She's still buzzing from the compliment as they meander the gallery; her little petal-explosions he thought were beautiful? And he kept one, tucking it away in his pocket. That was almost enough to make the petal explosion happen again, though Del did her best to try and tamp down on the effervescent joy that made her feel lighter than air.

How strange to go from being perpetually, agonizingly alone to having a place, a person, who felt so much like home? A familiar bed, a room, a roof over her head, sure; but it was Cyran that gave her shelter. That cherished these little vulnerable moments of flower-explosions and awkward flirting with such tender admiration in his moon-pool eye, it was almost unbearable.

Almost.

She was quite fond of the gentle, knowing way he saw her soul.

As they approach the wall, Del finds herself lost in the mural for a moment; it's elegant, it's whimsical... hopeful. It didn't look like any place she had ever seen on Charon, more like something straight out of a novel, some fantastical place that could only be dreamed of. It was... incredibly detailed. The trees looked like they were truly made of wood with the way the textures and shading looked, it looked as though the grass could ripple like waves, pushed gently along by an unseen wind.

Del lifts her eyes to Cyran, in that moment, looking at his expression of enchanted awe. A crooked smile pulls at her lips; not unlike that night when the stars fell around them, Cyran's look of pure wonderment was terribly, heart achingly endearing. "Very lovely." she agrees, her voice low.

The spell is broken by a familiar tingle on the back of her neck; the sensation of being watched. Nearby, a young human man in a cravat watches, shoulders somewhat stooped, but his face alight, eager, as he watches them. He bears a tag on his shirt of some kind, an emblem that marks him as an Artist. She relaxes a little, and returns her attention to Cyran. Nothing that would ruin their wonderful day.

Del hugs Cyran's arm, laying her head gently on his shoulder. "The way the, ah... depth works? It almost feels like you could just... walk right into it." She giggles, reaching a hand up to touch the art-- allllmost-- but doesn't, because of course not, you don't touch the pieces in the gallery, that was how you got kicked out. Or so she had heard. "The grass looks so soft, and the sky so clear. Do you think this is anywhere? I've never seen anything like this before. King's Valley maybe?" she looks up and around for the name of the piece, as that would perhaps give them some clue.

Sudden, crisp footsteps jar Del from her reverie. The Artist that had been staring them down before approaches, looking determined. "Excuse me--"

It's born purely out of reflex; She certainly doesn't need to protect Cyran, but already being a little alarmed by the staring, she can't help but feel the surge of protective adrenaline. She goes to step forward a little, trying to get their backs to the wall and her and Cyran square, side-by-side, to face whatever was coming their way. Only, in that short, split-second decision, Del realizes something quite crucial.

The wall wasn't there.

"Whh--??" there isn't even enough time to properly form a sentence before Del's momentum carries her through the wall, pulling Cyran in after her, and sending them sprawling.

Del sits up quickly, reaching a hand up to touch Cyran's face where he lays beside her, face flushed with embarrassment. She FELL. Oh, the indignity. "Oh, gods, Cyran, I'm so sorry, I--" she trails off as she realizes where they have fallen.

It is not the wooden floor of the gallery, nor a pile of plaster and canvas, where she looks down at Cyran, touching his face gently to see if he is hurt. It is a thick, soft bed of plush green grass, a scent that fills her lungs as she inhales a sharp gasp. The sky above them is the serene colour of just before sunset, pinks and blues and purples chasing down the sun. Del's eyes widen, and she looks back down at Cyran, her mind drawing a blank for any kind of explanation for a moment. "....The... the wall wasn't a wall." she stammers.

The sensation of eyes on his back brought the peace and ease in his heart to a stammering standstill. Del was hugging his arm, her posture nonchalant and relaxed, but he was certain she’d felt it, too. The artist? Cyran wasn’t sure what the young man had to gain by watching them, but for some reason he looked rather put out. Not anger directed at them, but an air of general irritation that seemed to cling to his features as the rest of the crowd marveled at his work. A shame, Cyran thought, that someone who breathed life into such colorful and passionate work would be upset on the day of its reveal to the public.

Del’s voice brought his attention away from the artist as she marveled at the painting. Her hand hovered in the air, as if wanting to run her fingers along the careful, acrylic strokes and pigments that had depicted such a beautiful landscape. Cyran nodded, inclined to agree. There was an almost mesmerizing sort of dimension to it, layers upon layers of wildlife and flowers, the swing hanging from the twisted branches of the tree, that was difficult for Cyran to draw his gaze away from. So vivid that there was only one thing that he could imagine enhancing his beauty - the woman next to him, standing amongst the field like she belonged their, turning back to look at him as she traipsed through the flowers.

“I’ve never seen this place before.” Cyran replied, looking around the gallery once more. Everywhere else, he could place. The passionate heat of the Ash Lands so warm he could almost feel them radiating from the portrait. The cold, yet foreign beauty of Frostgale. But this, he could not pinpoint. “I’m not sure. It looks like it could be of the Valley, but not any part of it I’ve ever seen. Perhaps this is straight from the artist’s imagination?” He mused, that niggling feeling still in the back of his mind. Del was not exaggerating when she said it felt as if you could reach out and touch it. It was real, too real…

Before he could puzzle it out, a voice startled him. Cyran whirled around at the exact same time Del did, though the elven warrior was faster. She placed herself between Cyran and the artist, a hand on his shoulder as a surge of protectsavehelp rushed through the bond.

Fortunately, Del was, ah, quite strong.

Strong enough to knock a normally sure-footed assassin off-balance, strong enough that Cyran, though he made an attempt to grab at her shoulder and prevent from falling, they’d both suffered from the same logical fallacy. Namely, that there would be a wall between them and the painter who’d startled Del, when in fact, there was nothing but space for them to fall.

And once more, Cyran fell.

This was by far one of the more pleasant experiences, in part because they did not have to fall for long. In part, because Del maneuvered herself so she didn’t land on top of him when they hit the ground. And in part because the padding that caught them most certainly was not the cold, hard wood of the gallery.

