- Character Profile
- Profile
City of Bellavaro, Somewhere in The Free States
Arms so full she had to work the latch with an elbow, before the bard hits the door like she owned the place. Boot first, arms full. Cheese under one arm, three wine bottles crooked in the other, all of it threatening to go at any second. The bard dumps the lot on the table with the triumphant thud of a highwayman who has just robbed a monastery. Lute slung across her back on a strap gone soft and dark with wear, riding easy.
"Behold," she says, "the spoils of war." Cheese. An obscene amount of cheese, wrapped in wax and cloth and one suspicious page torn from what might have been a hymnal. Anira was both dressed for the road and dressed to be looked at both at once; doublet the color of rhubarb, slashed sleeves showing a saffron shirt beneath, hose that have seen better decades, and a short travelling cloak pinned back so it doesn't tangle. A jaunty little cap, pheasant feather broken in half, sits crooked over hair so fair it's nearly white-gold, loose and windblown and doing whatever it wants.
A bottle rolling loose across the table, saved from the edge at the last second by nothing but the bard's fast reflex.
She started unwrapping the first one, a dense wheel gone the color of old ivory, veined through with grey-blue like a bruise. Hollowrind. Cave-aged, three years minimum, the good ones closer to seven. The monks down there age it next to the ossuary, believe it or no. So the cheese took on this mineral thing, like licking a sarcophagus lid in the best possible way. It paired with something that'll fight it. Foulest red wine one could find, don't waste anything decent on it, the cheese eat the delicate wines.
The bard already peeling the wax off a second wheel. Rind blackened, practically weeping. Widow's Butter from Astersaar Achipelago. Smoked over peat and driftwood in these little huts up the coast, and every wheel is named after whoever's husband died that season... Smoky and salty, soft enough to spread with a knife. Paired so well with dark honey it was obscene.
The lute unslung at last, laid on the table like a body. She thumbs the case latches, and it turns out the thing not held only an instrument. Wedged in around the lute's waist is another wheel, small and hard, and a fistful of grapes, a few gone slightly crushed from travel, weeping sweet down her wrist when she placed them on the table.
She stared down at her prize. Cheese. Far more cheese than any one sensible person could possibly eat alone. Lady Lark hurried to the window and leaned out into the lively streets of Bellavaro, waving a bottle above her head.
“Friends!” A few people looked up. “Friends I've never met before!” She smiles. “I have wine!” That earned considerably more attention from the strangers down the street. “And cheese!” She held up a wedge of pink cheddar triumphantly. “Come upstairs! Eat, drink, and keep me company before I am forced to suffer through all of this alone!”
Arms so full she had to work the latch with an elbow, before the bard hits the door like she owned the place. Boot first, arms full. Cheese under one arm, three wine bottles crooked in the other, all of it threatening to go at any second. The bard dumps the lot on the table with the triumphant thud of a highwayman who has just robbed a monastery. Lute slung across her back on a strap gone soft and dark with wear, riding easy.
"Behold," she says, "the spoils of war." Cheese. An obscene amount of cheese, wrapped in wax and cloth and one suspicious page torn from what might have been a hymnal. Anira was both dressed for the road and dressed to be looked at both at once; doublet the color of rhubarb, slashed sleeves showing a saffron shirt beneath, hose that have seen better decades, and a short travelling cloak pinned back so it doesn't tangle. A jaunty little cap, pheasant feather broken in half, sits crooked over hair so fair it's nearly white-gold, loose and windblown and doing whatever it wants.
A bottle rolling loose across the table, saved from the edge at the last second by nothing but the bard's fast reflex.
She started unwrapping the first one, a dense wheel gone the color of old ivory, veined through with grey-blue like a bruise. Hollowrind. Cave-aged, three years minimum, the good ones closer to seven. The monks down there age it next to the ossuary, believe it or no. So the cheese took on this mineral thing, like licking a sarcophagus lid in the best possible way. It paired with something that'll fight it. Foulest red wine one could find, don't waste anything decent on it, the cheese eat the delicate wines.
The bard already peeling the wax off a second wheel. Rind blackened, practically weeping. Widow's Butter from Astersaar Achipelago. Smoked over peat and driftwood in these little huts up the coast, and every wheel is named after whoever's husband died that season... Smoky and salty, soft enough to spread with a knife. Paired so well with dark honey it was obscene.
The lute unslung at last, laid on the table like a body. She thumbs the case latches, and it turns out the thing not held only an instrument. Wedged in around the lute's waist is another wheel, small and hard, and a fistful of grapes, a few gone slightly crushed from travel, weeping sweet down her wrist when she placed them on the table.
She stared down at her prize. Cheese. Far more cheese than any one sensible person could possibly eat alone. Lady Lark hurried to the window and leaned out into the lively streets of Bellavaro, waving a bottle above her head.
“Friends!” A few people looked up. “Friends I've never met before!” She smiles. “I have wine!” That earned considerably more attention from the strangers down the street. “And cheese!” She held up a wedge of pink cheddar triumphantly. “Come upstairs! Eat, drink, and keep me company before I am forced to suffer through all of this alone!”
