“Hello there, Del. You’re looking rather lovely today. Would you perhaps like to… hold hands on the way to the gallery?”

Unfortunately, because his reflection was not the woman in question, it did not respond. Cyran sighed, his shoulders slumping as his confidence dim.

“Lunala, I sound stupid.” He breathed, delicately pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “How old am I, thirty-seven?”

Once more, his reflection did not answer, even as he offered the mirror a petulant glower. Despite the assassin’s best attempts to clean himself up, Cyran still felt himself rather unimpressive. His wardrobe was centered around comfort and ease of maneuverability, not style - sure, he had a few noble pieces left over from court appearances and undercover disguises, and some from the even more recent adventure on the Judeia, but none of those were real. None of those were him. And the pieces Cyran did own were all black, easy for cleaning blood out of. In the end he’d settled for a turtleneck and a cloak, but he still felt woefully inadequate. He was supposed to look… nice, wasn’t he? The entire point of courting was to demonstrate that you were worthy of offering your hand in marriage.

Perhaps the sentiment was old fashioned, but Cyran’s first courting and marriage was one of obligation. In his youth, there had been no feelings involved. He wanted to do this properly. Del deserved respect and admiration. She deserved to know that he was someone who would treat her with the upmost love, and ensure that she would never want for anything. That was the duty of a husband, and it was a rather poor showing if he couldn’t even pull himself into a decent state.

Cyran sighed, readjusting his braid for what felt like the hundredth time. He’d woven leaves into the delicate strands of hair, but even the traditional hairstyle could not hide the strands of gray, nor could the plain silver circlet he’d found in the remnants of Astrid’s treasure hide the signs of age on his face.

It would have to do. He’d made himself as nice as he could, but Cyran couldn’t keep agonizing over his appearance. He was just going to keep Del waiting. Cyran turned back to his bed, grabbing Wraithsbane and hooking the blade to his belt. These days he rarely walked around visibly armed, especially in Darkveil, but this was more a ceremonial gesture than anything. A visible sign that he appreciated and cherished Del’s hand. Once the dagger was secured, he turned to his other gift - the first step in the courting process.

Something homemade, to demonstrate your skills. It was difficult for Cyran’s hands to create when they were meant to be covered in blood, but even crimson stains could be made to look beautiful. He only hoped that Del was partial to red.

He tucked the gift in his bag with delicate, almost trembling hands. It felt like a ridiculous showing, all of it. Only time would tell if Del enjoyed this, or the outing the duo had planned for today. A gallery showing from a local Darkveil artist, meant to foster goodwill and community after all the turmoil from the recent rise in cult activity and the activity from the volcano. The idea was laughable, but the world had felt so bleak as of late. Cyran would take whatever happiness he could get. Besides, he would relish any opportunity to spend time with Del - without being kidnapped, without jobs, without anything. Just a day. A day with the woman he loved.

Despite his nerves, that thought brought a smile to Cyran’s face. Love. Something he never thought was possible for men like him. But it seemed to be reciprocated, he thought. Marriage didn’t mean love, but that didn’t matter. Any way, shape, or form that Del wanted him, he would accept. A marriage of convenience, a union between friends, or genuine love - that wouldn’t change how he felt about her, or his desire to give her a good life.

More than that he just enjoyed her company.

With that in mind he made his way down to the lobby of the orphanage, ready to wait for Del so they could make their way to the gallery.

---

Quest Name: Paint me like one of your Sol City girls
Participants: Two or more
Location: Darkveil
Post Requirements: 5 post per person, 200 words per post
Reward: +1 Renown
Description: An ambitious painter in Darkveil has created a magical painting that allows viewers to enter the work of art. However the spell has malfunctioned, causing the artist to become trapped inside their own painting. They now need help, someone to go in, encounter the obstacles that have now come to life and save the painter from their own spell. The details and story of the painting can be entirely up to you. Have creative freedom with the story of this quest.

Del was a woman who was known for her adaptibility and her unflappable poise in the face of danger and uncertainty. She was adept at overcoming obstacles, and had many contingencies for a variety of situations and potential outcomes.

Except, it seemed, for this one.

Standing in front of a small pile of clothes at the end of her bed, Del presses her knuckles against her lips, trying not to panic but very much panicking. Which was silly. But also not silly at all. It was a date. A true date. One that didn't occur from happenstance during work, or while on the road, or as a result of running errands as such precious time they had spent together before had been. While those incidents could be written off as outings of convenience or friendly attendences for the sole purpoe of not trying to read into either of their intentions, this one was a planned, deliberate extension of a formal offer to attend somewhere together, in interest of... of...

Romance.

And Del couldn't decide on the yellow or the blue.

"Come on, come on, it doesn't matter, just pick one," she mutters vehemently at herself, chewing her lower lip. The clothes were her day to day wear, plus a couple of suggestions from Eameia that were of the skirted variety. She still had the clothes from when they were aboard the Judeia, but those hadn't been her. That had been Elen. And so, it did matter, very, very much.

The past few months of growing closer, of bonding in times of chaos, joy, and neutrality, had become too wonderful to ignore how her feelings had grown with them. She herself wasn't quite sure when it had happened, was not as experienced in the realms of relationships and romance as others as a result of her being hunted for the past few decades, but as much as she had tried to rationalize neutral, friendly reasons for her newfound emotions, she had long since stopped denying how special Cyran was to her. How much she adored him. That getting to know him and having him in her life was a joy beyond bliss. That she wanted to do right by him, to put in time and effort into making him happy, for as long as she had the pleasure of knowing him.

Now, she had to somehow convey that in her appearance.

