides  letting  her  face  be  known.  but  there  were  worse  things  she  could  be  doing  with  her  time. 

and  better,  nayuta  thinks  bitterly.  though  that  could  be  said  for  most  of  her  daily  routine.  as  if  to  clear  the  thoought,  she  clears  her  throat  and  tips  her  chin  upward  as  she  refocuses  on  her  client.

❝  i  just  want  to  be  certain  that  i  have  understood  your  request  correctly.  ❞  she  speaks  slowly,  deliberately,  selecting  each  word  as  she  would  inks  from  the  massive  wall  behind  her.  each  little  part  of  the  whole  matters.  one  shift  could  create  something  else  entirely.  in  that  sense,  it  was  equally  as  important  for  her  partner  in  this  venture  to  be  just  as  discerning.  nayuta  would  never  voice  it  aloud,  but  she  has  her  doubts.  ❝  you  want  me  to…  draw  what  in  the  margnialia  ?  ❞

That the most recent errant takes her all the way to a Magister House is a novelty, even more when it is one of the most mysterious of the bunch. Yet she had been asked to acquire and decorate the art from one specific page from one tome to a rare scroll for one of her most constant and wealthy clients, all so that he could give it to the woman he is courting as a sentimental gift or something. And well, he has brought them a good amount of business over the past few years.

“Two clusters of myrtles on the sides, with two hands clasped over an apple,” she repeats clearly, lips twisted in amusement at the request itself. Apparently her client’s lover had doodled such a thing on his arm a few moons ago and he had wanted it immortalized in a copy of her favorite poem. Toothachingly sweet, if one were to ask Valdís but Dora? Dora found the whole thing delightful. 

Valdís is on her way back when the crash happens, entirely because she had been attempting to avoid a rowdy pair that was coming dangerously close to blows on her other side. It happens too quickly for there to be much time for her to react, but she manages to keep her grip on the bag with the mangoes by the skin of her teeth. 

The pastry box is not so lucky. 

A wince leaves her as she glances down and sees it crushed on the ground, and her lips press into a thin line as she realizes she might have to turn around once more if they are too damaged. Wonderful. 

he waves her off after that, brushing off the comment about his partners. it's not like he brings many of them back here, anyway. it's not like he indulges himself as much as he'd like, anyway. he can barely remember the last time, nor can he put a face to it. he's been busy. his position and his anonimity doesn't necessarily help with it, either. as tal, it's easier to find someone to spend the night with. but then again, he hasn't let himself be just tal for a while now.

perhaps that is why, when valdis takes the tip of his fingers between her teeth, and looks up at him like that, he wonders for a moment, and he knows that both of them are thinking the same thing. and then...

he must ruin the moment.

he doesn't react to her sudden sharp inhale, or the sound of the chair falling onto the floor, or the footsteps rapidly closing in on him. he lets her take his chin, make him look at her, as frustration and defeat darkens his gaze. his hands rest on the edge of the table, and he lets his expression be searched until it all becomes too overwhelming, and he shakes his head out of her touch.

And he hadn’t seen this woman, whoever she is, coming if he still needs to go to his little birds to get an accurate profile of the threat. 

Clicking her tongue and pressing it against her cheek, Valdís stops herself from interrupting, letting her hand fall and taking comfort on the continuous touch. It is not a reassurance, not really. Not when there is now another threat hanging over their heads, and this time it is entirely unknown. But it does soothe her, because it reminds her that the threat is yet to come. They are alright, for now, and if they take the right precautions it will continue to be so. 

