Anira Verseheart

Anira Verseheart

Lady Lark of the Lanes
Weaver
Character Profile
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By midday, all of House Mandamor, a dynasty across the free states for their jeweled caravans, peacock-blue banners, was in uproar. Their missing daughter was no other than Lady Salani Mandamor, Mahapravin's brilliant, veiled treasure. Her disappearance was discovered in the Hall of Still Waters, where she performed her daily meditations under the guidance of the Padma-kulapati, the Lotus-Matriarch. A cup of tulsi water sat half-finished beside an open scripture. There were no signs of struggle. The lady was nowhere.

The girl was taken at dawn.
Not by force, at least not at first. The palace guards swear they saw her walking calmly through the Gate of Painted Peacocks, draped in a shawl the color of moonmilk, following a masked figure.

House Mandamor was not entirely sure this was abduction, coercion, or omen. But it was a political catastrophe, so the Mahapravin ordered that no rumor would leave beyond the palace walls. Salani Mandamor was betrothed to Iskender of House Dhavalikar, a lord of a rival house. This was meant to seal decades of conflict between the houses. Her disappearance was a political apocalypse... were it to be known the lady was gone.

For three days after Selani’s disappearance, the palace thrummed with a frantic purpose. Every library vault was opened, every sealed cabinet unlocked, every court chronicler questioned. Most paths led nowhere. Until one name surfaced again and again, like a half-buried bone. The name threaded itself through three provinces, five scandals, and a dozen ruined reputations. The Hollow Man. Elias Veyne had been seen in Mandamor territory two months before the princess disappeared.

Under a false name. With forged letters of introduction. Smiling his way through the courts.

So whom do they call upon?

For a matter this delicate, House Mandamor needed insight, and Elias Veyne had a daughter. A bard. They needed precision, fearlessness. And so the Mahapravin, the head of House Mandamor, issued the order in absolute confidence: Hire the Lady Lark, for her blood. Hire the First and Last, for a blade.


Anira paused just inside the Mandamor hall. Smoke from incense danced in the lamplight, swirling around her. She took in her own reflection multiplied a hundredfold by all the mirrors on the walls. It pleased her immensely. Not because she was vain... though she would absolutely defend vanity as a virtue. But dozens of Aniras smiling back at her, and she took this as the universe’s personal validation that she looked excellent today.

The Mahapravin waited at the far end of the chamber, seated on a low throne carved from dark sandalwood and inset with lapis lotus petals. His posture was straight, dignified, and, if she wasn’t imagining it, just a touch weary. He lifted his gaze when she entered. A single brow rose.

The minstrel interpreted that as "My goodness, what a remarkably beautiful and talented young woman." So she swept into a graceful curtsey. "You summoned the Lady Lark,” she announced with bright confidence. “And lo, your lark has arrived.”

The Mahapravin inclined his head once. "We have much to discuss.” He said. “But we are waiting for another guest. Please, sit down.”

Anira blinked.

“Oh! Yes. Of course. I love waiting...”

She did not.
 
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Three days of desperate searching had turned up nothing except more questions. And as always, someone had talked. Less than twenty-four hours after Mistress Selani's disappearance, a letter had crossed the Greatest Fool's desk, highlighting the facts, or the lack thereof. By the thirty-sixth hour, news had reached the Fourth. A couple more and he was on the road, riding hard towards a home into which he had not been invited.

He let himself in, of course, posing as a guard of all things.

The armour was easy enough to come by. Casting an illusion powerful enough to trick House Mandamor's trained spellweavers, considerably less so. Still. A favour begot a favour, and having the First owe him was something he had never hoped to achieve. At least, not in this lifetime.

Returning to the safehouse one night, the Fourth found a letter waiting for him, penned in invisible ink. A lit candle revealed its secrets; the contract, received shortly after his departure from Crorefell. As always, someone had talked.

And now there was money to be made.

'What's taking him so long?' Reclining in his sandalwood throne, the Mahapravin tapped his temple impatiently, the air of aloofness he had cultivated stagnating as he waited. And waited. Occasionally, his gaze would wander, here, there, to the Lady Lark, befeathered and beautiful. What he wouldn't give to-

'More wine, Magnificence?' A voice at his shoulder drew the Mahapravin from his thoughts.

Looking up and to the side, the nobleman startled in fright, leaping to his feet as the figure looming over him took a step back. 'You- How- What?!' The Mahapravin stuttered, eyes darting to the resonance stone set into the arm of his throne, which had until now supported his own.