They were in the middle of the very fields depicted in the painting.

---

The sudden disappearance of two patrons did not go unnoticed by the rest of the gallery. Stunned silence had settled over the room, all staring at the portrait in shock and disbelief. What had just happened? Had the artist shoved them in? How was this even possible? The silence was broken by concerned whispers, logically trying to justify what they’d seen. Surely, this was part of the show, yes? A statement, yes, a statement on escapism. It was all part of the show.

As soon as that idea entered their heads, the audience nodded along, reassured that they’d all just seen something part of the display. The audience broke out into polite applause, clapping and smiling and murmuring praises to the artist.

But the artist heard none of it. A small smile grew on his face, seemingly independent of the praise and adoration being showered upon him. The voices of those sheep meant nothing to him. Avarian Lithrun did not make his art for the sake of people like them, those who didn’t understand the vision that he’d poured his heart and soul into, a love so potent that it had brought magic into the very canvas, creating a potent enchantment of wishes and dreams.

No, no one understood his vision.

But those two.

The smile grew on his face, wonder in his eyes that likely had not lingered there in a long time. Hope for a better world, one that he’d created. Not one to be admired and gazed at from afar, but enjoyed and lived in and celebrated. And those two! They’d taken the first steps towards a better life! They understood! Perhaps they’d yearned, much the same way he had, hoping and praying to find something better, something wonderful and happy. He could not let this chance go to waste. Ignoring the crowd around him, Avarian pulled off his smock and tossed it into the crowd, diving after the two in the painting himself.

---

Cyran met Del’s gaze as she stammered, just as disbelieving as she was. How in the world was this possible? He’d never seen magic like this. Was it some sort of trap? An alternate dimension intended to seal them away, a ploy by the people that hunted the Crucible to capture her for good? But no, there was no way it was that malicious. The artist hadn’t even seemed to know them.

Cyran pulled himself to his feet, offering a hand to Del to help her up while he scanned their surroundings. Just as he suspected, they seemed to be standing straight in the middle of those colors he’d seen so lovingly rendered on canvas. The many-hued sky, the expansive fields stretching out on either side of them. No sign of the gallery in sight.

There was a sort of idyllic sense of peace that washed over the field, a stillness that lingered in the buzzing of insects and the sound of water in the distance. Even in the face of the unknown… it was beautiful.

“Are you okay?” Cyran’s brows knit in concern as he looked down at her - less concerned about where they were and more immediately concerned with taking stock of what he could see and feel in front of him.

And right now, that was taking care of Del.

Del gratefully takes Cyran's offered hand to help her to her feet, still blushing madly at her compleye fumble of putting the both of them through a wall and into a painting. "I'm-- I'm okay," Del finds herself half-whispering, half-squeaking, as Cyran looks down to her with concern. Amber eyes widen slightly as she takes in the sight of him, the colours of light being shed in the world around them bathing Cyran in a sunset glow that was... empyreal. She has to blink to remember that they were here not of their own volition. "Are you alright?" She puts a hand on his upper arm, to look at him properly, before reaching up to pluck a stray bit of grass out of Cyran's hair.

She holds it up between them, brows raising. It felt, smelled, and looked like grass, albeit with a more saturated hue. It also seemed to catch facets of the light around them, as though the sunset colours around them were bleeding into the green. As she lets the blade fall into her palm, there is a faint green powdery stain left behind on her fingertips, as though she had brushed her hand along a semi-dried recently touched-up bench. "It's like chalk, or..." Del trails off as she looks around them, realization slowly dawning on her. Paint. It was paint. "We're in the painting?"

If this was a trap by those who pursued her, it was quite a beautiful and elaborate one.

Her eyes do shift again, looking up and around them at the world they had entered. She didn't feel any immediate threat to her person, but it still was a little alarming. Thankfully for both of the on-edge elves, the matter was at least possible to clear up.

"Congratulations." comes a voice near them, suddenly.

As Del turns her head, the artist, now smiling brightly compared to his dour expression earlier, strides forward towards them, keeping a respectful distance back with his hands clasped behind his back. "I am Avarian Lithrun, the artist of this masterwork. A pleasure to make your acquaintances."

Del furrows her brow, staring at this man in an attempt to decipher his motive. He didn't appear boastful or gloating. In fact, he seemed genuinely impressed. "...It's ah. Quite fascinating. What is this place?" She asks without preamble; even now, the worry about being captured again is one she has to keep at bay, though it isn't in the fore of her mind. Still, she stays near Cyran's side, hip to hip, unwilling to leave his orbit.

"Why, it is paradise, my lady, and this is no trick, I assure you." Avarian gestures behind him, looking quite pleased with himself. "It is no illusion, either; I have created a living world out of art and colour and Formulae Arcanum. This is my magnum opus; you are the first to appreciate my work to its fullest, fulfilling your desires of indulgence and wonder so that you have made yourselves and your love part of the painting. Bravo, indeed." He smiles, enthusiastic.

Del casts Cyran a quick look out of the corner of her eye. The mural had been lovely, fascinating, even, but they both knew that stumbling into this world had been... an accident. "...it was just so beautiful, we couldn't resist." Del says with a light, sheepish laugh.

“I’m fine.” He promised - the truth. He wasn’t hurt from their fall, just a little… disoriented at the scene change, and a bit confused. It was magic, it had to be. But he couldn’t tell what kind for the live of him. Had they been teleported to the place in the painting, or was this illusory in nature? It felt so real, the blade of grass that Del plucked from his braid, the wind ruffling in his hair. Idly, he pinched himself with one hand. Yes, that felt like his own skin. To his surprise, though, when Del held the smattering of green wildlife between her fingers, it seemed to rub off on her.

His eyes widened as he, too realized what the substance was.

Paint.

“How is this possible…?”

His suspicion was beginning to grow once more, a mounting fear. This was truly starting to look more and more like a trap. A gilded cage, so beautiful that someone might see the cavalcade of colors, the serenity, and never want to leave. Cyran reached out to grip her hand, looking for an anchor in the storm - the two pressed side to side so close that he could feel her heat radiating against him even here. As he stood there, though, a familiar voice spoke up above the sound of a distant, burbling brook and the screaming of summer insects. The artist from before.