“Alright, I will let Jackal know and pass the word along to my sellers,” she relents with a long sigh, sliding her hands away from his grip gently. One moves down, so she can tangle their fingers together and squeeze tentatively, a silent reminder of her trust for his decisions. The other moves upward, towards his face. This time, it doesn’t reach for his chin, but rather it goes to cradle his cheek, her thumb coming up to brush against the thin scratch found there. Valdís had noticed them earlier, but in their line of work they don’t tend to mean much… Unless, of course, an incident had taken place the very night before. “Did you clean these up? Or did you go to bed as soon as you got here?”

when he glances back at her, tall as she is, the jewels in her dark curls and listening to her accent to try and pinpoint from where she hails, he gives her a smile easily seen in the eyes. "the longer I stand in your presence, my lady, the more I find that stands out. the first, however would be--" he gestures around them, "--this. most of our well-to-do patricians and magisters rarely find their way here with so much to give away to those that need it most. unfortunately, they are much too... busy to grace us with their presence."

it is not that rook is afraid of speaking ill of those in power in the city. he would gladly say it to their faces, if he had the chance. nonetheless, he makes sure to speak with care, so as to not scare her away. "your accent is familiar..." a pause, "if I guess right, will you tell me your name? and if you can guess where I'm from... I'll tell you mine."

Observation and deduction became one of the most used tools in her arsenal, paired with the magic that had allowed her to make a name for herself even beyond the shores of Llyr. It is the sort of skill that is not easily set aside, even in times when one does not believe they are in need of them. And Nike has not believed such a thing ever since she reached Aurea’s shores. With her self assigned mission, every moment risks exposure, so there is no such thing as letting her guard down, even when she is attempting to do something for others with no hidden motive in sight. 

 That is why the man before her has piqued her interest in more ways than one. Beyond the mask, his attire is entirely nondescript, as if he were attempting to pass unnoticed. Two ways of dressing entirely at odds yet sitting comfortably on his frame. And there is the accent, a slight nasal resonance with a distinct vowel shift that she has heard before in Llyr, from one of the other students in the academy.  It’s not very notable, but just enough for it to snag at the edge of her senses and draw her to a stop, her head tilted to the side in mild amusement. 

“I see,” she comments idly, a brow rising as she files away the neat diplomacy of his choice of words regarding the magisterium and the patricians. It’s good to know, for her own records, but a rather unfortunate tidbit of information. She will have to insist to make these donations a repeated notion then, perhaps by convincing the Domerians that it will do a good boost to their reputation. It is a bit annoying that she must resort to politicking to convince others to help, but at the end of the day, aid is aid. “I will have to keep that in mind while I stay in the city.”

Her smile widens at his next words, and she leans forward just enough to show her interest, eyes glittering with amusement. 

“What a funny coincidence,” she mentions lightly, eyes half closing in her mischief. “I happen to think your accent is rather familiar as well. So yes, I am rather apt to participate in this little challenge.”

A hum as she considers him one more, eyes dropping to his feet and making her way upwards in a slow and methodical sweep. She had guessed he was either a refugee or a transplant, but it is good to have some degree of confirmation. And it’s good to see that not all refugees are hounded by misfortune. 

his inhales sharply, ready to answer her next question before she cuts in with his own joke, and tal is left with a lung full of air and nothing funny to say. she knows exactly what he was about to say before he even said it. sometimes it infuriates him. sometimes it's endearing. this time? it's both. he rolls his eyes, deflating somewhat as he exhales, disappointed. "in that case, I must say I haven't. I've been good."

he smiles fondly at her biting into the sweet tart, even if he does have a hunch that she already had her fill of them. he would've done the same, after all. he takes another bite, then holds the last of it up to her lips again. somehow food is even sweeter when it is shared.

his smile freezes, before it slowly begins to fade away at the mention of a party. a deep, almost embarrassed hum escapes him as memories of last night come flooding in. "about that..." once his hand is free, taliesin walks over to the dumplings, not even caring enough to grab a set of chopsticks and simple grabbing one with his fingers. "we may have to stay away from parties hosted by a certain lady for a while. I seem to have made a bit of a mess."