'Before you summon the guards, allow me to introduce myself, Magnificence.' Drawing back the servant's cowl he had "borrowed" from the laundry, the stranger bowed, hands raised, away from the long knives secreted beneath the folds of his white robes. Also, conveniently borrowed.

'Brother Fourth, of the First and Last, answering His Magnificence's summons! I hope I have not made you wait overly long.'
 
Anira was halfway lost in the cushions before she even realized it. The bard was perched precariously on the edge of a particularly plump cushion, the soft swell of silk and velvet threatening to swallow her entirely. She wiggled, shifted, and tried not to disappear into the hillock of embroidered fabrics beneath her. The chai cup trembled in her hand, as if it, too, feared being engulfed by the cushion tide.

She sipped her chai like she was performing a delicate ritual, all the while mentally rehearsing a witty comment in case anyone looked her way. The minstrel leaned back a fraction too far, nearly disappearing into the plush abyss, and let out a tiny gasp.

Then, before she could even suspect a thing, The Mahapravin who had been reclining so regally he might have been carved from the same wood as the throne, suddenly rose with the sharpness of someone startled out of a dream. The bardess blinked, almost slipped off the pillow again, but caught herself with a flourish that could have passed for grace if anyone cared to notice. Nearly spilling her chai.

A man in a white cowl stepped forward, hands raised in mock surrender, and announced himself with a theatrical flourish Anira adored.

“Before you summon the guards, allow me to introduce myself, Magnificence.”

Anira blinked. One brow lifted. Then, as she shifted again to avoid sinking entirely, she leaned slightly forward.

“Brother Fourth, of the First and Last, answering His Magnificence’s summons! I hope I have not made you wait overly long.”

Her blue eyes went wide. Her hand flew to her chest. “Oh! Ohhh!” she squeaked, voice high and thrilled, spilling a delicate sip of chai across a cushion. She sank slightly back into the cushions, wiggling to remain visible. “Well! Well, well, well! What a thrilling way to announce yourself!"

The Mahapravin cleared his throat. “Lady Lark,” he began, “Brother Fourth. I have summoned you both for a matter of grave urgency.” Anira’s eyes went wide, something dangerous, she presumed. “My sister, Lady Selani Mandamor, has been taken.” She saw him not smile. This is serious.

“Taken? By… someone? Oh no... why are you looking at me like that, Magnificence? Do you mean…?” She didn’t need to finish the sentence; the name had already shaped itself into the air between them. Because, why else would she be here, if not her father was involved? “Yes...” The Mahapravin said, nodding slowly. “By The Hollow Man”

“My father,” she murmured. Of course, she wanted to protest because kidnapping wasn't really one of her father's preferred methods. It was simply uncharacteristic for Elias. Magnificence gestured toward them both, his hands precise and commanding. “Lady Lark, you are the only one alive who may anticipate his patterns. Brother Fourth will accompany you. You two are to track him down, recover my sister, and bring her safely home."
 
A bit of fun, a bit of risk. The Mahapravin took it in all in his stride. Surprise turned to acceptance turned to relief as the man in question cleared his throat, stood taller, as men of means were wont to do when placed on the backfoot by those they deemed of lesser import.

And I am certainly that, thought the Fourth, bowing perfunctorily as a shrill voice cut the air. Like a knife in the back.

Lady Lark. Anira Verseheart. Quippy, hers was a name the Fourth had heard before, from many a loosened tongue. Daughter to the South's most prominent conman - no small feat, given Crorefell alone was full of the cun-

'My sister, Lady Selani Mandamor, has been taken.' The Fourth followed the Mahapravin's gaze to Anira. Curious, he held his tongue as their employer continued, saying, 'Yes... By the Hollow Man.' So. There it was. Turning, the killer eyed his counterpart closely as the words settled between them, his mind already presenting pitfalls which he'd be wise to dance around, lest their cooperation end in...

Well. Nothing good.

'Are you certain it was the Hollow Man who took your sister, Magnificence?' The Fourth asked quietly. 'I have no qualms tracking him down, and returning your sister safe to you. One thing I do not appreciate, however... is bad information.'

'And from the way you hear tell of it, he's committed every fraud from here to the Shard, and has eloped with half the land's maidens while he was at it?'

The Fourth chose silence for an answer; as good as any, considering. The Mahapravin nearly smiled.

