Dare Art is what you get away with [M]

[Anira Verseheart]

Late evening, Crorefell, City of Fools
The Sweet and Sour Inn

"I held a fragile ember, warm and bright,
Now it’s ash and shadow beneath my skin."
​

Anira's fingers moved with aching familiarity over the strings. The notes knew every secret ache of her heart. She sang not for the crowd, but for the ghost of a bittersweet love. A melody written in fresh wounds and stubborn memories.

"Silent fractures spread beneath the light,
Echoes of a flame that could not win."
​

Once he'd been the salt and sugar of her life... as well as he had been the poison. Because what’s a bard without a little suffering? Without the sting of loss, how else could she craft a song that cut so deep and soared so high? The minstrel clutched the neck of her lute for dear life and the tavern air seemed to thicken with the scent of regret.

"Raise your cup to the ghosts we keep,
To the whispers lost in midnight’s breath.
This broken heart, a hollow deep,
Haunted always by love's fading wraith."
​

For weeks, the hurt had been brewing in her heart, mixing with more and more anger. She did not need to imbue the song with an ounce of the magic of lies. It was still angry, ruthless, and cutting as any weapon. She wanted the man to bite his fingers off, to regret throwing her away.

It didn't take very long before the crowd was singing along, shouting the chorus at the top of their lungs with her. Mounting a wooden bench, her foot casually resting on the table, she let her voice fracture with emotion. Her voice rose furiously, passionate, yearning and piercing.

Eventually the lute and the song faded out, and loud applause and cheers replaced it. "Ah, my fine friends and generous hearts! Thank you!" The bard dipped into a thankful bow. After gathering her things, she slipped through the cheering throng, weaving her way toward the bar while dodging a few playful jabs and catcalls.

 

[Duscan]

“Was that a sad song, bastard?”

“Shit. How did you get another drink?” Duscan lifted himself onto his side of the bar and leaned forward, hands quickly wrapping around the pint Old Bozzy liberated from an unsuspecting patron. “Give me that!”

“No.” The old man slapped Duscan’s wrist, and in his inebriated state, he had been unable to help the unnecessary force that went into it. Ale splashed up, Bozzy copping some on his beard, and it fell all over Duscan’s sleeve.

He bit on his tongue, staying there a moment. Silent.

“Go home, please.” Dusc sighed. He relinquished the pint. Sliding off the bar, he turned and saw the bard dodging and winding past those that wished for her attention after her song had ended. He stared at Old Bozzy, who merely lifted his drink up and grinned before downing it.

Instead of bickering with Boz, Duscan turned to greet the bard. He had forgotten her name, unsure if it had been announced sometime earlier, but he greeted her with the small smile he gave all patrons. “Nice voice you got there. Made it look ea—”

“—was that a sad song, lass?” Old Bozzy cut in, leaning out from his seat down the end of the bar. “Or angry?”

Duscan sighed. He began to wring out his sleeve a little before rolling it up his arm. “Ignore him.”
His smile strained, fighting to appear sane. “What you after?”

 

[Anira Verseheart]

The bard didn’t sit so much as drape herself onto the stool, as claiming a throne at the end of a long and bloody campaign.

When the drunk piped up with his half-soused commentary, and she turned just enough to throw the barkeep a wink over her shoulder. “Sad or angry?” she echoed. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s always both. Never wept and plotted murder in the same breath? Then clearly you hasn’t been loved right... or wrong enough.” Gently, she placed the lute on the floor beside her chair and let it lean against her leg.

The bartender gave her that tight, tired smile of a man trying to keep the bar from catching fire. “What you after?” The bard then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Well,” she said, tapping a finger to her lips, “what I’m after might not fit in a glass, but let’s pretend I’m easier to please than that.”

She leaned an elbow on the bar, brushing a few loose blonde strands of hair behind her ear. Her voice dropped a note, smoother now. “A drink, barkeep." She dragged her fingers over the woodgrain on the bar counter, sketching the shape of something round.

“Give me something with fire in it. Something that’ll remind me I’m not dead yet. A drink that forgets my name when it kisses my throat. Not too sweet, gods no, I’ve had enough sweet things turning bitter.”

 

[Duscan]

"Oh, I like her!" Old Bozzy chuckled, shaking a finger at the bard as if she were a cheeky shit. "Get her a drink, bastard!"

"I really got to stop telling people to call me that." Duscan muttered under his breath.