It was almost scary how out of her depth she was. Dates were so far outside of her typical norm, and though she and Cyran had spent considerable time together in eachother's company, she nonetheless found herself wanting to make an impression. To, perhaps... show off a little?

She presses both hands to her cheeks. What a scandalous thought. ...But, Cyran was the only person she had actually wanted to perceive her in such a way, at least as far as she could remember. So much of her time had been in the shadows, hiding from those who pursued her, and existing merely as what she might be able to do for others as a means of avoiding notice. He saw beyond that. Saw her to her very soul.

And maybe... if he saw her today, with the intention of this date, then perhaps-- perhaps-- he might wish to have her in his presence more often. Perhaps daily. Perhaps... always.

Wouldn't that be wonderful?

She shake her head of such thoughts; she still had to meet with Cyran, and before that, properly get dressed. Gods help her-- of all the things she could be stuck on, today of all days, it was what to wear. Covering her eyes with her hand, she randomly reaches down into the small pile of her belongings and selects the garment she will don. With the fates having decided, she moves to get ready for her date with her beloved Cyran.

---

Despite the indecision and general fluster, Del descends the stairs on time, the blue dress swaying around her legs as she makes her way down. Her hair is styled in tight braids along the sides of her scalp with the Ash Rose threaded through one, above her ear, leaving the top of her curls to puff and flow down the back of her head. Her stomach is a mess of twisting knots, a furious fluttering that increases the moment she lays eyes on Cyran. His head bound in a circlet, silver leaves woven through his hair, wearing a modest, but well fitting long-necked shirt and cape. He looked...

"Wow." It slips out. She swallows and continues to make her way down the stairs, looking at Cyran shyly.

She felt a little under-dressed suddenly. And also... they appeared to be matching a little, colour wise. Del feels her face begin to warm with heat.

"You look-- um, good morning," she cuts herself off, laughing quietly at herself. "You look, ah. Stunning. Very nice. This, uh, is for you." she holds out her hand, to offer him a wood carved flower she had held there; this one a lapel or cape pin, carved to resemble the hanging bells of lily-of-the-valley as held in a vase.

Blue.

A color associated with tranquility and peace - the calm of the sky and the deep of the sea. As saturated as a precious sapphire, or as muted as a cloud drifting through the sky. But in that moment, as Del made her way into the foyer, Cyran could not help but associate blue with Love.

It was a sleeveless dress, one that left her muscles on full display - though that only served to make her look more elegant, the ruffles of the skirt swaying behind her as she made her way closer to him. Her hair was styled differently, curls pulled into some semblance of order with tight braids, with the ash rose that Cyran had left on her doorstep woven within. The earthy tones of her dress, the blue bringing out the gold in her eyes, and the brightness of her smile all looked like they’d come from a nymph straight out of a painting. And as she handed him a small wood-carved flower, Cyran found that he had been entirely stunned speechless.

Oh, she was speaking to him. Saying… something - she thought he looked stunning? Next to her Cyran thought he looked like a mere stain compared to her light. “Stunning?” He laughed, though it was not an unkind sound. “Well you look enchanting. I’ve found myself so enamored that I can’t even speak properly.”

Oh, gods, had he said that out loud?

“Gift!” He said suddenly, wrapping his cool hand around the pin offered to him. His fingertips brushed her own as he grabbed what she’d offered to him, and no matter how many times they’d held hands or shared the same bed or… intimate moments… the feeling of her hand against his own still sent sparks all the way up his chest. Maybe it was because of their bond, or maybe it was just because every day with her felt like a new and exciting one, and every small casual piece of affection offered to Cyran made him feel like he was only a century old again and still dreaming of the day he would find love. He thought he had it now, and that sensation would never get old.

He stared down at the carving she’d made for him. It was a smaller flower than the one still residing in a vase on his office desk, and not the same as a rose. This one looked like… a lily of some sort, if he had to guess, with a small metal clip on it designed to hook to a cloak. A pin? Cyran smiled wide enough that his eyes crinkled with warmth and gratitude. Odd, that such a small gesture could feel like such a big thing.

“I love it. Thank you, Del… I… my gift feels rather small in comparison.”

He hooked the woodcarved pin to his cloak before reaching into his bag and delicately pulling out the small gift he’d made for her - a flower crown woven of flowers of all colors, of white and gold and pink and black, with sprigs of blue and deep red berries. It was a silly little thing, the kind of flower crowns he used to weave for Marlow during their outings to the garden or ventures to the Lantern Light Woods. But it felt rather juvenile now.

“I didn’t know you were going to make your hair look all nice… you don’t have to wear it now if you don’t want to - or at all, really - honestly if you want to just put it away so you can press the flowers later you can, but, um, here. For you.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, holding out the gift to her.

“Um, the gallery. If you’d like we could…” Oh, dear god, he wasn’t actually going to ask her to hold hands, was he? Cyran thought he could at least spare one moment of dignity for himself, as Del took the crown, and merely offered her his hand to take as they walked, should she choose to.

Her heart wrenches at his eloquent compliment, feeling the heat rushing to her face already. Enchanting? Found himself enamoured? Of her??? She was apt to faint then and there, scarcely knowing what to do with such lofty, lovely words. He said he could hardly speak properly, but his speech seemed more than fine to her. Dust and ash, she felt like she was on fire. “I uh, you’re—that’s so sweet of you, i-it means a lot you think that. Your… ah, your hair looks gorgeous.” is all she manages to get out, feeling terribly flustered. He was so beautiful, so elegant and refined. Words were wholly insufficient.

Without question, she had never felt this way before, about anyone. Never so hopelessly enamoured.