Valdís cannot say too much in the matter before she is erupting in silent laughter, shoulders shaking as she turns her face slightly to the side to bury her mouth on her palm as if to contain the helpless amusement the bizarre conversation had tickled out of her. She is still snickering under breath as she hears the comment about his partners, so she makes the point to lower her palm and turn back to Tal to show him the slow and deliberate way she rolls her eyes at his shenanigans. 

“You should come with a warning, then, just so I get to avoid running into the more cowardly of your partners when you bring them back here for your funtimes,” she says with an exaggerated sigh. It’s not like she actually minds, considering she has brought a handful of the most trustworthy members of her roster over a few times or so, but it is always embarrassing for the coward and while Valdís has no particularly strong feeling about seeing someone leave Tal’s room — she tells herself until she believes it—, second hand embarrassment is one of the few forms of embarrassment she does feel and rarely she feels bad for the poor fuckers, even if they undeniably knew what they were signing up for— Which, in the same vein. Blinking slowly at the blatant lie, Valdís raises a brow in both amusement and mild suspicion. 

“You are rarely good, you ginormous brat,” she says, unable to hide the blatant fondness dripping from her words as she pokes at his own to see if anything gives. “Which means something must have happened recently to keep you in your good behavior, spill.”

She goes to snark further, but she finds herself blinking in bemusement at the offering of the last piece of the tart. The former fondness that had been dripping from her words pools at the back of her ribs, and she sighs in amused defeat as she takes the last piece into her mouth— Taking the liberty to nibble at his fingers playfully as she looks up at him from beneath her lashes with a particular brand of intent she knows Tal will recognize without problem. 

Valdís is considering the time, weighing whether there is enough for the idea that has begun to form on the back of her head when an uncharacteristic sound has her shoulders tensing and her metaphorical hackles raising. 

Gaze cutting back at Tal, she lets her eyes dance over his face, taking it in as she tries to find the reason behind the note of— Was it embarrassment? From Taliesin Vos? It couldn’t be. Oh, but it was. 

Exhaling sharply in sudden alarm, Valdís stands up, ignoring the sound of the chair being forcibly pushed against the floor as she circles the table in two big steps so she is crowding Tal into the table. Hand reaching up, she grasps his chin carefully— thumb falling beneath his lower lip and her index curled under his chin — before gently turning his face until their eyes meet. 

Closer now, her eyes flit through his face for signs of anything beyond the lack of the typical smile on his face. 

he doesn't visit as often as he'd like. it's not out of some kind of devout sensibility in him. where he comes from, worshippers of the lady of the eternal flame are all but extinct. there is no reason for cave-dwellers to worship the sun, after all. there are other deities to devote oneself to in the caverns of nyth'thrael. the reason rook visits the temple of sunfyre, however, is because of the people that frequent it, rather than the Lady herself.

refugees, beggars, those in need of food come here for a chance to live another day, hoping that those of means would take pity, show their generosity in the name of the flame, and lend a hand. rook wishes he could come more often. gather more food, raid some well-to-do patrician's pantry and give these people a feast. instead, all he has is a basket, the contents of which will surely be finished in less than an hour, with more hungry mouths left than he began with.

when he arrives, though, and sees the refugees lining up, he has to admit to be surprised. could this be a game played by some politician to curry the small-folk's favor?

his gaze lands on the lady speaking to him, quickly deducing that she is no politician. or at the very least, no one he knows. and he knows plenty. 'do you see, friend? the Lady shines down upon us this day!' one of the refugees, an older woman by the name of gaia regards him, and he merely smiles. "that she does," his voice is soft as he takes a warm pie stuffed with vegetable stew from his basket and hands it over to gaia. "for your sons."

when he turns to the unknown woman he remains silent for a while, brows knitted together as he's trying to figure out her intentions. whether there are any of ill-will. when he can't come to the conclusion, however, he finally speaks. "you're not from around here."

