Anira Verseheart

Anira Verseheart

Lady Lark of the Lanes
Weaver
Character Profile
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Duscan,

I am crossing Veya now, and I blame you entirely for how distracted I have become. These are your roads.
Every mile insists on reminding me that you once called this place home, and I have been helplessly thinking of you
ever since I first set my foot here.

You already know this, but I am singing your song, Wolf of Weaving. People listen. People lean closer.
They ask me if the wolf is real.

So I keep wondering where you are. Still in Crorefell, holding court behind the tavern counter with Old Bozzy?
Or did you finally do the sensible, reckless thing and went searching for your family?

It may be that this letter never finds you at all.
For all I know, this letter will end up lining a pie tin or kindling in the tavern hearth.
Still, I will send it.

I tell myself that even if it does not lands in your hands, the thought of you traveling somewhere
at the same time as me is almost as good. I keep looking ahead, half-expecting to find you waiting
where the road narrows, like a highwayman. Let me just tell you that stealing kisses is far more
profitable than stealing coin from a bard.

And if that does not happens, I will come back to Crorefell when my wandering allows it. I will step into your tavern,
and you can tell me whether the song has grown any since last time you heard it.

Until we meet again,
Yours,
Lady Lark of the Lanes.
​
The scroll meant for Duscan is vellum of the a finer quality, pale as snow and softened by handling, as if has been unrolled and rolled again before the bard finally scribed the words to it. It is bound with a single lute string, knotted neatly. Tucked beneath the string is a pressed bloom native to Veya; Kleawesh. A hardy flower that grows where pilgrims have worn the earth thin, pink at the tips and dark fuschia at the heart. The seal is a soft sky-blue wax. The stamp is a lark in mid-song and wings lifted. Before the scroll was bound and sealed, a few drops of her perfume had been drizzle over the vellum, the scent lingers within the fibers, blooming when the scroll is unrolled.
 
Fuck. He had shit handwriting, but Duscan felt so many things opening that letter. Who even sent him letters anymore?

It was only fair he sent word back to the Lady Lark. After all, she was the one to make him feel an overwhelming sense of homesickness.


Anira

You must be a siren, must be, for I have the strangest sense to follow where your song goes. Or simply, you have been missed enough, that touch of your perfume to this letter... well, I would rather tell you what I am thinking when I see you next.

You are going to see me, yes? Maybe I would want to leave this city and travel in the hopes of being that highwayman you imagine.

Maybe... I miss having someone to tell about home. That flower... I thought any reminder of Veya would be a stab to the gut, but the thought of you there... without me to show you all the best places... Well, Lady Lark, you got this Bastard going soft.

I miss you. You make me miss Veya. My family.

Maybe it is time that I go return home, remind them who the real Wolf is, and maybe... you will find me there, and I can steal all the kisses and not coin from my favourite bard.


Duscan read over the letter and frowned. Before he could crumple the paper, Old Bozzy slapped the table beside him.

"No wasting my ink, boy. That parchment you're writing on is some fancy shit and I ain't watching you waste my things. Send the bloody letter, bastard!"
 
Duscan,

I am glad you miss me. I am glad the thought of me in Veya does not feel like a blade.
I would rather be a temptation than part of a wound. I confess I miss you. In a deeply inconvenient,
and entirely undignified manner.

You have a rare talent for writing in “maybes.” It is almost unfair. A bard could trip over them
if she's not careful. You say perhaps you will return to Veya. Perhaps you will be the Wolf.
Perhaps I will find you. That is a great deal of perhaps.
​

The bardess leaned back in her chair, balancing it on two legs until it protested. She stared at the half-finished letter, then at the ceiling, then at Lynn, who was polishing tankards with the kind of attention usually reserved for between thieves and shiny gems. The wench, rosy-cheeked and armed with a cloth, arched a brow from across the table. “That bad?”

“He writes like a man standing at a crossroads, admiring the scenery.” the bardess sighed.

“You know, Lynn,” The bard was tapping the quill against her lip. Ink glistened at the tip of her quill. “One day a man will write back to me and say, ‘Stay exactly where you are. Do not move an inch. I am already in the saddle!’”

Lynn snorted, shaking her head. “Sounds dramatic...”

The bard let the chair thump back onto all four legs and glanced down at the letter again, at all the wit and careful warmth, at all the places where he had written maybe instead of yes. It was the most infuriatingly answer a man could give a woman.