Del inhales quietly at the sparks that jump from him to her when their hands briefly touch, sending her limbs alight and settling in her chest like fireworks. Her smile turns from nervous to gentle as she watches him take the pin and examine it, the way his eye lit up with gratitude and a gentle, sincere appreciation. How could she not melt at the sight of that smile?

“Nonsense, your gift isn’t sm—gift?” her brows lift as Cyran holds up his own gift for her, thoughtfully and lovingly handmade, an array of pink, white, black and blue blooms all arranged in a delicate crown. She gasps at the sight, a warm and wavering smile pulling at her lips as she gingerly lifts it from his hands. Before he has finished trying to offer reasons on her behalf for why she might not want to wear a flower crown just then or at all, Del has already fitted it on the top of her head. The colours went perfectly with what she was wearing. Something about ‘complimentary’, or whatever it was Eameia had been trying to explain to her the other day. That, and it made her feel… she could not remember her youth, lost to time and a terrible fall, but this small gift made her feel bubbly in a way she could only associate with that youth. “I love it, Cyran. It’s lovely, even moreso because it came from your hand and you… ah, thought of me when you were making it. I will treasure it always.”

She lifts her head to give him a querulous look when he speaks, but does not quite finish his sentence—at least, not with words. As he holds out his hand—not his arm, this time, his hand—she feels those fireworks crescendo. They’d held hands before, they’d been arm in arm before, they’d been… well. Close. Holding hands was chaste by comparison.

This time, it was different. This time, there was pretense.

The flutters, though, were not that of dread, but rather anticipation. Was it strange to be so… excited by the notion of spending time with Cyran in this context, with this pretense of delicate sweetness as they prised back the tender layers of their hearts to show one another? They already knew one another so well—almost impossibly so—they had spent weeks, months, in one another’s presence, they had an internal connection borne of their accidental ritual that seemed to bind them even more intrinsically, and yet, Del found herself absolutely giddy. Now instead of wishing she could do or say something, she felt there was now permission to make such advances. Test where these new boundaries were, and walk together with Cyran as they discovered where they both met in the middle.

Slowly, gently, she reached out to touch his hand—that thrill again, tracing electric lines along her nerves—and carefully twines her fingers through his, threading their hands together like the delicate work of art that rested on her head. “I would like nothing more.”

Del liked his hair, at the very least… she’d even called it gorgeous. Cyran would hardly consider himself a vain person - though he often prided himself in his hair, at the very least. Shaving one side of it was a reminder of his exile, that he was not quite the same as he had been in the past… and for that reason, his hair could not be worn in the same styles traditional of nobles as it once had. But he still managed, for important events. And this was an important event. Such a small outing, but far more meaning in it than he could properly name.

It was soft. It was caring. It was a bit for normalcy between two people who found themselves a little less alone in the other’s company.

How could that not be important?

And she even liked the flower crown. Cyran worried that she wouldn’t be able to wear it with her hair in braids the same way, but as he stammered though all the reasons she shouldn’t wear something so small and lame, Del had already settled it on the top of her head, a smile on her face as she offered her thanks.

And Cyran hadn’t been lying when he used the word enchanted. There were ancient children’s stories about the fae, fair folk who resided in their forest court far away from the mortals. And with the burst of vibrant color cascading around her as a few petals were shaken loose with her movements, the twirl of her dress and the brightness in her smile, it was difficult not to see her as a fae queen jumped straight out of the pages of a storybook.

He felt so stricken he couldn’t speak.

“I… you’re very welcome.” That felt much easier than saying it is a rare moment when you aren’t on my mind, or I only wish there was more that I could give you. That was the truth. Del was already a constant presence in his life. Even when she wasn’t on his mind her own warmth and emotions were nestled in his soul, a constant presence that was easy to reach out to when he was alone. There were times when he wished he could do more than just a flower crown or an ash rose.

But gods, all of that effort was worth it to see her smile.

And then they were holding hands.

Just like that.

It was silly to think that he was getting nervous over something as simple as this. In his long centuries of life, he’d been married, widowed, involved in casual, one-night relationships. Hell, he’d had a child. Cyran was no stranger to intimacy of all flavors. Proper manners aside, there was little that he thought would leave him a stuttering, stammering mess. But he knew that this was on another level than any previous relationships, because Cyran had never been in love with those people.

That made everything, even this small point of contact, made Cyran feel like he was experiencing it for the first time…

Well…

The more Cyran thought about it, the more confident he was that Del was probably the first person he’d held hands with in this way. He’d held Marlow’s hand, felt that affection in the way a parent would with a child. But this was the first time someone had wanted to be close to him in such a soft way. Their hands, intertwined, as if neither could bear to split apart in this moment. A gentle reminder. I’m here, and I will hold you.

Cyran brought their interlocked hands up to press a small kiss to the back of her palm. He felt a little more confident doing so. There was more heaviness behind the action… but he wanted to, simply because he felt like it.

He was not often a man of words… especially when it came to this. But at the very least he could express himself through little actions.

“Thank you for coming with me.” He murmured, voice filled with warmth that mirrored the feeling of her palm in his. “It’s not much, but the gallery’s supposed to be quite lovely. I think it will be a nice chance to…” Pretend everything was normal, if only for a moment, “Relax. Let our guard down. Shall we head out now? If you're hungry I can get us something to eat before the gallery."

It was hard not to fluster when he looked at her like that. It was equally hard to define what that look precisely was; it was admiring, tender, the emotions of their inherent connection a bubbling jumble of wonderful things. If she was so bold as to attribute such wonderful things to herself, Del might think that the way Cyran looked at her was not unlike someone being moved by a performance, or seeing a spectacuar view for the first time. As it was, the way his eye fixed on her left her burning, in the best possible way. For him, she could endure being percieved. Even enjoy it.