'We all adorn masks from time to time, Brother Fourth, and the Lady's father possesses more than most. That he let his slip, here, during the kidnapping of my beloved sister could be for a number of reasons. Fortunately, I am not paying you to uncover the man's motives, only to find Selani, and return her to me in much the same state as she was taken. The good lady here will be invaluable in your search, and, should my sources prove mistaken, she may well stand to clear her father's name, if she so wishes.'

Gazes flitted to the blonde-haired bard, and the mercenary donned his mask.

'Fair enough.'
 
Anira smiled.
Not the small, polite one. The proper one. The kind she had perfected after years in front of an audience. The bard leaned forward just enough to seem earnest.

Inside, her thoughts were humming something else entirely. No, she thought, very plainly. Brother Fourth, you cannot track down my father. If you could, you'd already have, and we would not be having this conversation on a mountain of cushions.

Her father did not get caught. He did not linger. He did not let himself be seen by anyone with eyes and a memory. He was a magician first, illusionist to the marrow. If the Hollow Man had taken Selani Mandamor, there would be whispers and people arguing about shadows rather than pointing fingers. This was all wrong. Too direct. Too narrated. Too many witnesses for a man who lived on misdirection. Her father was not some alley-cut fraud who left witnesses, rumors, names spoken aloud, and a paper trail someone could follow. Which meant this was either a trap, a lie, or someone trying to wear her father’s reputation.

"You lose nothing by having me along, Brother Fourth." Men carried their pride the way they carried their blades, close, sharp, and eager to be tested. Poking at that would gain her nothing except tension and perhaps a knife-shaped punctuation mark.

“Magnificence,” she said warmly, voice bright and musical without tipping into flippant, “you have my word. Whatever hand truly took your sister, we will find Lady Selani and return her to you safely.”

The Mahapravin had said his piece. Brother Fourth had accepted the terms. The room was waiting for someone to decide what shape this story would take. Naturally, that someone was her. She rose from the sea of cushions. “Right,” Anira said brightly, smoothing her skirts. “Before we rush off brandishing blades and accusations, there is one thing I must do.”

She smiled, almost apologetic. Almost sweet.

“I need to see where your sister slept last.”
 
He lost nothing by having her along, true. But a bard's loyalty was questionable at the best of times, and her father wasn't the only one whose reputation preceded him. The Greatest Fool might have advised caution, were she here.

Then again, maybe not.

Assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups, the Fourth smiled, focusing on Anira's words and demeanour, searching for chinks in her armour. Friend or foe, they were to work together towards shared goals. That did not mean he had to like it. Or that she wouldn't deign to fuck him over someway somehow. Betrayal was something of an expectation in this line of work. Pleasant surprises a welcome rarity.

Nodding, the mercenary surrendered to silence as Anira made a request of their sponsor. The Mahapravin watched the Lady Lark a moment, curious, wary, though not entirely opposed to the idea. 'You may,' he said, hands behind back, brow knitting in thought.

'My servant, Azimidas, will accompany you. To ensure you some measure of privacy in which to carry out your investigation.'

And to keep an eye on you both, went the insinuation. The Fourth supposed that was okay. He had nothing to hide. Alas, he could not say the same for his companion. 'Thank you, Magnificence!' Bowing once more, the Fourth stood up straight as a man swathed in servant's garb appeared by the entrance.

White robes and ebon skin. Bald as the marble statues standing vigil over the concourse outside. Face scarred by battle rather than ritual. Azimidas was clearly a man the Mahapravin trusted. The Fourth didn't.

'Follow me,' he said.
 
While a mercenary, a man who traded swords for coin, blades for bargains, worried about loyalites and that a bard might betray him, the bard lifted her lute from where it rested on the cushions. Thinking about how she could the easiest way, steer these men away from the notion that her father had truly taken Lady Selani.

Of course, this could all be a really intricate plot to actually capture her father and hold him accountable for crimes he committed in the past. This whole kidnapping thing chould all be a hoax.

The bard tilted her head, smiling like the secret-keeper of the court. "Ah, great! My father, you see… he has a little habit, a charming little trick of his. Whenever someone piques his interest, he simply cannot resist sending them... a certain token." She fluttered her hand as if it were nothing of value she talked about. "An engraved gold coin. Hearts, roses... the motives may be a touch obscene, but you know... lovers are like that.”