Cyran clutched onto Del protectively. If this was some elaborate attack, he’d kill the man before he got the chance to so much as get a single scratch on either of them. But as he spoke, Cyran slowly started to relax. None of it was a lie. An artificial world, written in the Formulae Arcanum and rendered into art. And for some reason, he seemed to believe that the two had purposefully jumped into this place of their own accord. He felt Del’s gaze on him, mutual understanding. Both knew that this had not been their plan. But far be it from him to dissuade Master Lithrun from that notion - and based on Del’s next reassurances, Cyran figured they were on the same page.

He nodded in agreement, holding out a finger to allow a nearby butterfly to perch on it. Pink smeared his hand.

“It’s a lovely place you built.” He murmured, the butterfly taking off once more. He stared at the pink on his finger, transfixed. “So lovely it almost felt too good to be true. I suppose that’s what makes it even more ethereal, that this place almost seems to be a little slice of heaven. But why would someone ever make something that they didn’t get to experience?” His words were largely placating, speaking what he thought the painter might want to hear. They were still technically at his mercy, after all.

The painter’s eyes sparkled.

“Yes, yes!” He nodded, enthusiastic. “I created this place to be like nowhere anywhere else in Charon. The real world nowadays is so bleak - why subject ourselves to such a cruel reality when we can make life better? And now the both of you truly get to experience this new world with me! So relax, enjoy!”

Cyran remained silent for a moment, assessing. It was all the truth - he’d not picked up anything strange from his rune, though it seemed perhaps a touch delusional. He’d never really spoken with many artists, and though he couldn’t deny the passion, there was something… odd about the fervency in his gaze, a rainbow reflected from the world he’d created with his own two hands. Was this supposed to be how he saw the world? Or how he wanted it to be? Cyran couldn’t deny its beauty. Even just standing here, there was a sense of idyllic peace that washed over him like a gentle summer wave. Like nothing bad would touch him here. Just an eternal utopia in green and blue and pink.

He supposed it would not be horrible to play along for now.

“And we will be certain to enjoy.” He bowed. “Thank you for the experience, Master Lithrun. I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Honestly. He didn’t think he’d ever seen something so manufactured in its perfection.

“So… I suppose we enjoy the natural scenery, and find you when we've had our fill and want to go back?”

The young human stilled, the smile not quite sliding off his face - nor did it seem entirely genuine, for a moment. Frozen, in its earnest confusion. “Why would you ever want to leave?”

Feeling a surge of protection from Cyran as he clutched her hand, reminiscent of her own protectsavehelp only minutes before, as he moved close to Del to put himself between them. It never fails to make her stomach do a little flip, to see the straight-forward and protective side of him, even more so when it is directed for her safety. She rests a hand between his shoulder blades-- calm, soothing, and appreciative.

While the artist talks, Del watches the butterfly alight on Cyran's finger, wonderstruck. This artist had managed to create a real world, a touchable painting, optimism fully realized. Real, moving paint. Stunning. Magnificent. It was distracting, certainly, an incredible detour from the harsh and cruel world beyond the mural to something idyllic.

But that was all it was; a distraction.

Cyran, ever the observant, comes to that conclusion at the same time she does. As wonderful as this world was, it was the mark of wishful thinking-- no more, no less. This artist, Avarian Lithrun, seemed to think and feel very strongly to the contrary. This was reality. It could be realit. It was in his face, the frozen smile and the drift in his gaze. She feels a little chill run up her spine.

"To compare, of course, is what my partner means." Del tries her hand at assuring the Artist, weaving her fingers through Cyran's again. "We have experienced the... outside world, but not this one. Perhaps our time here will help us look at the world differently." Additionally, she notes privately, casting her eyes around, she was not one hundred percent sure this place was... sustainable. In a true sense; she doubted they could eat and drink paint.

The artist produces an easy laugh, though the wary look doesn't quite fade from their face. "Oh, of course, I see. Well, I can assure you, once you have seen what this place has to offer, you won't wish to go back." He lifts his gaze around him, wistful and longing. "I spent years dreaming up this place and finally was able to create a reality fit for my vision. Once you've seen it, fully explored, I am sure you won't want any reality other than this one."

That makes Del grimace a little-- not out of anger or fear, but an internal cringe one gets when they hear something blatantly untrue, even if he believed it to be so. This man appeared to be not at all grounded in reality. "We'll see. There must be so much to look at. Where, ah, would you suggest we go to look first?"

The hand on his shoulder while Master Lithrun spoke was an important reminder, but not one he was especially intimate with. That he was not alone.

How long he’d known that sensation. The emptiness of being alone. He supposed now he was never truly alone, was he? For months he’d had this thing lingering in his soul, a little piece of Del that resonated when she placed a hand on his back, lingering on his scar - her warmth, her grace, her courage. He could tell, in the recesses of that soulbond, the sour notes of curling violet fear that this was some sort of convoluted trap to imprison her, another attempt from one of her hunters. And yet, there was none of that on her face. Stalwart, impeccably brave.

How could he not feel supported while she held him steady amongst the storm of color?

Cyran kept his face carefully blank, a serene smile on his face. The kind of look he was accustomed to wearing while dealing with business partners and members of his parents’s entourage. He was a little rusty, but he knew how to play the game. Even as Master Lithrun’s expression changed on a time, goodwill evaporating as suspicion clouded his eyes. Why would they want to leave, indeed?

Cyran gazed upon their surroundings, considerate. Not that he was actually thinking of accepting this insane offer, mind - but toying with the idea, nonetheless, what it would mean to live in Lithrun’s perfect world. What would they eat? He assumed that this expansive painting carried whatever Lithrun might need, like a home, and shelter. The perfect pond to fish in. Trees to nap under, animals to observe. Birds soaring overhead, their feathers leaving paint-like trails against the cerulean sky. One could truly spend eternity here, away from all those awful things…

They’d never have to deal with the cultists again. No natural disasters, no infernal beings or dead gods to contend with.