Especially when he lifted their joined hands up to his mouth, and the genuine happiness that accompanied his gratitude of her attending with him. Gods, she could melt here and now.

She had discovered with their trip to Frost Gale that such things, like his lips brushing against her hand, felt right to her, felt good. Because what made it feel good was that it meant something.

Because he meant something.

And when he kissed the back of her hand, his silver eye carefully meeting hers, she felt as though she meant something to him, too. Standing here with him, hand in hand, on the verge of attending an event with the context of being together, it was hard to dispute that little flame of hope that had finally snagged that kindling after all this time. Del wasn't sure if she had ever experienced a romantic sort of love before, but... if it was anything, it must be this.

What else could make her heart soar so much when she looked at him? What other smile triggered a cascade of fireworks in her chest the way his did? The answers were none. Perhaps that was why Del knew, that to even be his focus for a moment was sensation she treasured deeply.

"Thank you for inviting me," Del whispered back, unable to keep herself from smiling. Her thumb slides along the length of his, caressing his skin with gentle appreciation and admiration. "I think it's a perfect place to explore. I'm, ah. Very glad we are getting to do this, together." She lifts her free hand to adjust the flower crown so it would stay level as they head towards the door. Her excitement was genune, too. Though she could not claim much knowledge of art, Del very much looked forward to seeing what sorts of expressions the works could ellicit from Cyran's handsome face.

Things might not be normal, but together, they could find exceptional beauty. "I wouldn't mind getting a little bite; what did you have in mind?" She enquires. Her hand lifts to touch the pin she had given him, adjusting it fondly so it sat perfectly straight. It looked incredible on him.

“I am glad as well.” That was another drawback to never having known what it meant to love another person in your life - when it came to dates and outings, he was woefully clueless. There was a proper way to do things, careful steps he was supposed to be taking to convey his affection and his desire to be close. He knew these things, had done the motions of it all back when that was required of him. But now that he was here, with someone he genuinely cared about… his previous marriage only felt all the more empty in comparison.

Maybe there should have been stress accompanied with this outing, and the desire to make sure that everything was perfect. But oddly enough, Cyran didn’t feel that anxiety. He’d spent plenty of time with Del over the past few months; soul bonds, travel on the road, working jobs, dealing with the fallout of calamity. It was impossible not to get to know a person as closely as he had gotten to know her. She’d seen him at his best and worst. And she hadn’t run. She would still be here.

And that was more than he could ever ask for.

There wasn’t much along the streets, the city still woefully empty after the earthquakes and the increased cult activity. Only those whose roots were so deeply entrenched in the city’s roots remained, life still carrying on as normal. There were still a few shops and stalls open in the marketplace along Town Square - if they wanted to grab a bit of a meal before the show, they had a good chance of finding a couple of snacks or maybe even a quick spot of tea.

Cyran remained still, a nervous smile on his features as Del readjusted the pin on the lapel of his cloak. When she was satisfied with her work, Cyran opened the door for her, and the two left and locked up Shade’s Valley before setting off in earnest.

Admittedly, he couldn’t suppress a twinge of anxiety at the prospect of leaving the orphanage even for a few hours. The last time he’d left -

No, it would be fine. Oriole and Andromeda were protecting the kids. He’d put up enough traps around the building that any stranger who didn’t know how to deactivate them would find themselves confronted with a wave of magic to cause them to forget why they’d come close in the first place. It would be fine. It would be safe.

You thought that when you left last time, too, didn’t you? And look what happened then.

Cyran squeezed Del’s hand, glancing over his shoulder at the orphanage.

“I…” He swallowed. What had Del asked him again? Food? He wasn’t hungry anymore but he could manage to scarf something down. He had to. This was supposed to be a fun, normal time. Cyran wasn’t supposed to be thinking about these things. They were both fine, and Del was still here next to him, and her hand was in his own.

Deep breaths. In, out.

“I think there’s a kebab stall on the way to the gallery that we could visit.” He suggested. The food was a light enough snack, and the cost was good. Then again, he could probably afford to splurge a bit considering the gallery tickets hadn’t cost much. If Del wanted something more, he would make sure it happened. She needed that much, and more than anything he wanted to be able to give that to her.

Del pauses head tilting slightly as Cyran falters for a moment, distracted by something else. It scarcely takes the insight of their bond to know what is upsetting him-- she only has to follow his gaze, glancing briefly back over their shoulders at the Valley to understand the sudden rush of anxiety.

It had been her fault, what had happened. Too much safety had gotten the better of her, and she had been less than careful, her lack of preparation getting both herself and Cyran captured, his safety compromised. That he wished to be with her even after that (at all, really) floored her each and every time she thought on it. A twinge of an earnest need to help, to make things right passes from her to him, returning the squeeze of his hand with one of her own.

"The windows are reinforced; the doors have new locks," She murmurs quietly, "The downstairs is secure and has a hidden exit both Andromeda and Oriole know of," she still had to show him, surprise him, with what she was building, "They are okay. We are okay."

If there was one thing Del understood well, it was the perpetual sensation of a lack of safety. She had lived the past forty-ish years under that intense stress, the fear that something would happen and people would be hurt because of her lack of attention, her presence. Though it went against these long honed instincts and patterns, being with Cyran was the safest she had ever felt. He was home for her. Even knowing that, her assurances felt... inadequate. It was one thing to say all was well; it was quite another when the circumstances had proven time and again that it wasn't. How to convey her understanding without having a full discussion about it in the street, while also reassuring him, show him that it was okay to have these thoughts and worries, and also communicate her desire to continue the day with him, in spite of the fact that her worries mirrored his own?

She bites the corner of her lip for a second in quiet debate, and then shifts upwards to press a light, chaste kiss on his cheek.