"Stop your mumbling and do your job!" Boz piped up, slapping his hand onto the bar with an insistence that demanded to be met. "Get her that nice—"

"— yeah, yeah! I got it." Dusc shook his head. "This is your job, Boz." The bastard sighed, a smile growing on his face. "Alright, something sweet. Not too sweet." His pale eyes looked the bard up and down, taking in everything from her expression, to her attire, to the way she carried herself. Hm. She didn't look like a simple mead would do the trick, nor an ale sweetened.

Wine. There was the golden one often enjoyed by those sitting high in their instep in the North, but it's crisp flavour would not do well to the criteria given to him.

Duscan turned his back to the bard, staring at the wall of the nice bottles kept up high. "The Arshakan wine?" He asked, turning his head to Boz, waiting for his input. The old man chuckled. Nodded his head, to which Dusc whistled.

"It's on the house, dear." Boz assured the bard. "The bastard will get you the bottle. A gift. I really liked your song!"

"Fuck me." Dusc mutterd to himself again, walking up to the shelves and plucked a bottle of the Arshakan wine. This particular one was spiced, made to be enjoyed at a room temperature and not mulled. Duscan turned around, placing the bottle on the bar and stooping to fetch a nice cup. He had to take a few seconds, for every cup he seemed to turn up was heavily coated in dust. Finally, one seemed clean enough. Probably was used recently. "Oi, Boz. You really got to clean your shit."

"That's what I pay you for, bastard!" He didn't. Duscan was a soft hearted idiot that took pity on the alcoholic barkeep he had met... and just never had the heart to move on for a time.

Duscan stood straight, eyes flicking upwards to where the ceiling blocked his view of a higher divine plane. He sent up a quick prayer for patience, to whichever godly thing would listen. He broke the wax sealing the cork, gave the bottle a sniff and an appreciative face, and poured.

"If you hate it, please don't throw it at me. This is my last clean shirt." A pointed look at Boz.

 

[Anira Verseheart]

Anira glanced between the two bantering men with a smile. “A bottle? You spoil me."

“Oh dear,” she murmured, voice as warm as a stolen fire. She leaned one elbow on the bar, chin tilting toward the bastard barkeep as she swirled the wine gently. One brow arching with impish suggestion. “Your last clean shirt?" Her eyes drifted downward, then up again, deliberately slow. “Perhaps we should get ahead of the disaster and just take it off now? Save the wine the trouble..."

She lifted the wine to her nose first, eyes fluttering closed as she took in the scent. A soft hum of approval escaped her lips. Then came the sip. Slow. Appreciative. The kind of theatrical savoring that people used when they wanted to be watched. She let the wine linger on her tongue, rolled it, then swallowed and sighed with open delight.

Eyes sparkling. “That’s actually good. Either you have excellent taste, or you just keep the good stuff hidden until someone sings sad songs at your bar. I should cry here more often!” She lowered the cup gently and gave it an admiring glance. She turned toward Boz, raising the glass. “To you, darling, thank you for the drink, and the kind words. May your ears always stay sharp.” Then her gaze flicked over to the barkeep.

“So tell me, oh generous keeper of fine spirits and suspiciously clean shirts…” A little smirk curved her lips. “What is your name?” A pause, then her grin widened. “Though.. most men here seem to go by ‘bastard' nowadays. But names are useful things. Especially if I need someone to blame for the hangover...” The bard took another sip, more casual this time.

 

[Duscan]

Duscan eyed her, unknowing if she had just flirted with him or threatened him and his shirt. He should be a little more wary, shouldn't he?

But now, the bard held his interest. He watched her. How stupid was he to think she was just a bard when where ever she went, a captivating performance was made. She spoke, commended him on his pick of poison, and finally, Duscan brought life to his face after her somewhat flirty threat.

"Aye, the Arshakan is the best to work with, ain't it Boz? He spices them himself when he's not on the piss." Boz grinned, lifted his drink to them both before going to drink. Dusc didn't have the heart to tell him he already finished his pint, but the old drunk carried on as if it were a never ending reservoir he simply needed to find the bottom of.

Duscan leaned on the bar, holding the bottle in both hands and staring at the bottle as if it held some wonder beyond it's amber glass. He inspected the plain, unmarked bottle even when the bard's attention turned back to him and asked for his name. This was his chance to clear things up, to tell her it had nothing to do with bastard. Duscan, perhaps a little too proudly, set the bottle down and straightened up with a wide grin. "It's Dus—"

“Though.. most men here seem to go by ‘bastard' nowadays. But names are useful things. Especially if I need someone to blame for the hangover...”

His grin twitched, faltered only at a slight.