It is, however, rare for her to be interested in the person judging her if she has not deemed them useful to use for her own means. The man before her is a stranger, and beyond that, his identity is shadowed by a brass mask with rather interesting craftsmanship. It is elaborate enough to signify some degree of wealth to those who know their metalwork, or some degree of skill. Not uncommon within Aurea, but even a few hours in the Temple of Sunfyre have led her to believe that perhaps such level of wealth and/or skill is rather uncommon for visitors of the temple. 

It is enough to pique her curiosity and her interest, so she remains smiling under the hidden gaze, an amused brow raised high as her clasped hands idly play with her rings as she waits for a judgment to be passed. 

Once it is, she cannot help the startled laugh that escapes her, her smile widening into a grin as her eyes dance with glee. Now that is a funny assumption to make merely because they were told that fresh fruit might be available for him to take back home with him. A clever one, but funny nonetheless. Or at least she must think of it as funny, lest she begins too deeply about the implications, about the lack of care the magisterium seems to have for the people they are meant to serve. 

The Principality of Zulara might be gone, and time at Llyr might have erased many of the prejudices born from her culture’s beliefs, but while she no longer thinks that magic should never rule over men, Cleonice knows that it is meant to serve mankind. 

The Magisterium is failing to do just that. 

All of this is to say that Nike had absolutely no idea someone had approached her while she had been muttering to herself, so when the presence made himself known—  Well, she is rather startled, and rather loudly so. 

“Motherfuck—,” she swears, shoulders jumping in surprise as she takes one step to the side and slips on wet brick. “Shit.”

Extending her arms to keep herself balanced, she waves them around for a moment, before bringing one back to her chest to rest over her racing heart. Glancing on the direction of the sound, she meets the eyes of the speaker and offers him a grimace that turns into an apologetic smile. 

“Forgive me, I wasn’t paying too much attention to my surroundings and so I was— Well, pretty startled is one way to put it, isn’t it?” She asks dryly, clearing her throat and straightening to her full height. “But yes, I am. I am a researcher of sorts and at times it’s rather useful to talk to myself to work my way through a problem or another.”

The offer that follows has her smile widening into something less startled and more sincere, even if a thread of wariness does circle her heart. Beware the good intentions of an Aurean, she had told herself when she had first arrived upon the city shores, and she still stands by that, even if she does tend to give most the benefit of the doubt if she can afford it. 

“I am heading towards the wealthier parts of the city,” she offers, not quite willing to specify that she is heading to the estate of one of the wealthier families just yet. “I was making my way back to my lodgings from the Temple of Sunfyre and I then entered a shop and lost my way, so even directions back to the temple would be helpful.”

A light hum as she considers her options. 

“If neither is possible, I suppose I will take directions to that shop. My time in Llyr has made me a fairly good haggler so hopefully I can get the map at less of an exorbitant steal.”

what she says next is familiar something only those that know taliesin well enough would say. after all, no one else would think that someone that's capable of all he's achieved so far would simply forget to provide nourishment for his body. in all honesty, he's never thought about it too much before. all he knows is that he's fortunate to have allies like valdis in his circle, paying attention to things he sometimes overlooks. "I haven't put anything poisonous in my mouth in months." if one elects not to count some of the unfortunate souls he's brought to his bed since.

he approaches her, carefully holding a tart up to her parted lips with a smile. he didn't miss the disappointed sigh that left her at the mention of nothing fun being brewed in his mind just yet. it isn't exactly the whole truth, as he has various ideas circling around. it's only that none of them have anything to stand on yet. he would hate to announce something exciting, only to disappoint her more later. her reaction is so much sweeter when the whole plan comes as a surprise. "you need not worry. I'll make sure to have something fun for you by the end of the week."