Despite the quickness of it, her lips tingle as she pulls back.

"Kebabs sound wonderful. We can eat and walk at the same time." she smiles up at him, the tug of her lips small and lopsided with that jittery warmth that filled her stomach. Odd to allow the sensation now, instead of trying to repress it, or write it off as something else. Odd, to be allowed to feel this way at all.

"The city is starting to come back together again," Del remarks as she forces herself to look around, and not stare at Cyran's lovely face the entire walk. Though she cannot help but sneak peeks every so often, her shoulder brushing against his as they strode down the street together, side by side. "I'm looking forward to the gallery; I've never been to something like this before. Do you know anything of the artist? Artists, maybe?" her amber gaze lifts to Cyran once more, interested and eager to see what he knew.

Cyran mentally cursed himself for being so transparent about his anxieties as Del reassured him about the safe exits and locks. They’d been careful when they thought they were being watched last time, and look what happened then. All the preparation in the world couldn’t account for the reality of any situation. He pursed his lips, trying to quell the anxiety that was still simmering. It was only a small comfort that this was likely how Del had lived her life after leaving her home with Maruyama. Knowing that people were after her, but not having any clue why. The confusion, the uncertainty, the fear of every eye that lingered too long and every funny look…

He wondered if she’d ever been as close to capture as she’d been that day.

It was a grim feeling, one that made it difficult to trust. It was as much a comfort to know he wasn’t alone in that thought as it was painful to know that Del had bore this pain for decades on her own.

But she knew.

She was trying to assure him she knew these fears were normal. They’d done all they could.

Del leaned forward, pressing her lips to his cheek. The kiss was brief, a feather-light touch that made his face warm. He leaned into the touch, reassured that she didn’t think less of him for these anxieties. That she had them too. He could feel them simmering underneath the surface through their bond, a constant presence.

He opened his mouth, an unspoken question on his lips. Does it ever go away?

But more prevalent than her nerves, Cyran could feel her happiness. Excitement at the prospect of spending the day outside, like a couple who didn’t have to worry about attackers or mad cultists or a bounty from the crown. Like a couple who didn’t have to worry about deceased spouses or the dark nature of their work.

Could he really have that?

He supposed it didn’t matter if he felt like he deserved to have such softness and gentility or not. The truth was that Cyran was an assassin, the last remnants of a fallen star who’d been allowed to live far too long, and Del knew this. She still wanted to remain by his side, and spend this day with him. He nodded, a small smile growing on his face that wasn’t forced. “You’re right. Okay.”

He squeezed her hand as they continued on.

The surrounding cityscape was the last thing on his mind while they walked - not while he was so focused on the woman next to him, and the nervous elation of spending a day with her, with no pretense of a friendly outing or a cover. But when she spoke, Cyran forced himself to look away from her and glance at the city. She was right - the rebuilding efforts had been progressing nicely. One could look at the buildings around the town square and almost forget that it had not been spared the destruction wrought by Mount Drakolt. That was one bonus about the people of the Ash Lands… living in such close proximity to the volcano gave its people thick skin. They were resilient.

They, too, would survive.

Cyran nodded his agreement, wondering how much of the rebuilding efforts had been funded by the ashen fathers trying to reclaim their own power. “It won’t be long now before it’s almost completely back to normal.”

He tilted his head to the side in thought when she asked about the gallery. He’d read the flier that had been posted around town, but truth be told there wasn’t much information about the artist. “I believe they’re a local… supposedly they’ve tried this new, experimental method of enchantment in their artwork.” Something about writing the spell within the blank canvas, covered up by layers of paint and color. According to the flier, it was meant to bring the user to ‘a world unlike you’ve ever seen.’ Cyran figured that meant the paintings had perhaps been enchanted to move.

“One thing is for certain. They’re ambitious.” He mused. “I’ve been to galleries before, but never one that’s attempted to include both art and magic like this.”

As they traipsed through the marketplace, Cyran pointed out a stall nestled in the corner of the crowd. A purple and red patterned cloth awning covered an enchanted cooking apparatus on which a handful of meat skewers cooked. Cyran set a handful of solars on the counter, a small, nervous part of him fluttering at the prospect of getting the opportunity to give Del things. It was such a small thing, but oh, how he loved getting to see her smile, and know that he’d helped make that happened. The vendor handed them one skewer each - equipped with food, Cyran turned back to Del.

“I think you’ll enjoy the experience. The theme is supposed to be glimpses of the world in rainbow.”

Del catches the look he gives her, the slight opening at his lips that begs an unasked question. Though neither address it outright, there still was an answer, one that Del could not quantify, but understood anyway. The short answer, was no. In Del's experience, no it did not.

That level of vigilance was something that could decrease with time and patience, but could never fully go away. Once you saw something, saw how the world was and had the veil of security ripped from your eyes, you couldn't ever unsee it. A permanence etched into the fine cracks of the soul, reminders of narrow escapes, failures, and victories. But, as Del had come to accept in her time with Cyran... enduring such things with someone, with one you trusted to be there when things became too much, made it much, much more bearable. So maybe, with that new variable at play... perhaps it could get to the point where it was a noise among the backdrop, instead of an urgent whistling in their ears.

It was fact that she had never felt more at ease, more at peace, than she did with Cyran.

She returned the squeeze as tey kept walking, feeling her chest absolutely brimming with delight at the sensation. It wasn't new to Del, but it was still novel. It was free license to show him affection.

...How had she been able to hold that back for so long?

It was a mystery, as was the details of the gallery, but what Cyran know and shared was incredibly enticing. Magic and art, mingled together for a whole new experience? What a wonder that would be. "It certainly sounds ambitious, and beautiful. I wonder if the art moves? I'm excited to get to see it firsthand, with you." she beams up at him.