And then what? The world would crumble around them, reduced to ash and rubble while they remained in stasis? So happy that the world itself lost all meaning and became numb?

Cyran’s life had been fraught with turmoil - and he knew Del’s was quite the same - though he did not regret it in the slightest. That pain had gifted him wisdom, and better equipped him to deal with the world. It was always changing and growing and inventing new cruelties and calling them Justice or Capitalism or what have you, but there had to be something better out there. How many days had Cyran spent in the recent years after his exile lamenting his misery in drink and wondering what he was still bothering with? Only seeing the horridness of the men he killed and dreaming that one day he himself would be on the receiving end of a swift blade or gutted in an alley prevented him from realizing that it might get better. And oh, it could - it had. When he’d stopped burying his head in the sand Cyran could finally look up and see all the beautiful parts of the world he’d missed, he’d finally found that there was beauty allowed for him, too.

And he knew that Lithrun could see it, too. Those paintings and displays back in the gallery, they spoke to someone who’d witnessed that beauty with his own eyes. He almost felt bad for the artist. He could objectively look at these scenes, but couldn’t see them. So lost in his imagination and desire for something better that he was missing the real world. The Aurea Borealis of the northernmost regions, the uncontrollable tempests in the Dragon’s Cradle. The lush greens of Moonglade, untouched forests, stars sparkling off of the reflection of the Luna Sea.

Thankfully, Del’s quick thinking calmed the Artisan - a clever excuse. Cyran recovered, his thoughts drifting away into wisps of smoke. She was holding his hand. Cyran ran his thumb against the back of her palm, the little scars. Her excuse did not entirely eliminate the distrust in his gaze - though it waned somewhat as he relaxed. Cyran’s smile widened in relief. Good. They needed to remain in his good graces.

“Be that as it may, life begets art and vice versa, does it not? I think that there is some facet of this world that you’ve drawn from the real one. We want to be able to see your inspirations with our own eyes. To know the process behind the master.”

He swallowed down the instinctual rebuttal at the assumption they would adore this world. This place was pretty, but it did not hold the necessary components to make a home. Cyran’s loved ones, the noisy orphanage and all of its constantly breaking parts and nights curled up by the fire while he read stories. It didn’t have Marlow.

This was Lithrun’s perfect world, but it was not theirs. They were outsiders here, pieces in a puzzle that did not belong nor have any desire to.

They just had to keep playing into his whims.

At Del’s question, Cyran turned back to Master Lithrun. ”There is so much that I could not possibly just recommend one thing. This reality is far more than just the glimpse of the painting you see. It is expansive, living, breathing, growing. Walk in any direction and wish, and you will find yourself where you want to go. Do you desire to see the mountains? The endless, vast seas? No?” He must have caught Cyran’s slight grimace at the mention of the ocean. ”How about I take you to a place I’m particularly proud of? The Forest of Four Seasons.”

Cyran glanced at Del, an unspoken question. They truly had no other choice, did they? Here in this pretty, beautiful prison, their best hope of escape was to befriend the warden and hope he loosened his grip on the keys. He squeezed her hand, hoping that his touch was as reassuring to her as hers was to him.

“I think that sounds lovely.”

”Wonderful! Follow me, then. Allow me to show you true beauty.”

The practiced smile he bears is as form-fitting as his Specter mask, Del quietly notes as she watches Cyran effortlessly ply the Artisan with further platitudes. It's remarkable, really, the way he weilds his social skills as elegantly as one of his knives. She watches him with open admiration, the smile lifting a little more as he runs his thumb over her scarred hand. Casual affection. Silent communication. It felt so strange to be so united with someone, but with Cyran, it came as easily as breathing.

This world was not her world. It was beautiful and tempting, but all the artist had made was a facsimile of hope. Hope was a wonderful thing, an indulgence that was sticky and sweet and saccarine. But it lacked substance. It lacked action. Del was never someone who shirked the effort and work it would take to make her hopes reality. In fact, it was only recently that she had found any hope at all. Currently, the source of all her hope was holding her hand.

Her past may have been objectively horrible, more than even she knew, but Del was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she wouldn't change it for anything. Especially not when it brought her to the arms of joy and happiness.

As Master Lithrun introduces the idea of the Four Seasons Forest, though, Del can't help but feel intrigued. Still cautious, she shares a glance with Cyran-- there wasn't much to be done about their situation. Perhaps they could still enjoy themselves as much as they were able. His touch made her feel lighter than air and grounded all at once. He was here. She could do anything.

Del nods her head in agreement with him, the consensus shared as they return their eyes to the artist. "It certainly does."

As he bids them to follow Del smiles breezily until he turns his back. The moment he does, Del lifts her eyes to Cyran, about to ask a question, but getting lost again in how wonderful the hues around them played on his skin, in his hair, in his eyes. A kalidescope of brilliant things tangled up in his visage.

...That was all the true beauty she needed.

Realizing she was staring, she clears her throat, glancing around again at their surroundings. The walk is... pretty doesn't quite do it justice. It's elaborate, extravagant, beautiful. It must have taken years to accomplish. Truly a life's work. As an artist herself, of a sort, she could see how it would be hard to refrain from your own opinion of your art. It was a reflection of his soul's greatest desire, after all. A shame he didn't know how to look for it around Charon.

Pausing for a moment, Del spots a flower; a little patch of purple cone-flowers. She dips to pluck one, holding it up for Cyran to look, huffing a quiet little laugh-- and in so doing, blows a little bit of violet paint into his face, dusting his cheeks. "OH!" She interrupts whatever she was about to say with a gasp of surprise. Painted! Her date! Good gods, she was a mess. Blushing furiously, Del reaches up to try and clean it from his face. "Like I forgot since we touched the butterfly, goodness, I'm sorry, let me get that..."