Not yes.
Not no.

Maybe.


You ask if I am coming to see you.

I would very much like to see you again.

But if you plant yourself in Crorefell waiting for me, you may grow a beard long enough to braid
before I arrive. My road bends southward. I did not plan it so, but it pulls at me all the same.
The wind has promised epic tales.

I am a bard. I must follow the tracks of heroes. I cannot sit idle while great deeds are
happening elsewhere. Legends do not knock politely. They must be pursued, interrogated,
and occasionally improved.

If Veya calls you, if your name must be reclaimed and your past faced down properly, then go.
That is the call of reckoning. Take it by the throat and make it yours. Go back as the man
who broke his chains and make them remember exactly who you are.

There is a wide world between here and wherever I happen to be.

It groans with stories.
Ruined keeps, outlaw kings, forgotten gods who may or may not deserve rediscovery.
And I would be lying if I said I did not hope, in some thoroughly unreasonable way,
that our paths might cross sooner rather than later.

Yours,
Lady Lark of the Lanes.​
 
Duscan woke up to a slap on his arm, then a slap to his face once he rolled out from his bed and hit the floor.

"OW!"

"Yer fault fer movin' while I'm hitting ya, bastard!" The dulcet tones of Old Bozzy made Duscan open his eyes and stare up at the old man incredulously. "Rewrite this letter."

Duscan released himself from the tangle of his sheets and took a moment to breathe and finally wake up. Once he caught up, he looked up at saw Bozzy shoving a letter into his face. His letter.

"Oi, I asked you to send that off yesterday."

"Yeah? And? I gave it a quick read and yer not sending that shite to that lovely bard. She deserves the finest wines that one, and her letters deserve better replies!"

Duscan groaned, running his hand over his face in hopes it would buy him time and patience.

"Up ye get. Get writing." Bozzy kicked his foot, and Duscan groaned again. On the verge of his own tired tantrum, he groggily got to his feet and gave off a deep exhale.

Snatching his letter back, Duscan shooed the man out from his room, and took up residence at the writing desk.


This is the second letter I am writing you, all because my first one did not meet Old Bozzy's standards. Well, here we go, Lady Lark.

I write in 'maybes' because I have always needed drive and cause, that the idea of returning to a home that nearly broke me is the only reason I have not...

No.

I want to write in promise to you.

I promise I will return and hear your song. I promise to follow it, until I find you. I promise to show you every way that I have missed you... and I look forward to seeing how much you have missed me. About time you write another song about me, yes?

Your next letter should reach me back home. A sister of mine found me in Crorefell, and I will be burdening her with my return. Unless... you tell me where you travel to next and I will be sure to meet you there.

Yours,
The Grandest Admirer of Lady Lark of the Lanes
The Bastard.
 
The road south had turned the color of warm honey beneath the afternoon sun, dust rising in sighs around Anira’s boots. Her pack and lute sat easy on her shoulders. The world smelled of warm earth, wild flowers and distant wood smoke. It was the sort of day that encouraged bold decisions and poor restraint.

Which was precisely when she heard the rumble of hooves behind her. “Lady Lark?” A deep voice called. The bard turned slowly, hand shading her eyes. “If this is about a tavern tab, I promise I'll pay everything after my next...” The rider pulled alongside her in a flurry of fine dust and a foam-flecked big pony. It was a courier and he held out a letter.

Only yesterday she had sent a letter northward. The handwriting on this was already familiar to her, though it was here too so soon. The ink of longing had barely dried in her mind. She had only just heard from Duscan.

She broke the seal.
She read.
Then read again.
Her pulse misbehaved.

“Stay,” she told the courier.
He blinked. “Stay?”
“I require a moment.” Then she withdrew parchment, ink, and a pen from her pack.
“A moment...” The courier muttered faintly.


Duscan,
You reckless, promise-making man.
Do you have any idea what you have done, sending me words like that?
Do you understand what that does to a bard alone on the road with too much imagination?

I find myself imagining the sound of your boots behind me. Not wondering whether I would keep walking.
Wondering how quickly I could turn. I think of how your hands would travel, how my name would
in your voice when you stop pretending you are patient. Wondering how little patience I would
have for conversation before I decided your mouth was a far more interesting occupation.