Speaking of experiences, she can't help but blush as Cyran, ever the gentleman, pays for their food at the kebab stall. It really was a small thing, but she'd never met someone so generous as he was. He didn't have to, but he did it anyway. Because he wanted to. She'd be a food to deny him anything.

And smile she does, wide and genuine, cheeks still tinged a darker hue as the vendor hands them their sticks of sizzling, impaled meat.

"Thank you, Cyran. Cheers?" She holds out her stick to his to gently 'clink' off of one another, before taking a bite of hers and chewing thoughtfully. It was good, salty, hot, and well marinated. A delicious start to the day, and helping to settle her backflipping stomach.

The name of the gallery's premise strikes her with a look of surprise. The world in rainbow? "Mmm!" she swallows her bite so she can make the proper interested noises. "With a name like that, it's bound to be spectaular. Ah," She bites the corner of her smile as she looks up at Cyran's face, seeing a little stray peppercorn at the edge of his mouth, looking like a very fancy beautymark. Oh, it was cute. "You have a little something-- here." she reaches up and swipes it away with gentle fingertips and a light little laugh. A giggle, even.

What a world of rainbows, truly, where a man could make Delaela Asiliari blush and giggle like a young maiden a quarter her age. But Cyran was special that way. He brought out those litte hidden things in her that even she couldn't fathom. Truly, he was a gift.

Cyran blinked, a small smile growing on his face as Del voiced the thoughts he’d been entertaining in regards to the contents of the gallery. “I was wondering the same thing, actually.” He couldn’t imagine the magic itself was much more advanced than that… in all of his admittedly limited studies of spellcraft, Cyran had never heard of something as elaborate as magic in a work of art. There were enchantments in weapons and items, of course, but those were simple functions whose strength depended on the wielder of the items. It was an entirely different thing to design something beautiful for the sake of making beauty. Such magic was not in Cyran’s expertise.

He looked forward to seeing the fruits of the artist’s labor.

To be reminded that amongst the bleakness in the world, there was still someone who saw it in all shades of beauty.

The two collected their skewers from the vendor, and Cyran wordlessly tapped his own to Del’s when she offered cheers. “There’s no need to thank me…” He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand. “I want to be able to, um, give you nice things when I can.” He didn’t have much, and what he did was often broken and misplaced from years of neglect. But at the very least he could use his meager earnings that didn’t go towards the orphanage or the forge to help make her smile. It was a bright color, one that seemed to glow golden as her eyes crinkled at the corners and she raised the skewer to her mouth to enjoy her meal.

The food itself was warm and peppered with flavors he was beginning to recognize as extracted from the plants local to the volcano. Ash Lands food was often spicier than he was accustomed to, having been raised on the earthy and rich flavors of Moonglade, but he enjoyed it. Even on a hot summer’s day like this, the food was welcome. Loathe as he was to admit it, he’d not been eating as properly as he should the past few weeks. He simply hadn’t had much of an appetite. But standing here with Del, he managed to eat more than he had in days.

He stiffened when she raised her hand to brush calloused fingers, feather-light, against a piece of stray food from the side of his mouth. He flushed, realizing that he’d been caught in such an undignified manner, but Del seemed more amused by it than anything.

“Thank you. My hero.” The words were spoken lightly, almost in jest, but they were the honest truth. He wouldn’t be here today without her. His fighter. His hero.

He’d once likened her to a fighter who never stopped fighting for what she believed in, what she wanted. At the time, that had been her own survival. But it was still difficult for him to wrap his head around the concept that Del might believe him more precious than ensuring that she herself lived. That she would break a streak of decades of self preservation because she thought he was worth it. How did you pay someone back for that? A meal and tickets to an art show were nowhere near enough to show her all that he felt.

But listening to her giggle at his meal mishap, and listening to her excitement over getting to see a new type of art… that was payment enough for him. And Cyran felt himself slipping, slipping a little more, ever-closer to the earth.

They finished their meal while making small talk with one another, mostly about inane things. Between the meal, the company, and the prospect of a show, Cyran felt light… light enough that he thought he could fly. But he found he didn’t want to. If it meant being closer to her, Cyran would let himself fall even more.

Her expression melts further, touched. She moves to adjust the lovely ashen rose in her hair slightly, as she has no curls to reflexively tuck behind her ear. The idea of someone, much less Cyran, wanting to give her things, to shower her in trinkets and tokens of affection... well, that was what she liked to do as well, but she never thought it would be turned on her. He always gave her so much. Cyran had a way of instilling a feeling of preciousness in her, one that was new and bracing, and she could not help but thoroughly relish it.

It still felt as though she shouldn't be allowed, but since when did Delaela Asiliari relent in the face of being allowed?

"Welll, I appreciate and enjoy it, so as long as you... ah, want to provide me with these, um, things you like to... give," she had started out strong, but was faltering now, realizing she was informing him she was more than happy to receive his gifts which was, for her, quite the admission, "Then I will thank you for them, to properly show appreciation for how much I. Enjoy them. And you." Her face felt like it was boiling now. She takes a big bite of the kebab to give herself something to chew for a little while.

A bite she could have choked on hearing Cyran call her his hero. He said it so lightly, but she could feel the ring of something deeper beneath it, a sincerity in the sentiment that she couldn't possibly ignore. Hard to believe she should be anyone's hero, but to see Cyran look at her, his silver eye glimmering with warmth, she could not even begin to deny him those words. Even though, he was her hero.