"Duscan the Bastard, bard! See them marks on his face? Should have called himself Duscan the Sob Story!" Boz cackled. It was an alarming sound, for he sounded as if he had honked, choked a little, and then wheezed out the rest of the disturbing laugh. "He's from the state that collects weavers!"

"Just Duscan would do. You tell a joke once and it becomes the inn's favourite to retell." Duscan lifted a hand to rub at his forehead before smoothing back his hair, unable to help the wry smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "But if you do want to blame me for a hangover, then feel free to use Duscan the Bastard." He winked at her. "You got a name then? Would be useful to know it if you changed your mind and savaged my last clean shirt."

 

[Anira Verseheart]

Anira froze mid-sip, the golden wine still glinting on her lip as she turned her head to stare at him. Slowly, as if he'd just called her milkmaid.

“Oh! Oh, my dear Bastard..!” Her voice dropped into something low and wounded. She set the glass down carefully, like a knife being returned to its sheath. Then placed both her hands on the bar and leaned in just a little.

“You mean to tell me you don’t know who I am?! You can sniff out Arshakan reserve from three bottles down, but miss a flyer that’s been nailed to the beam above your bar all week? You wound me, barkeep. Truly. My name’s on the bloody flyer. In ink! On paper! It’s been tacked to that crooked beam all week. It glitters!!”

The bard reached up with a flourish, her fingers deft and sure. With a quick motion, she tore the flyer down from the crooked beam and laid it flat on the bar before him. “Here!” she said. Her finger dragged over the script, slow and teasing.

“Lady Lark of the Lanes, Anira Verseheart.”

She looked up, eyes locking with his, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "Should I sign it for you?" She flashed him a grin then, bright and far too sharp to be innocent. "Perhaps slip in my address, so you’ll know where to find me... in case the Bastard wants to come by and apologize properly for ignoring the lady of the night’s own flyer!” She paused, tilting her head, her eyes trailed Duscan's markings. “Or, if you fancy, you could always tell me about your mysterious past instead.”

 

[Duscan]

Duscan was grinning. A lot.

He was both entertained and amused by the bard, but as she liberated the flyer from where it indeed had been all week, he did see how wonderfully captivating the page had been. How did he not see it? Dusc could look back on the past week, but the days blurred into nights, and then he had only a handful of hours to sleep.

“Lady Lark of the Lanes.” He crooned, liking the sound of that. His eyes watched her, the two of them leaning in at the bar. “Now, am I going to find myself a clean shirt when I come to visit your address, or will I be apologising without one?”

Duscan wasn’t going to tell his sob story here. Well… again that is. These walls had heard it all before, and he had been sitting in the same stool Old Bozzy was taking up now. He had told the entire room of his road to freedom, had enough coin to shout a round for all, and woke the next day feeling sorry for himself. That night onwards, he had let slip his name.

Only now he learned not to tell drunkards the Bastard part of his identity.

“Come now, Lady Lark. You cannot mean to lure me away from this bar!” Duscan jerked his chin down to where Old Bozzy was now holding his head up and taking a light snooze. Duscan licked his lips, hand raised before falling back down onto the bar. Nah. Let the man sleep it off. It may take a few days, but he wasn’t too eager to parry with the old man.

Turning his attention back onto the lady of the night, Duscan let his gaze take in her face. “If I tell you my story, you’re not going to write a song about me, are ya? Got anything that would rhyme with ‘bastard’?”

 

[Anira Verseheart]

“Now, am I going to find myself a clean shirt when I come to visit your address, or will I be apologising without one?”

She reached into the folds of her bodice, where any self-respecting bard kept the essentials, and drew out a slender silver-colored fountain pen, and began to scrawl on the back in looping, elegant script. “That depends... How badly do you want to be forgiven?”

Her fingers tapped against the flyer and neatly pushed it in front of him. Her eyes sparkled like wet ink. “There. That’s where you’ll find me... In case you suddenly remember how terribly rude it is not to recognize a local legend and do not want to spend your evening with.." She nodded toward the snoozing Old Bozzy. "...his armpit.” Anira twirled the pen once between her fingers, then tucked it back where it came from.

When he dared bring up songs, her smirk sharpened. “You think I won’t write one? I make a living immortalizing poor choices.” She leaned her elbows on the bar, tapped her lip with theatrical thought. "I will need a rhyme for ‘bastard.’ Hmm…"

The bard lifted her glass and took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving his, before setting it down with a soft clink. “ ‘Bastard’ rhymes beautifully with ‘hazard,’ and let’s be honest, love, you do give the impression of being both.”