“The only thing that bite mark proves is that you have freakishly sharp teeth,” she teases, but only partly. The whole ordeal had been bizarre and harmless in the long run, but Tal’s teeth had broken skin. Valdís had dismissed it easily at the time, more occupied on laughing her way into falling out of his bed at the realization that he had thought her bread of all things. Then she had been offended at being told she wasn’t even the good kind, but stale of all things. What he doesn’t know, it’s that for all her teasing about the bite, she did have about two small scars in the place where his canines had dug into flesh. They were mostly hidden by a smattering of freckles, but privately it made the entire conversations ten times as amusing for her. “And that I have to feed you before you go to bed so that you don’t chomp your next bed companion before the morn. Washing that much blood from your sheets would be a nightmare and a half.”

The jest is in good nature, since she doesn’t mind ensuring her forgetful bird got properly fed, but sometimes she wonders what he would do without her insistence of keeping him fed. Then she reminds herself that somehow Taliesin seems to attract just the type of people that desperately want to ensure he is properly fed lest he put something unnamable in his mouth. Again. 

“Poisonous? No. But have you eaten anything potentially dangerous?” She asks pointedly, eyes meeting him sharply as she waits for a response, but not before adding a little something to amuse herself in the process. “And no, eating out your partners doesn’t count, birdie.”

Heavens know that he has a type, and that type tends to be the sort that is very familiar with either a blade or a cutting spell, sometimes both. That she cannot begrudge, though, considering she also gets a thrill from both the chase and from having a bedfellow capable enough of killing her but fond of her antics enough not to do as much. 

Biting into the tart once it touches her lips, Valdís lets out a hum of delight as she closes her eyes to enjoy the flavor. Yeah, she had made a good choice at insisting to the bakers that adding tarts to their repertoire would be worth it. If she is about half their revenue when it comes to those same tarts? Well, it’s much easier to get Tal to eat if he has a sweet treat included in the ordeal. And, maybe, just maybe, she enjoys seeing his smile when he realizes he is getting to wake up to his favorite sweet. But who is to say?

Towering pillars of pale marble stood untouched by time, an open courtyard doo opening to a koi pond, gardens of evergreen covered in pink petals; the trees had blossomed beautifully under his watchful eye, the grounds tended with almost obsessive care, any mistake was a good enough excuse for cruel punishment when the young Kwon was left by himself. Each path was deliberate, each blossom placed as though even nature itself had been forced into unruly submission to cater to his whims, his standards—it was quiet here, only the soft breeze and gentle rustle of leaves to keep him company. He enjoyed this place, his father never ventured this far.

Here, the young lord spends most of his days basking in the warmth of the sun filtered through the hazy clouds above, pale gold pouring down the length of his shoulders as he awaits for the arrival of his guest with all the patience of a man not used to being refused—no, not a man, a boy, masquerading as a sylph, draped in the softest silks and adorned in glittering gold, he embodied all the gilded rot of the city: tantalizing and beautiful, and gravely ill beneath the flesh; death-ridden, covered in the perfume of early spring and sickly sweet undertones of night-blooming jasmine, which carries in the fabric of his gowns, whisked into the air by a playful breeze.

He was raised as a pretty bird, happy to be in its cage, coddled and repeatedly told to ignore the problems that lurked beyond these walls—he looked so serene compared to the chaos outside, lounging lazily beneath the cherry tree, outstretching every limb towards the heavens in a lazy stretch like a pampered house cat; joints popping, bones shifting beneath the flesh; he sets his papers down as the voice pierces through his reveries—notes of spells written by a now dead magister, in a code he'd been attempting to decipher for days—old men held tightly to their old secrets, but he had made alarming progress already and had no intention to give up. Soon, he was confident he would get what he wanted. He always did.

Bracelets dangle from his wishbone ankles, clattering like cymbals as the boy pushes himself to his feet, heels padding across the soft grass with effortless elegance; an effervescent youthfulness spilling from him as he hurries over, robes draping down his body, pooling between his thighs as the purple sheen of his scaled hips catches the light, peeking sensually through the high slits of his robes.