He persevered through the worst of things; a terrible former spouse, a horrible family life before that, the loss of his daughter, learning how to kill as a necessity to survive... and he never lost his kindness. He grew, was molded by his experiences, and he killed, certainly, but he also saved many lives, the lives of children, the lives of others. And he did it with grace and dignity. He provided for the weak and the defenseless, gave them a home and hope. He was a genuinely good man, and one who she admired greatly. Not only because she was terribly enamored with him, or because he came for her and had gone out of his way to help her in many other ways, but because he had a good heart.

"That's my line," she murmurs back up at him, equally playful, and just as sincere. Her hand gives his a squeeze as they walk, chatting about whatever their words cross paths with, simply enjoying one another's company. Del finds herself committing those little things to memory; the slight crinkle around the corner of his eye when he smiles, the way his hair moves, the feeling of his palm against hers, the smells, the sights, the hue of the smoky sky. If she could stop time and bask in that elated feeling rising in her chest, she would.

But oh, what would happen next?

Arriving at the gallery only took a few more minutes of time, a small crowd gathering at the exterior, chattering eagerly among themselves. She lifted her gaze back to Cyran, beaming. "Certainly a good draw so far. Ready to go on in?" a small pause, as though debating letting the automatic words that had popped into her head slip over her lips. "--My Moonlight?"

Internally, she screams.

It was only natural for Cyran want to give things to someone he cared about, he thought.

It wasn’t necessarily that Cyran was a material person. He kept little for himself, aside from a few trinkets of sentimental value and his weapons. And yet, whenever he went out to travel, Cyran collected things for others, like a little magpie who got distracted by something shiny. But it wasn’t the items themselves that he was interested in. It was the memories behind them. Cyran cherished the opportunity to give others little things that they would remember, and let them know he remembered them in turn. And Cyran was more than happy to do so.

It felt entirely different altogether, though, to want to give things to another person for the sake of gifting them what they deserved, making them happy. He could not tear his eyes away as Del tucked her hair behind her ear, almost touching the ash rose he’d given her in an unconscious gesture. Like him, Del was hardly a material person. Hardly any room to be when you lived on the road and could only afford to have what you could carry on your back. But she had a somewhat stable home now, or at least he hoped. One cobbled together piecemeal between her forge and his orphanage. One she could have run from at any time she didn’t feel safe. And yet, she stayed. She’d planted roots, and Cyran just wanted to help the blossom flourish with furnishings and things she could cherish.

He finished his skewer in a couple bites - truly, he hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now. Del wasn’t the only one that had a tendency to bury her head in her work when she needed something to do. Del was fixing him with such a sincere look as he did that it was difficult for him not to feel somewhat important. He was no stranger to being depended on. When it came to dealing with children, one accepted the responsibility of being the only thing taking care of such a vulnerable little creature. The feeling of a child looking up at you like you were their whole world was his favorite thing about being a parent… but this made him ridiculously happy in an entirely different way he couldn’t properly express.

That’s my line, she said with complete sincerity.

Cyran swallowed, suddenly unable to meet her gaze for a moment. He turned away, staring down at the skewer in his hands.

“Ah.” He breathed, fumbling to grab her now-empty skewer and throw it away as well. “Um. Well I’m glad that you… I…” Lunala, we’re was his head? In the clouds, surely. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and found some semblance of his composure. “I am hardly the one that has rescued you from looking like a fool with food on their face in front of a room full of high society art types.” He teased. “Speaking of… shall we head over now?”

It didn’t take long for them to find the gallery. Despite the inherent emptiness in the town as of late, there was a sizable crowd that had gathered, all buzzing in anticipation of the spectacle inside. They flitted like butterflies in and out of the building, whispering about the beauty of the paintings inside. It had been a long time since Cyran had spent time among this kind of crowd - back then, he’d only felt stifled at these events. Now, he just felt excited. They smoothly navigated through the crowd, decades of habit having ingrained in both of them to keep their distance from other people. And yet, they remained close to one another.

Cyran moved towards the door, turning to face Del with a smile as she spoke up. “Yes, this is more than I expected to see. I suppose that means that we’re in for a treat-“

And that was the moment Del called him that name, and Cyran was so startled that he forgot what he was doing and rammed right into the gallery’s door.

“Ow.”

How embarrassing. The Specter, a widely feared assassin, so startled by an affectionate name that he’d nearly lost his footing. Cyran rubbed at his face, hoping that no one else had recognized this spectacle. He couldn’t help that he’d been surprised, though. Such names were hardly uncommon between them, and Moonlight was certainly a moniker that Del had ascribed to him in the past. But Cyran had thought that such names, back then, were attributed to a deep friendship and respect, perhaps a sign of their soul bond. He’d never thought of it in… a more romantic sense. Spoken with such affection that he almost wasn’t sure what to do with it. How did one respond to something so kind?

He turned to Del with a sheepish expression on his face. “Yes… I’m ready to go.” He moved to open the door for her, the one he’d slammed into only seconds before. “- My… my Del.” He stammered as an afterthought, as if unsure if he was allowed to call her such an affectionate name. But when he opened his mouth, there was no name that could really encapsulate how he felt about her in that moment. She was just Del, and in that moment he was more than happy to be able to call her his.

He gestured for her to head inside before following her - and it was there that his world exploded in color.

Del's head tilts to one side, an endeared smile curling the corners of her mouth as she listens to him try to decide on a sentence. He was usually so collecte and even-tempered, a pinnacle of grace and elegance... it was especially sweet to get to see this side of him, the side that pinkened his cheeks and turned his expression shy. At least this seemed to be as different for him as it was for her. It made her feel that much better about feeling so terribly awkward, and enjoy herself even more that they could share in the newness of even this.

