#script: baeksa.

"Here is fine," the young lord Chae demanded with a dismissive wave, climbing out of the carriage with a huff, ignoring the protests of the staff as he climbed out before reaching the gates of his elusive, stifling home, which were all too eager to close behind him, he's certain. "I need some fresh air," he did not, but he needed an excuse. Home sweet home. He is off before his parents have a chance to come fuss, he ought to make himself scarce, the young Lord thought, disappearing down a path he knew too well. They would have him all to themselves soon enough.

He kicks the foot of the chair, just lightly, it barely does anything—he doesn't really want it to, he's just trying to figure out a strategy to best elicit a response, a way to approach; it's a situation which demands compassion and genuine tact, of which Baeksa has none. He could feign it, of course, cover him in sticky, syrupy sweetness and meaningless words to veil the ugly truth, promises which hold no real weight. 'You will recover' when they might not, 'you will rebuild' they might never be able to do, 'all is not lost' it most certainly is. "You still look pretty when you're devastated," he offers instead, which to him was a small comfort—but perhaps to Lathander it was no comfort at all. It's the only truth he can offer; what good would it do to speak those hollow things? His house would still be ashes, the flames would not subside and time would not turn back because he is cradled in someone's arm and told sweet, empty lies that could only provide momentary relief, if that.

The boy lands with a soft thud on the brown floor beneath, the dead leafs scattered about cushioning his fall as his back hit the floor, a sharp pain to the back of his skull making him wince. "Blast and damnation..." he cusses under his breath, through his teeth, his rage blooming red on the apples of his cheek. Visibly affected, he forces himself to be still---having to settle for begrudgingly laying there, looking up at the dangling fruit, swirling, red and delicious, that he had failed to snatch, now cursing his own weak nature; why is his body so utterly incompetent? Curse his parents. And curse everyone who...

A sing-songy whine swells in the room like a birdsong, calling for him as his body already melts in the shape of his brother's back, silk dripping down his back, his long, unbound hair cascading down the arch of his shoulders, spilling smoothly, cool like spilled milk, and as he pours himself down onto him in his weariness, offering his pitiful body some much needed reprieve from the night, his wishbone arms reach towards him, slithering languidly atop his brothers strong shoulders to ensnare.

The soft padding of his feet were light against the ground; a boy made of air, sylph-like in how he glided, how he moved with effortless grace, seeming to hover above ground. The fragrance in the air was sweet and treacherous, and the very wind too eager to play with him, an impish breeze whispers through the silk fabric of the robes and Baeksa stifles a laugh, his jewels clattering faintly, a chill curling around his waifish form before warmth invaded him once more; it was an eternal summer here, such pleasant weather—the colors were more vibrant, the birds more lively, the melancholic shade of blue from his home forgotten, the feverish colors a welcome change in senary. The oleanders thrived, beautiful in their delicate, poisonous bloom; swaying, rocking against the wind. He had gathered a few, thinking of her, brought them like an offering cradled between his wishbone arms, gathered in delicate, white tufts held intimately against his chest, his dainty hands, smooth hands, clutching their dagger green leaves. It was impolite to come empty-handed, after all

All the childish excitement drains from his face as his head whips back to spot Taemris' familiar face, his eyes wide and incredulous, his crumbled form on the grass suddenly aghast; you'd think him not used to the sight of injuries when it could not be further than the truth. "Morvaen—" those plush lips round into a perfect, bewildered 'o', a quiet, soft vowel cushioned against his tongue.

His dainty, bare feet push him off the ground, padding over to the assassin across the vibrant, velvety grass in a rush, dropping all the beautiful flowers he had been collecting, colorful petals scattering about, floating to the ground as he saunters off, doll-like head lolling, fair lashes blinking unwittingly. "Oh, my... what horrors did you endure during my absence? May I not leave you be for even a moment?" the scolding is a soft as a feather plucked of a winter bird, his hand gentle as it reaches for his cheek, molded for the single purpose of cupping, but doing so without touching—he leaves a gap, as if expecting the other to lean, pushed onto his tiptoes to reach him. "Now, what kind of savage would hurt such a beautiful face, mm?" he coos, tucking one of the remaining flowers in his grip still behind the arch of his ear.

"Oi!" the small, pale sylph-like spirit beckons from its perch, standing high atop the stone balcony, the moon a halo behind his skull, the milky white of his gown rustling against a playful breeze as he hurries to wave Lathander over with those dainty fingers, tiptoeing closer to the center, and bending himself awkwardly to peek at him through the doorway. "You—where do you think you're going?" he's all saccharine as he calls, despite all, heavy-lidded and too relaxed for a proper scolding. "I'll take your apology in cursive," he informs. "I like... long loops and hearts dotting the i's..." a pause, and as he leans, his lips to stretch mischievously. "But I suppose if you insist I will consider letting you suck me off."

The young lord's willowy figure shifted in its seat with an air of arrogance and superiority; the winter bird he was, glorious against the pale moon, crowned in a sanctifying glow that spills down the length of his small shoulder in a cascade of white. "Well, look at you... don't you look like a painting of melancholy, all by your lonesome." he croons, deceptively sweet as usual; he hadn't asked to join him, his parasitic presence seldom asking for permission to worm its way in. He did not make a habit of conversing in public, alas, so long as it was not frequent enough he did not seem the harm. Best than to avoid entirely, that would be even more cause for suspicion. His parents would not approve, of course, but then again when had he ever asked for permission? Best to apologize later than risk being denied, it's what he thought.

Perching his chin atop his bony knuckles, the young Chae's clever eyes shifted periodically, always watching, studying, filing away thoughts for a later, searching for opportunity and leverage. Politics were a bore, but they a necessary evil. He was not such a fool as to think ignorance was bliss—ignorance was the slow, agonizing death of progress and civilization. If Nocturnia itself, in all of its ancient glory, was not proof of it, he did not know what could be.