 

[Duscan]

The flyer was slid back into his grasp, rolled up and being flattened and folded without much else thought put into it. Dusc tucked it into his pocket, the light clinking from his pockets reminding him of the few gold pieces he had earned earlier that day. Earned in the respect that he had been very attentive to the sight of them dropping and rolling away from a merchant, and those six pieces became unaccounted for, Duscan took his chance in picking them up for himself.

It seemed his day of luck would only continue into the night.

Grinning, his brows lifted and fell in a series of cheeky reactions. "Don't forget dastard, you know, for variety."

Fuck it, he never truly let himself indulge ever since one woman had slowly tore away at his heart, and he was the fool that let it happen. The bard didn't promise him sweet romance or... Duscan cleared his throat, deciding not to think too much on it and see where the night takes him.

"I'll see you after an hour, Lady Lark of the Lanes?" He could not keep the smile from crooking his lips. "Plenty of time for me to think on what an idiot I am for not knowing who you are, and what to do with my shirt." Of course, he should have it soaking with the other shirts, ready to be scrubbed on the morrow, but Duscan felt as if he could chance wearing it tonight.

His hand absently went to his pocket, to the coin resting there. Should have bought another shirt...

 

[Anira Verseheart]

She stepped back from the bar, the motion fluid, theatrical, her hands smoothing down the sides of her doublet. “Oh, plenty of time,” she smirked. “Enough to reflect on your crimes."

“An hour, then,” she said, as she gathered her things. The lute slung over one shoulder and a rolled-up sheaf of notes tucked beneath her arm. “If you don't show up, I’ll assume it’s the shirt giving you trouble." she added, tossing him a wink like a coin into a fountain. The bard took backed away from the bar, still smiling.

---

She whistled as she walked home, a tune half-formed, something she might steal from herself later and rhyme with disaster or plaster... depending on how the night turned out.

The streets were soft with fog and hungover candlelight by the time she reached her chambers. Her place was nestled above a modest bookbinder’s shop, with a tasteful window display: gilded tomes, marbled covers, pressed flowers sealed in lacquer. The building was old, timbered by black wood, ivy was creeping up the side. Her door was painted sea-glass green, with a brass knocker. She unlocked the door and slipped inside.

Kicked off her boots.

Her windowsill held the stub of a beeswax candle in its holder, half-read pages of a song she wasn’t sure she liked, and a wine bottle that needed finishing. Anira lit the candle.

Unpinned her hair.

She poured herself a drink, leaned out the window, and watched the crooked street below like a queen surveying her court. The night was hummid, lazy and sweet. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, someone laughed like they’d won a coin toss against fate.

If he came, he came.

And if he didn’t... well. There were worse things than a quiet night, and the smug knowledge that somewhere in the city, a barkeep was second-guessing his wardrobe. With the glass in one hand, she crouched before the hearth and struck a match. The fire caught slowly, then all at once. Flames licked at the stacked kindling until it glowed with a soft, flickering breath.

 

[Duscan]

It was proven difficult to close up the bar in time for him to freshen up — a perfectly logical reason for doing so was still escaping him — when Old Bozzy had been woken up and suddenly got a second wind of energy. Dusc had to be grateful somewhere, for the old man seemed to sobered enough to carry on serving the last three patrons nursing empty cups, but poor renditions of the bard's songs were still heard through his bleeding ears by the time he made it upstairs to become presentable.

He caught his reflection before heading out, his lips skewing to one side as he debated for six seconds if he should take his hair out from the leather tie holding it back, or look unkempt for how long his hair had gotten and the only way to even let his not too shabby face to be seen was to tie it back.

The bastard thought better of it, and moved on to take his leave.

It hadn't been hard to find her address, but as he ascended the stairs to her rooms, he wondered if she had been serious at all with her invitation. Was this even a credible place of residence? Or will the answer to his knock knock knock be with a harried woman wielding a cast iron pan and aiming for his head?

"You know, I decided to keep my shirt on. I realised that it may have abandonment issues, for the sleeve is already stained, and I cannot put it through that ordeal like the others shirts worn before it." Duscan smiled as he leaned on the door frame, waiting for the door to open. If there was a fry pan coming his way, at least he knew now he wouldn't give up his witty antics.

 

[Anira Verseheart]

The door creaked open slowly... clearly for effect.

And there the bastard was.

Leaning on the frame, one arm braced against the painted wood, with a smile playing on his lips, eyes full of some trouble he hadn’t yet confessed to. The firelight from behind her spilled over him like the gods had been waiting for this exact moment.
She looked at him for a long moment. Anira blinked, suspicious of how attractive this was. A hero on the wrong page of the story. Or the right one, depending on how much trouble you wanted...