"Wasn't it? My father insists on less accident-prone methods, but I find most people enjoy a little flair," Baeksa smiles, and his yellow eyes shifting towards the woman wondering what it was that she came seeking—he is only one of many of the serpents of Aurea, but if she keeps her eyes open, he is confident she'd spot the others, even if they did not have scales to show for it. Baeksa has played these games of since he was a child—learned to recognize ambition from miles away, lives and dies by the belief none goes to another without wanting something. The only question was always what—and it did not always come easy, but answers always unraveled before those who who were determined enough to insist on it. "Besides, peanut likes the exercise," Baeksa extends his arm towards her, then, poised and waiting. "This way," he gestures. "I've prepared some omija tea for us," he looks expectant, gold bracelets chiming softly as the young lord moved his hand to tuck away a blond lock, already taking proprietary hold of her arm with all the intimacy of a child eagerly welcoming a new playmate into the sandbox. "They tell me you're very smart… are you any good at strategy games?" he leans in to whisper, partially covering his mouth as if sharing a particularly naughty secret. "The servants think I don't know they always let me win…"

Curious and curiouser. 

Strange, yet not altogether alarming, as shapeshifters do often develop the traits of their other form. Judging by the slit on Lord Baeksa’s eyes, and by the little serpent that had found her with his invitation, the pieces slot into place as to the skin of the creature the man before her feels most at home in. There is a further sense of otherness exuding from the other, an inhumanity on the near perfection of his appearance. Most, she could attribute to particular care chosen on what to wear and how, as she uses a similar technique to make herself interesting enough to draw the eye, yet innocuous enough not to be seen as a treat at first sight. Those clever enough to know her field of study, would know that it does not take a great deal of presence to tear a field asunder, simply a well placed pen on a paper. Those clever enough to know her field of study, know to be wary not of the magic manifesting on her hands, but of the cards hidden in her sleeves. 

Not all that meets the eye is the truth, not all that glitters is gold. Thus, Nike does not relax in the presence of beauty despite her own fondness for symmetry and art. She does not lower her guard at the presence of glittering golden eyes nor hair, nor the near fey impishness settled quietly on the curve of his lips. Cleonice may have a fondness — and a weakness—  for beautiful people, but wariness and practice have prepared her for moments such as this, where her tongue sits heavy for a moment and she cannot speak without giving the game away. 

Lips twisting into a more amused smile, she runs her tongue by the back of her teeth, poking her canine with just enough force to smart, and suddenly her tongue no longer sits so sluggishly. 

“A little flair makes one memorable,” she agrees lightly, laughter dancing at the edge of her words. It had been a memorable experience indeed, and she regrets speaking and not getting an encore, yet her fondness for snakes did not preclude Krat’s hunger for their kind. “Alas, I must ask for a different approach next time,” she begins to say slowly, bold and confident enough to know there is a next time, yet apologetic enough to show there is no sense of superiority on that knowledge. “My familiar’s species is a natural predator to small snakes, and although Xenokrates knows better than to hunt in Aurea without proper permission, instinct can be rather powerful for the first few seconds of spotting a snake. This time dear Peanut was safe because I noticed him first, but next time such a thing is not assured.”

Cleonice allows the manhandling from the younger magi, hiding her amusement at the act being done by someone much shorter with what she is beginning to think as a rather imperious personality behind a raised brow as she listens to his words. 

“I must confess a lack of familiarity regarding this omija tea,” she begins slowly, not quite happy to admit her lack of knowledge regarding something but self-aware enough to know that this is likely not a fault of her own. Unless one considers living comfortably but not lavishly a fault. Considering the setting, she has to endeavor a guess as the rarity of such a tea, for the man dragging her further into the garden does not seem the sort to enjoy anything but the finer things in life. “May I ask about its origins?”

Another laugh leaves her lips, this time sharper and more openly amused at the conspiratorial tone the other had taken. Sharing secrets is a good way to create trust, even when such trust is artificial, and she has to wonder if that is what Baeksa is attempting, or if she is just too weary of his house altogether. Regardless, she knows better to believe the secret is as important as the act makes it seem.