His teasing worsens her blush, relishing his playful side of him; still, she cannot help but smile. "I don't know, maybe they would have found it so charming, they would decided to make you part of the artwork." she teases back, giggling.

--and immediately screams again, internally, at how easily those words came from her mouth. That was flirting! She did a flirt!

Fortunately, she's not the only one struggling with finding her footing.

"Oh!" she puts a hand to her mouth as Cyran walks square into the door, uttering only a quiet 'ow' as his indication that he had hurt himself. Gods. She didn't want to laugh-- wouldn't laugh-- but by the dead carcasses of the gods, he was so damnably adorable. She steps close, mouth open to ask if he was alright, when he confirmed he was ready to go, holding open the door for her, and giving her an endearment of his own. My Del.

...His Del.

Blooms erupt across her curls, shedding an array of gold-leaf petals. She clears her throat and reaches up to brush his locks off his forehead, to look at the red mark where he had run himself into the door. She gives him a wavering little smile, and stands on tip-toe, placing a light kiss on his forehead. His Del.

--She can't think of anything to say in that moment to add to it. Perhaps that's for the better, so she won't make the situation worse. Instead, she gives him a sweet smile, and takes his hand, pulling him into the gallery after her.

The exhibit is truly vibrant. A wide array of colours that almost hurt the eyes, they are so out of place in Darkveil-- Del finds herself beaming nonetheless, looking around with wide eyes at all the colour, the sculptures. A painting depicting a Crescent Islian sunset stretches across a wall. A statue made entirely of fresh flowers bends over a quarter of the room, a couple locked in a dance. Paper lanterns, with hand painted scenery of Moonglade, float around the room, chiming delicately as they pass over the heads of the people in the gallery.

"Ohh... this is amazing," Del whispers, turning on the spot as she tries to get a look at everything, skirts swishing around her legs. Across the gallery, something catches her eye, a large mural taking up the entirety of one wall, while people idly pass in front of it with nary a glance. Excitement blooms over her face. It looks so incredible, so detailed... it looks like a whole other world. She tugs on Cyran's arm, looking between him and the mural with raw delight. "Cyran, look!"

She. She didn’t just say what Cyran thought he heard, did she? So brazenly comparing him to a work of art, like he was anything close to the paintings of the gallery that people were flocked around to see. She was laughing, but she didn’t seem to be lying… which meant she genuinely believed on some level that he was worth looking at like any piece of art in a museum. That, coupled with the sudden nickname, made his heart stammer in his chest and his head ram straight into the entrance.

… He doubted she would find him so charming when she watched him run into the wall. Cyran rubbed at his forehead, brushing off any concerns she might have offered, when she reached up to press a kiss to the red part of his forehead. Despite the fact that she’d already once pressed a chase kiss to his cheek, Cyran’s face turned a delicate shade of red almost the same color as his rapidly forming bruise, before he broke out into a shy smile. This wasn’t a rare thing, was it? This wasn’t a mistake, or an accident, or something that could be passed off as a casual gesture. She’d given him once before, and Del wanted to do so again.

And he was just… allowed to have her casual moments of affection and care.

“Thank you. I’m feeling better already, my fighter.” Partially murmured in jest, an attempt to lighten the mood, but spoken with all the sincerity of someone who meant it. Because he truly was feeling better.

Cyran brought a hand up to grab one of her gold-leaf petals. Del was always so bursting with life to the point it escaped her whenever she felt strong emotions. Cyran still wasn’t sure what these petals meant - his best guess was happiness - but they had saved her life, once, when she’d had the forethought to leave him a trail. “Beautiful, as always.” He murmured as he tucked one in his pocket, still reeling from his blunder with the botched nickname. It felt like the two of them were simply fumbling side by side one another, trying to find the right things to say or do. How much they were allowed to get away with, what the boundaries were.

Cyran had loved before. Family, friends. In the hole that had lived in his chest before Marlow’s birth, he found that he had a lot to give now that he actually had people to share it with. Receiving was another matter entirely, one he still was not entirely certain he deserved, despite Del’s insistence that there was no one else she’d rather have by her side. Del loved passionately and loved fiercely. She showed it with actions, and Cyran - he wanted to give her all he could, whether that was words or items or thought or feeling, or little outings like this. Splashes of color that broke up the tense monotony of their lives. Perhaps he was not the only one who needed to learn what it meant to be cherished in turn.

He pushed those thoughts aside as they entered the gallery. A myriad of portraits in all hues and shades - Darkveil itself, in harsh and passionate red that gave away to shades of gray like fire burning into ember that left nothing behind but ash. The aurea borealis in Frostgale, greens and blues and purples that almost looked like they were moving the longer you stared at them. He paused when he saw the Moonglade lanterns, a reminder of a home that was no longer his. One that he could not entirely erase. He reached out to brush against the material of one when Del’s voice caught his attention. Cyran turned as she pulled on his arm, directing his attention to the painting that spanned the entire wall. Much to his surprise, the sight nearly took his breath away.

“Wow.” He huffed, all he managed to say as he stared at the painting. It was… actually difficult to tell where this one existed at first glance. He’d been all over Charon at this point in his life, but the scenery was difficult to place. The painting was so large it seemed to depict an entire landscape - green grass, blue and pink skies, trees that surrounded an idyllic lake covered in flower-topped lily pads. Insects buzzing to and fro, so detailed Cyran could almost hear the sound of the dragonflies and the scream of the cicadas. Each brush stroke purposeful, teeming with magic and intent and something that Cyran might even call love. A labor of it, something so real and wistful that he felt like he could almost step forward and be there himself…

“It’s so lifelike.” He marveled. He enjoyed art as much as the next person, but there was something so hopeful in this one that he almost felt entranced by it. “How lovely.”