Cyran opened his mouth to say more, but anything else he would have offered in character died in his throat when she turned to look at him in response. There was something glimmering in the reflection of her gaze, as if she’d just - pardoning the metaphor - gazed into a beautiful painting. His first instinct was to look behind him and try to find what she’d spotted over his shoulder to cause such an adoring look on her face, but he didn’t want to pull himself away from her even for a moment. Not when he got to see all the tones of the earth in the loving bronze of her eyes and the dawning smile on her face.

It didn’t matter what she’d seen, when he got to gaze upon her all the same.

The two were frozen still for a moment, lost in their own world. Not the tangential, dreamlike realm around them, but a world of their own making. Constructed of nothing but mutual fondness, and could be found anywhere. Because it was no illusion.

Cyran only snapped out of his reverie when Del leaned over and grabbed a flower, accidentally blowing paint all over his face. Cyran blinked, taken aback as his world exploded in a burst of purple powder, like dark chalk. He was so surprised that he couldn’t bring himself to say anything for a moment. A second of shock before Del broke the spell, moving to furiously wipe any of the paint-like remnants from his face. Cyran laughed, waving her off with one hand while combing some of the substance out from strands of ebony and moonlight silver hair.

“Ah; don’t worry about it.” He insisted. Despite the strangeness of the situation they were in, he did not find himself as on edge as he ought to be. Mainly because he felt strong with Del at his side. In part, due to the fact that it was hard to be scared when your face was purple. “I actually quite like the color. And when in Sol City, or so the saying goes, am I right?” He paused, glancing at their surroundings in consideration. “Although, if you’d like to make it even…”

Before she could say anything else, he snatched a red dragonfly from the air, crimson smearing his palms - the creature did not so much as struggle as he unfurled his hand in front of Del’s face, blowing a fistful of red powder right into her cheeks. The light smattering across scars and golden freckles was so endearing that he couldn’t help but laugh at the sight.

“We match now, no?” He murmured, feeling utterly soft from the adoration bubbling in his chest, as fresh as the nearby budding spring brook. “Now I think we’re both properly dressed to pay a visit to the Forest of the Four Seasons.”

An impatient noise from behind them cleared their throat - Master Lithrun had stopped, waiting for the both of them to follow. “If you two lovebirds are quite done gazing into one another’s eyes, then feel free to follow me at your discretion.”

Cyran cleared his throat, suitably humbled at having been witnessed in such an intimate moment. More importantly, it wasn’t smart to upset the man who was currently holding their lives in the palm of his hands, whether he saw it that way or not. “My apologies. We were merely… distracted.”

Lithrun’s gaze softened in understanding, putting the pieces together as he looked between them. He nodded as the two elves set off after him, matching his pace with confident strides, purposeful and silent through the grass in a way that might betray their competency, if Master Lithrun was paying attention to that.

”Newlyweds, then? I envy you, in a sense. In my youth I fancied myself a romantic, but I’m far too married to my work now to consider settling down. And here, I don’t need love to be happy. I digress.” He glanced between the two as if he could guess the story of their lives painted in their faces, the ring on Cyran’s finger, their demeanors. Eventually, he gave up trying to put it together on his own. “How long have you two been together?”

"If you're certain," Del continues to look worried for a moment as Cyran reassures her. He was dressed so elegantly, and now the silver parts of his hair were stained a lovely shade of lavender as he combed it through his hair. Gods, he was lovely-- wait, what was he--

Cyran blows a puff of red paint in her direction, mischief gleaming in his moonlight eyes. "Ack!" Del blinks rapidly, giggling breathlessly as she realizes she now has a coat of red paint along her cheeks. That soft murmur in his voice as he looked at her with such affection was making her heart do back flips. Her hand fiddles with his as she lifts her other hand to touch the red dust now covering her cheeks, smiling brilliantly. "I suppose we do. Though there are other ways to make me blush, you know." she teased gently, giving him a coy look. Internally she twists in the wind, wondering where on earth this sudden ability to flirt had come from. In her happiness, the filter that kept such thoughts in her mind was gone, apparently. But then, no one quite had an effect on her like Cyran did. And she did so love the look on his face when she said unexpected things, too.

After receiving that chastising look from the artist, Del clears her throat sheepishly, reaching up to adjust the flower crown on her head-- wholly unnecessary, it was fitted perfectly. "Please, lead on." She agrees, inclining her head.

As they walk, following Master Lithrun to their next location, Del silently scoops a little yellow off of a dandelion and reaches up to poke Cyran's cheek with the colour into a little smiley face among the purple still stained there, smiling at him impishly. Her hand moves down quickly as the artist looks at them, asking how long they had been together.

She glances at Cyran side-long, wondering how honest they should be... well, she supposed there wasn't much harm in the truth. This was supposed to be about her and Cyran being able to be open and enjoy time together without pretense. Still, the answer was more complicated than the artist probably deserved or needed to hear; she wasn't about to tell him about their soul-link, that bond of their shadows and rings that stretched beyond physicality. "We've known one another for some time as friends and colleagues, but recently ah..." Del blushes a little, the red paint on her skin deepening the hue, "We decided to commit to something more serious. This is our first-- second date?" She looks up at Cyran; did the Hearth's Day count? Did Frost Gale? She continues, "We're typically very busy with our individual jobs, so this outing took some planning."

Was she implying what he thought she was implying? Goodness, they were on this date, and they were hardly strangers to sharing a bed with one another - practicality and months together on the sea had all but done away with the awkwardness that accompanied that - but this felt entirely different than playful banter or the mere desire for closeness that they’d always shared due to the nature of their bond. It was no surprise as to why. They had made the mutual decision to go on this outing together. They had opened the floodgates behind which all that tension had been brewing, feelings that neither was familiar with but cherished all the same. They had now given that affection an outlet.

And it was both so wonderful and so utterly horrifying to know that was directed back at him.

There was something comforting in being alone. It was an emptiness, but there was comfort in the known entity of that solitude. One never had to worry about what others thought of you when you did not raise your expectations. You gave your love out freely and knew not to expect any in return; that was normalcy. It was familiar. It was the principle by which Cyran had lived in the absence of knowing what it felt like after one made the call, to receive the murmured echo in response.