Of course, all words spilling out of her were lies. Her father was no amateur. But if a golden coin, any engraved coin, were ever found in that room, it would be planted. And all suspicions about her father were nothing more than a house of cards. Happily, she hooked her arm under Brother Fourth's and followed the bald, scarred servant.


“You know, one can learn so much from a woman’s closet, sweet Brother Fourth,” The bard declared, blue eyes sparkling like ice on a glacier. Anira stepped lightly across the threshold, letting her eyes sweep over the chamber. “Has she run away with a lover? The favorite dresses would be gone, you see. Is she hiding from someone? Then I wager she hasn’t taken a single drop of her perfumes.”

The room was a marvel, high ceilings draped in golden silks, carved teak panels etched with curling floral motifs, lanterns of colored glass casting kaleidoscopic spectrums across the tiled floor. Cushioned divans lined the walls, and the scent of a big climbing jasmine swept inside from the balcony. Transparent curtains, toned like jewels, draped the windows and swayed softly in the breeze like ghosts.

"Oh! Look at this chamber, my goodness,” she breathed, spinning lightly to take it all in. Her gaze lingered on the enormous canopied bed. “And what a bed! Fit for a queen!” Tilting her head toward the stoic servant, “Azimidas! Such a shame it isn’t yours." She flirted before her feet stopped by the vanity next to the bed, tilting her head. Her gaze swept over the empty velvet trays, the hooks, and the boxes. All gone. Not a single gem remained. The bard opened the drawers. Nothing.

“All of it… gone.” Her gaze slid toward Brother Fourth.
 
Whilst Anira busied herself admiring the contents of another woman's wardrobe, the Fourth made his way to the balcony overlooking the water gardens. Despite his earlier scepticism, he saw no harm in giving the Lady Lark room to spread her wings. Perspective was important, and allowing Anira to share hers was a step towards widening his own.

The devil, as always, was in the details.

'A misdirect?' The Fourth met Anira's gaze through the gossamer drapes. Golden eyes blazed like the Sun come midday. Stepping inside, he crossed to the divan, footsteps light as southern snowfall. 'Boxes must've held a veritable fortune,' he said, fingers brushing the soft velvet lining. 'Rings and earrings and necklaces. Liquid currency. Draws less attention than a purse full of coin. Can be worn or pocketed.'

Closing the lid, the Fourth turned to find Azimidas watching them from the doorway.

'Did Lady Selani venture out from the estate often?' The mercenary inquired. Azimidas nodded. He was not paid to talk. 'Did she frequent anywhere in particular? Visit anyone? A friend, perhaps?'

'Not for me to say,' answered Azimidas, reluctantly. 'Her Ladyship spent most of her time alone. Writing.'
'Writing what?'
'Correspondence, mostly. She was to be wed.'

Like drawing blood from a stone. Azimidas certainly had the look of one. The Fourth ground his teeth.

No doubt the Mahapravin considered such obstinance a virtue, where his servants were concerned. Now, though...

The Fourth glanced at Anira.
 
A misdirect? Boxes must've held a veritable fortune.
Liquid currency. Draws less attention than a purse full of coins.

Words spilling from a man with eyes like katzengold. There was something almost poetic about hearing talk of riches from a gaze gilded. An exhale left the bardess as a gentle sigh. But she wasn't here to write poetry about the man with the sun bright eyes.

“Possibly..."

Her gaze slid toward the lacquered wardrobe in the corner, painted with vines and prowling tigers in gold leaf. The minstrel stepped closer to the wardrobe and eased the doors open fully. Gowns waited inside in neat rows. All still here. Still hanging. Still home. Her fingers flicked between heavy gold thread brocades and silks in peacock blue and deep pomegranate red. Silk sighed against silk.

“Well,” she said lightly. “Lady Selani seems to have traveled in the old tradition of sensible romantics everywhere. Pack light, take the jewels, leave the laundry.” Whit that, Anira shut the wardrobe with a soft click.

The minstrel drifted toward the writing desk by the window, since the men were talking about the lady writing a lot. She brushed her fingers across the parchment sheets, one after another… crisp, untouched, heartbreakingly blank. Pure as temple marble. She lifted one sheet, held it to the light, then set it gently back in place. Not even invisible ink had been used. Who would the lady have corresponded with if there were no letters here?

Of course, there was ash in the fire bowls, and there was a high chance that any letters had been burned...