You see what your letter has done?

You are returning to Veya! I am proud to see you choose your Destiny over fading quietly into the
comfort of an ale house. Do not misunderstand me. I would not despise you if you had chosen safety.
And speaking of roads, I will be travelling to the neighbouring free state of Albasia, I have been
requested to perform at the birthday banquet of House Clemont.

After the celebration I will turn back toward Veya and continue eastward to Sevin, the city of canals.
I should arrive there within two weeks, assuming the road treat me kindly. Meet me there.

Old Bozzy has my gratitude. Should you ever doubt the man again, remember that without his impossible
standards perhaps we would not have found ourselves speaking of meeting again at all.

The thought of you that keeps my pen moving,
Yours,
Lady Lark​
 
"No, no. Not until you have had dinner."

Duscan gave a wounded expression, about to protest as he made his way to the front door with his bag all packed, but silenced as his sister threw a wooden spoon at him. Where he had evaded the spoon, he however was not spared of the hot droplets of tomato soup. "EV-VYN." His arms were lifted as if he could not believe this happened. "MY SHIRT!"

"I am grateful you deigned to visit Veya after some years, but honestly," she pushed past him with a frown, picking up her wooden spoon and heading back to the kitchen to finish their dinner. "If I am to host you for one more night, then I am doing so by showing you that I have improved in my cooking."

"Your cooking skills better be worth ruining a shirt." He frowned and threw down his bag before opening it and rifling through for a clean shirt.



Sevin.
Who knew that Bozzy was keeping count of the hours I worked, but fuck am I grateful he paid me out a wage. That way, I can travel by air ship and get to you sooner. Yes, you. The idea of you has me wanting to spend this coin just to see you. And you know what Anira? It is worth every golden mark to my name.
I am counting down the hours, but alas, I must endure some more time in the home I left.
Yours,
Your Favourite Bastard

P.S
Perhaps more thought should have gone into visiting home, but that is a story I will love to bore you with over a roast dinner and some very nice wine.
 
The innkeeper in Sevin did not look surprised when Duscan stepped through the door. They simply reached under the counter and dropped a crumpled packet into his hand. “It was left for you,” the innkeeper said simply, nodding. Outside the gulls argued with the wind.

“She told me to give it to you if you ever showed your face in Sevin, Bastard.” the innkeeper muttered, already turning away. The seal was unmistakable: baby-blue wax, a lark caught mid-song. Letter had been waiting far longer than the innkeeper had.


Bastard,

Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to be left alone at a meeting place?
Every dark-haired bastard in a cloak made me lift my head like an idiot. Every shadow
makes you think, just maybe, this time, it is him?

I even defended you to strangers.
“Something must have happened,” I said.
I told myself you were hurt. Lost. Dead. Captured.
Invented tragedies for you because somehow they hurt less than the truth.

I had to pull favors and spend what little dignity I had left just to confirm what I already feared.
That you had boarded an airship to Suldaza without so much as a word.

I sang songs about you, Duscan. I made you sound legendary. The Wolf of Weaving.
Women bought me drinks just to hear about you again. One stableboy nearly cried.

So let me make myself painfully clear: do not trouble me ever again.

/Anira​
 
He had been kicking himself for a week and a half now, after coming to realisation of his mistake.

The wrong airship. He fucking got on the wrong airship.

He did not know until it was too late, but finding his way back to Anira had been...

Reading that letter, Duscan knew there was an insurmountable amount of begging he needed to do in order to be blessed with her acceptance to whatever pleading apology he gave.


Anira, let me see you.

I was there, in Sevin, at the time we agreed on but you were not where you said you were waiting. Someone had said the bard singing of a Wolf was headed to the airship station, and I a fool, followed. They sang your song, and I a fool yet again believed it was because they had heard you sing it.

But let me correct this. Meet me here, in Sevin, and I will wait for you.

I am a bastard, but I do not want to be one to you. Not you, Anira.

Please, this is ink and desperation noting that I beg you to come see me. I am staying in Gilded Canal Lodgings, and I will wait for you. Anira... please.

Yours, always
Duscan


Wherever she may be, Duscan's letter and a small box containing a long chain with a pearl pendant. It was pink and lilac in hue, and costed more than Duscan had ever spent on something in his life, but for her, he deemed it right. All he needed was to see her again.
 
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