And that was the most difficult part - hearing Del’s coy teasing and implicitly knowing the conviction behind it.

Cyran tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, laughing softly.

“Don’t worry.” He said, admiring her blush-stained face, and the brightness twinkling in her eyes. Despite the gravity of their situation, their brightness had not dimmed. Being together made the dark moments feel not as dark. But oh, how her smile and her teasing made it easy to forget that they were still in the middle of foreign territory, searching for a way to escape. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”

… That didn’t mean he couldn’t indulge in a little light teasing.

He blushed at the sound of Master Lithrun clearing his throat, making it quite clear what he thought of this little display of affection. The pair of elves continued after the artist, both putting on a facsimile of ease while they took in their surroundings. Cyran took note of their environment, the babbling brook running to their west and the snowcapped mountains to the south, growing smaller the longer they walked. Though they could not have been traveling for very long, the world around them was already beginning to shift and change, seamlessly blending from one palate to another. Greens and scenic blues became warmer, reds and pinks and yellows more reminiscent of autumn.

He paused to smile, matching the one Del drew on his cheek while she doodled on him. He remained silent while Del explained the nature of their relationship, truth obfuscated by vagaries. He agreed that there was really no reason to lie, about most of the facts, at least. “I would say this is our first real date as… partners.” Though their outing going stargazing had technically been a date, Cyran was hesitant to classify it as such. They had been so new and nervous around one another back then, and then there was the matter of their soul bond. No, that had been less of a date and more of a beginning. The inciting spark.

“Young love.” Master Lithrun seemed earnestly surprised at that revelation. “A curious thing to find in such old souls. You wear it well. At least here, you will not have to worry about the business of jobs and life. You have all the time in the world to allow your love to grow and flourish with the wildlife.” He reached down to brush his hands against the tall grass, a swath of greens that seemed to turn to fall wheat with his touch. It was not the only thing changing. Around them, summer became fall, the leaves falling and drifting in the crisp wind.

“… Right.” Cyran agreed, if only to fill the silence with noise.

And fall became winter, a sudden harshness to the world, yet still… muffled somehow. As if even the fury of the blizzard was beautiful around here, the death a natural progression of life. Nature slowing and growing still, all colors turning to a still… colorless… white.

The cold lasted only a moment.

As they trudged through the snow, Master Lithrun brought them to a small entrance at the precipice of a cave, craggy rocks and jagged edges protecting something within. It did not look like anything special, but the artist seemed to have an idea of its importance.

”This way. Come.” Master Lithrun beckoned them out of the wind, into this cave. It only took a second for Cyran’s eyes to adjust to the dark, accustomed to the shadows playing off of the walls.^[1] To others, it might have seemed a terror. But the darkness was a comfort for Cyran. He watched their surroundings for anything that might have jumped out at the shadows, but there appeared to be no threat. All the while, Lithrun spoke, ever the chatty ferryman as he led them to their destination.

“It all bleeds into one another. Death begets life, you see. That is how this entire realm was built. The natural progression of all things, an end that necessitates a beginning. A cycle.” There was something almost… fervent in his mutterings, for a moment, as if possessed, but then the moment passed. “And the seasons are the same. Spring, to summer, to autumn, and then winter, the end of all things. And if you channel that, then…”

A light at the end of the tunnel. Lithrun led the duo to the edge of the cavern, which was already beginning to open to a wider entrance. And on the inside was a scene that stole Cyran’s breath away.

A forest made of a multitude of trees, greenery and wildlife beyond his wildest imagination. Pink sakura blossoms from the Crescent Isles, conifers from Frostgale, palm fronds from Zeinav. Shrubbery and flowers and grass and wildlife, each distinct pieces that were not meant to exist in tandem - and yet, in this world, they blended in perfect harmony. Such a beautiful bouquet tended by gardener’s hands… or a painter’s. Allowed to flourish under Master Lithrun’s talented hands. His favorite pieces of the world brought here, to this small slice of Elysium.

“Beautiful.” Cyran breathed.

This was not, in essence, a lie.

It truly was unbelievable.

”Welcome,” Master Lithrun began, ”To the Forest of Four Seasons.”

---

1. Shadow Sight

Hearing Cyran refer to her as his partner-- partner, in the context of a relationship beyond more than the sense of companions and co-workers, makes her heart do a back-flip in the best possible way. More little flowers appear in her hair, blooming one after another with little pops of colour. Flowers that turn rose-gold at the little teasing lilt to his tone that he lofts back at her. Time for that later? She sputters vaguely under her breath, unable to find words for the flickers of delight that writhed in the centre of her chest.

Though it is certainly tempered with Master Lithrun's supposition that they would be remaining here; she knew Cyran felt the same as she did, that they were humouring the man until they could find a time to slip away, but the more the artist assumed, the more agitated Del began to feel, a small rankling at the sensation of being trapped. To take her mind off it, she focuses more on the world around her, how autumn seemed to shift into winter as they continued up the path. It was surreal and yet familiar, as though walking through time itself, an almost eerie reminder of her time on the road and how the seasons seemed to shift in this exact way while she was walking endlessly. Perhaps that was also from her perspective as an elf that made the shifts between seasons so smooth, but from Del's eye, what the artist was capturing-- even if he was not aware of it itself-- seemed to reflect a certain despondency, a disassociation with the world and noting the changes of the seasons in passing, as there was nothing material to focus on. Nothing that mattered.

It makes her frown slightly, thoughtful as they head into the tunnel, her eyes adjusting quickly to the lack of light. Master Lithrun's words seem to confirm at least some of his thinking, the cycle of change that was endemic to the world around them. She did not quite catch what he mumbled about under his breath, but she makes note of it. Was this the artist's way of trying to make sense of a cruel world that would never stop changing?

The thoughts vanish from her mind with a gasp as Master Lithrun introduces them to the forest proper, struck with awe and fascination. It was incredible; trees she had not seen in decades in full bloom, stood next to the piney conifers of the north and the heavy, swaying fronds of the desert. It was... so much. Everything, vibrantly, violently, all at once. All the pieces of nature that she admired in area of the painting.