Damn...

“Oh, thank the gods! I thought your shirt might arrive alone...” she said, lips curving into a smile. She stepped back, gesturing for him to come in with a grand sweep of her arm. “Do come in, dear shirt-sentimentalist." As he entered, the door clicked shut behind him with a soft thunk. Her hand went instinctively to the bodice she’d only half-laced, to pretend it had been properly fastened for hours.

The chambers were a bard’s nest, half sanctuary, half stage. The ceiling beams were strung with drying flowers, colorful ribbons, and instrument strings. In the chamber, there was a fireplace, and a small fire was burning there. There was a chaise longue, placed not so far from the fireplace. There were bookshelves, filled with books, scrolls, quills, and other things. By the window her lute was still leaning against the soft cushions in the nook.

On the walls hung several different instruments that she had collected. There was a white violin, she recently found on an auction. A bargain and one of her most favorite things. A few different drums, one seemed to be goblin-made. Several different flutes lined up in size on a shelf. And in a corner, a big unstringed black harp. "Don't touch that, it's cursed." She warned.

Candles pooled warm light onto the floors and walls, their wax dribbling like teardrops down mismatched holders, some brass, some clay, one fashioned from what looked suspiciously like a stolen candlestick from a temple... A half-finished crown of laurel and a pair of dried roses lay on the writing desk next to a wine bottle, three quills, and a crumpled-up page. A door stood open into the adjoining bedroom, where a four-poster bed waited beneath a riot of mismatched blankets and hanging charms. Another door remained firmly closed, her wardrobe, presumably, and likely hiding every article of clothing she had thrown in there in the last minute. In a panic-clean.

“I was two buttons away from bed, you know,” she said. “Now... drink?"

 

[Duscan]

Duscan let out a low whistle, slowly taking steps one after the other as his eyes roamed the interiors. It was lived in, perhaps the most curated and personal he had ever seen of anyone's own space. The Lady that owned his indenture kept a very minimal approach to her home, and her collected weavers were not given much coin to afford adding personality to their own rooms. Duscan never spent his money on finer things. Only on food, weapons, and new shirts.

"Huh... I am actually feeling quite at home here." His eyes were still peering about, taking it all in. Duscan gave the cursed harp a wary and reproachful look. "Even if all the things here are not welcoming." Finally, he settled his gaze on the Lady Lark. He grinned, fishing out his flyer. "I like it when other people offer me the drink. Makes it obvious that I am not on the job right now. I'll take whatever."

Dusc wagged the folded up flyer between his forefinger and middle finger.

"You never did sign this for me. I was thinking of framing it above my bed to help me dream at night." That witty quip he had thought of earlier, keeping it in his back pocket quite literally. He never knew if he would need a pathetic excuse to show up at her door, probably over thinking the invitation. "Lucky me, getting your address so that I can be sure to right this terrible wrong."

 

[Anira Verseheart]

The scent of wax, ink, and the faintest hint of honeysuckle lingered in the air. "Glad you like it." Amused, she cocked her head as he stepped inside. "I’m curious to see how you furnish a space… starting with on my bed."

A heartbeat of silence. Then, ever so innocently:

"Chair. I meant chair, of course. Silly me."

Her bare feet made soft sounds on the old rugs strewn across the floor as she walked over to an old cupboard, paint peeling, handles made of an old root. She opened the creaking door to reveal a modest but lovingly hoarded collection of bottles. She poured the honey mead and handed him a cup before she poured a cup for herself.

The amber liquid caught the firelight like molten gold, and the scent of honey and wild herbs filled the room, heady and sweet. “There. Proper hospitality,” she declared.

“Oh! Right.” The flyer was wagging at her in that teasing way, and she laughed, stepping in close to pluck it from his fingers. The paper crackled softly as she took it from his hand, and she squinted at it with faux solemnity. “Very well. But you should know... my autograph comes at a price.”

She made a little theatrical show of looking for her quill, pushing aside a pillow, lifting a thick book from the windowsill, before she finally plucked a quill from the folds of her desk clutter, from somewhere between a broken bowstring and a lemon peel. Anira dipped it into a half-dried inkwell. She signed her name with a flourish. Lady Lark of the Lanes - Anira Verseheart in exaggerated curls that danced across the parchment. Below that, she added: “To Duscan the Bastard"

She offered it back to him between two fingers. “One kiss. That’s the fee tonight.” A beat, then a smirk. “I don’t make the rules. The Bardic Union is terribly strict!”