"Gods... this is incredible," she whispers, before turning to look at Cyran and catching the wonderstruck look on his face. There's another twist in her chest as she admires the way the colours play across his features, the glint in his silver eye as he takes in the world around them. Now, what a view that was.

Cyran was not an artist; far from it, in fact. Though he had even hands and fine dexterity his parents had been rather disappointed to learn he’d not been blessed with an artisan’s careful touch, or even a keen eye for aesthetics most of the time. But even he could tell that the sight sprawled out in front of him was no ordinary marvel. No, this was something intricate, detailed, the kind of thing nobles might even call exquisite. So many colors, cultures, inspirations, every single piece deliberate, that it was difficult to believe nothing was real.

And it wasn’t real, Cyran reminded himself. It was not but an illusion designed by an artist needing a muse. An escape. It still didn’t hurt to admire, he supposed. Especially when, as he turned to glance at Del, she wore the same awestruck expression on her face, features alight with a mosaic of color. She looked like a goddess etched in the shards of a stained glass window and Cyran took comfort in the fact that at least out of everything there, one beauty was real.

Despite the awe that had seized him at such a sight, though, there was work to be done. They still needed to find a way out of this twisted place, as beautiful as it’s trappings were. Perhaps there might be some secret exit somewhere in the forest? No - given Master Lithrun’s pathology, it seemed unlikely that there would be such a thing in this place. Cyran was certain by now that he truly intended to live here, separate himself from reality and substitute pretty colors and frills for the things that made life worth living. It would not hurt to poke around, though. Cyran turned to Master Lithrun; he did not need to affix a false expression on his face. The awe, at the very least, was a real sensation.

“I cannot believe you made something this intricate by yourself.” He murmured.

Lithrun looked rather pleased with himself. Proud to share his work with a captive audience - in quite the literal sense, even if he himself did not view it that way. He nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. “Years of dedication, travel, and a vision. I studied briefly at the academy, so it was quite easy for me to translate that practical knowledge to suit my purposes. What you are seeing is my magnum opus. The entire world is, really, but this - this is the core of everything that I’ve done. This was the first layer of the canvas.”

His face twisted almost into a nostalgic smile.

”It was a complicated process, you see. I hand-painted each layer, and inscribed the spell in between. All of these regions within are stacked on top of each other, like an oblong tunnel. If you think of it that way, that makes the area we were first in, the door, and this…”

“The light at the end.” Cyran surmised.

”Precisely! I knew you two would understand.”

Cyran delicately did not voice the irony in a man traveling the realm to create such a perfect world only to be blind to the sights in front of him. He did not voice his curiosity as to whether a door existed on this side of the tunnel. What he did instead was turn to give Del one last look - the astonishment on her face at the detail, so carefree in that small moment. Still, he could not bring himself to forget the momentary panic at their trapping, or the surge of fearadrenalinepain he’d felt that day all those weeks ago when she’d truly been kidnapped.

He turned back to Lithrun.

“Do you mind if the two of us stroll around on our own, for a moment? We’ve no shortage of things to think about, or sights to see.”

Lithrun waived an airy hand at the woods sprawling below. ”By all means, be my guests.”

“You are a most gracious host.” Cyran nodded, holding his hand out to Del so they could resume their walk. The two made their way down the hill, Cyran parting the branches of a Moonglade weeping Willow to allow them both entry to a place that was somehow more beautiful on the inside than it was on the outside. Animals and insects buzzing around, and chirping birds that briefly gave him a pang as he thought of Marlow.

But none of that was more important than this.

Once they were on their own, Cyran wasted no time immediately wrapping Del in a tight hug, shoulders trembling slightly. When he pulled away, he searched her eyes for - something but exactly what he was not sure.

“Are you alright?” He asked, brows knit together in concern. “I just - I didn’t get to ask earlier because we could not find the chance to talk, but I- I don’t want this to…”

Bring about unpleasant memories, he didn’t finish.

Cyran sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry for all of this craziness. I wanted our first, well, um, date to be perfect, but I suppose I’ve rather mucked it up, haven’t I?”

"Remarkable doesn't even begin to describe it," Del confirms, giving Master Lithrun a nod. She could see he had dove headfirst into this creation, not only as a means of a labour of love, but as an escape. Burying himself in something so idyllic it missed the point of what art and craft was meant to be. It was lovely, but also terribly sad. "It must have taken such a long time."

She pauses, seeing Cyran give her a look, before he requests that the pair meander on their own for a little. She gives him a small but winning smile; a perfect opportunity to discuss their predicament and situation without tipping their hand too soon. Inclining her head to the artist, she gives him a grateful look. "Thank you for letting us be part of your vision." That seemed to sound suitably well for what Master Lithrun seemed to be expecting. With that, she takes Cyran's offered hand, folding her fingers around his carefully as they move down the hill. Her eyes are quick to move everywhere, taking in the scenery and looking for a way out all at once. Perhaps they could find a flaw in the work itself to exploit?

But all thoughts of this vacate her head in a flurry of little gold petals as Cyran suddenly wraps his arms around her, pulling her into a hug. --Oh, he was shaking... worry? Fear? Something in her chest clenches, and she lifts her arms to hug him back, securing him tightly as she takes a moment to breathe and feel his safety envelope her.

Her eyes lift to his when he pulls back, a little glossy and pressed with her own concern for him as he asks if she is alright, explaining why he couldn't ask earlier. She watches him run his hand through his hair, restless, nervous, and gives him a reassuring smile. Reaching out, Del takes his hand again, holding it loosely with hers.

"You haven't mucked anything up, Cyran. I'm the one that fell into the painting and pulled you in after. If anything, I'm the one whos made a mess of this." she insists, squeezing his hand in what she hopes is comfort. "I am alright, Cyran. I'm with you. It's... um..." Colour starts to rise to her painted cheeks again, and she casts her amber eyes down to their joined hands. "I know our situation isn't ideal right now, but I am having fun getting to spend time with you and get to know you better. We've been through so much together already, and if this was going to be the thing to upset me, I don't think we'd have made it as far as we have." Del laughs a little nervously, before its cut off with a clearing of her throat. What was she even saying right now? Words were falling out of her mouth, but she was not thinking them, clearly.

"For instance, I, ah, very much liked when. Um. You refered to me as 'my Del'. 'Your Del', I guess, because that's how the sentence actually worked and everything and ishouldtstop." She grumbles at herself and lifts her gaze back up to Cyran a little more boldly, a shy smile pulling her lips. "I know this hasn't quite turned out how we planned, but I am having fun. I like being with you and spending time with you. No matter where we wind up."

Her own brows pressing a little, she lifts her free hand to cup his jaw gently, smudging a little yellow into the purple of the colours on his skin. "And what of you? Are you alright?" In a similar vein to even herself, she knew being stuck somewhere more-or-less against their will was grating for Cyran, too. She wanted to help assuage his fears, if she could. They were together, and together, they could keep one another safe and get out of here.

The press of a warm palm against his own pulled Cyran away from his nervous thoughts. That he should have done better, protected her more. But he could not afford to live in regrets lest he drown in them; wallowing in his what-ifs would make him pretty damn useless searching for solutions in the now. Besides, Del was right. Though it was not the date he’d intended, they were safe and whole and exploring something new together. It was hardly the worst threat they’d faced for sure. Being trapped might sting, but it would not break them.

“And I you.” He admitted, earnest. “Though next time I will make sure to take us to a real glade.” A little presumptuous implying there was going to be a next time after he’d planned this first date so poorly without vetting this place to ensure it was safe, allowing himself to get dragged down with her rather than helping her… no, he had to stop those thoughts. They were supposed to be making the best of this situation, were they not? But Del was not finished, speaking of his overly affectionate slip-up earlier and how she’d actually, to his surprise, enjoyed the term.

Cyran was. Not sure how to reply to that, to be quite honest.

How utterly foreign and horrifying it was to have that piece of his heart accepted and cherished.

“I’m happy to hear that… truthfully.” Del was not the only one who could grow tongue-tied when flustered. Cyran was not a man of words no matter how much he tried - and eloquence, he found, flew out the door when he needed it. But for all he lacked in poetry, he tried to make up for in sincerity. It was likely that Del already knew all this without the need for words, but he wanted to offer them, these little vulnerable flowers that made up a bouquet of his affections. They were not as lovely as she deserved, not woven magic nor possessing much flourish. But they were hers, if she wanted them.

“Both that you’re having fun, and the, ah, nickname.” How funny it was that he had a plethora of titles for her - Fighter, Partner, Friend - but even just stripping titles bare, speaking of her like there was no more ceremony between them, made Cyran feel oddly raw.

“I was married once before, you know. You met her.” He laughed nervously, remembering Del’s encounter with Rowan in a dream. He’d not said it in plain common that day, but he remembered what Del had seen, what words had been exchanged, what had been witnessed. She had likely put the pieces together in the space between then and now; Marlow had to be born to someone after all. “An arranged marriage, not of my own volition. I’d long since accepted I might not be able to find a union of my own, but…”

He moved to rest his free hand on the dagger along his belt, just under his cloak.

“Centuries of sharing a home with a stranger did not prepare me for what things should properly be like. What I should say, how I should act. I hope that I’ve done nothing to make you uncomfortable, or any affections I give are not untoward. This time - I want to do things properly. It is such a silly worry, but I want to show you that you didn’t make a mistake. By. Uh. Well. You know.”

He leaned into her palm, feeling content. Anxieties melting away. She had that effect on him, and gods, he was putty in the palm of her hand.

“I’m okay. My magic does not seem to be hindered here, and it’s rather lovely, all things considered. I could think of less pleasant places to explore.”

Her heart flutters. Next time. "I would be happy to accompany you to as many glades as there are." Del says with a little laugh. She smiles as he relaxes into her hand, enjoying this soft, quiet space between them. Apart from the world in a very literal sense, as beautiful as the scenery of colour and paints were, it could not compare to the way Cyran's eye gleamed as he looked at her.

As he brings up Rowan, Del hums in acknowledgment, a wryness tugging her lips as sympathy enters her gaze. That terrible woman, the one from the dream that she... well, it had been uncouth certainly, but it had felt good. But more importantly, the one good thing to come of that "relationship", forced, arranged, or however one preferred to refer to it... was Marlow, the sweet daughter he had been forced to leave behind. The young lady was, by far, the best of the silver lining such a terrible situation had to offer.

And then her heart grows still for a second, as he speaks more, of... marriage. Sharing a home, a life. How hard his first one was, and how much better he thought-- knew-- the next would be.

For a moment, it sounds like a proposal, and all the blood immediately rushes to Del's head and she swears her heart is trying to climb up her throat and escape so it can scream incomprehensible joy. Her mind, racing as is, barely comprehends the way he moves his hand to touch something beneath his cloak. All Del knows is she can feel the burgeoning, tenative hopefulness, the affection through their bond. Finding a union of his own... with her. That he wanted to do things 'properly', and whatever that meant, she knew he meant it truly. Actually, now was as good a time as any to ask...

"You've never done anything to make me uncomfortable. And the scenery is beautiful. I am delighted to share it with you, and it is wonderful because I am with you." she murmurs. Gods, she can hardly breathe. She didn't think she might faint, but she wasn't sure how to keep making words. "I, ah. I was actually, um. Meaning to ask.." she clears her throat, "since we're on the subject and all. How. Um." The hand on his face, which she cannot seem to bring herself to remove as he presses his cheek to her palm, warms as the heat rises to her cheeks. "I don't recall any of my own cultural... courting. Traditions. Or those of any other culture, really. Too much time on the road to learn anything like that in depth. And, I also, ah, never had a reason to. You're the first-- the only person I have wanted to, ah. Be with." Her ears felt like they were burning, but she cannot stop herself from giving him a shy smile. "SO, I was wondering... what they might be for you and yours?"