She met his yellow eyes. "Maybe we should talk to the guards, the ones who last saw her?"
 
'Maybe.' The Fourth did not blink as he continued to stare at Azimidas. There was something about the man, a niggling suspicion that left the mercenary with more questions than answers. 'I doubt they will tell us anything we do not already know,' he said, turning to study Anira. 'But it would not hurt us to be thorough in our investigation. Who knows, maybe we'll get lucky.'

Out of the corner of his eye, the Fourth saw Azimidas shift ever so slightly.

'I'm afraid to say that will not be possible.' Blunt as a mace. No preamble or false apology. Just enough to leave the listener curious for more. 'What do you mean, "that won't be possible"?' The Fourth eyed Azimidas warily.

'Shortly after his sister's kidnapping came to light, His Magnificence dispatched search parties into the city. Scenthounds and armed retainers, mainly. The two guards who bore witness to Mistress Selani's abduction were among those sent to find her.'

'Let me guess: they have yet to return.'
'Correct.'
'And the Mahapravin has no means of contacting them... or vice versa?'

'His Magnificence has been known to favour the application of Sending Stones, where necessary,' revealed Azimidas, tone as empty as the look in his eyes. 'Alas, the magi accompanying them remains -how should I put it?- predisposed.'

'With the search, no doubt.' Azimidas inclined his head. 'Shame.'

'Yes. Though, perhaps His Magnificence would see fit to recall them, if you believe their accounts of the kidnapping will be of use to you? Mistress Selani's safe return is his main priority, after all.' The Fourth stifled a smile.

Sure it is, Azi!
 
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The bard rocked once on her heels as Azimidas delivered the status on the witnesses whereabout, with all the charm of a boulder. “Mm. Mmm.. Mhmm... So our witnesses have conveniently vanished into the great wide yonder with a magus who refuses to pick up his stone?” she said lightly and exhaled through a smile.

"Very well then... I should say Fate has saved us the bother of interviews, Brother Fourth” Her gaze flicked back to The Fourth. “And I do so hate to untie loyal tongues that have already decided to tie themselves in knots.” She tipped her head. The minstrel's lips curved into a smirk. “Terribly tedious business… unless, of course, it’s the sort of knot that comes undone for a very good kiss.” Her voice was playful as lantern lights on water, and her eyes flickered back to Azimidas. The man didn’t so much as twitch an eyebrow.

Turning back to Brother Fourth, the bard spread her hands. “So, my dear blade, unless you wish to interrogate the curtains...? I suggest we take our cleverness for a walk. The trail out there migth be warmer."

As they stepped from Lady Selani’s chamber back into the corridor, Anira’s thoughts went straight to the far more immediate crisis: her outfit. The silk was exquisite, yes. But it was not an outfit for dust, or mud, or gravel, or brambles, or unpredictable rain, or running very fast from wolves. "Does His Magnificence intend to cover all our… reasonable expenses while we chase down his missing sister?"

She smoothed a hand over the fabric. Her nose wrinkled at the thought of torn hems and snagged thread. Besides, if she was going to save a lady, expose a lie, clear a name, possibly flirt with danger and definitely with someone else... she ought to do it looking like a glorious adventurer! She cast a side glance toward Brother Fourth.

Anira cleared her throat softly. “I’ll need a moment to change into something more… practical." Though what meaning had the word practical to a bard..? “I'm staying at The Last Drop,” she said, “Got spare clothes there."
 
“So, my dear blade, unless you wish to interrogate the curtains...?"

'Think they're holding out on us?' Glancing over his shoulder, the mercenary regarded the thrown-open doors, and the curtains skewing his view. I think they are, he thought, mind focused on more than just the room's decor.

Following Anira out into the corridor, the Fourth passed a hand over his eyes, fingers weaving a Sign few outside of the fraternity understood. The light in the hall shifted to reveal footprints recently erased. 'I'm sure you could talk him into it,' the blade replied, head bowed, studying the mosaic floor with a keenness born of experience. 'The dress compliments your eyes. Wouldn't want to fight in those skirts, though.' Prone to trip you up, make you slow.

And slow meant dead, more oft than not.

'Practical, aye.' Outside, the air was dry and hot. Manakins danced beneath the eaves, filling the water gardens with song, swirl and dance. The Fourth watched their flight for a moment, thinking, then nodded. 'I've half a mind to stretch my legs,' he told Anira, turning his head to face her. 'I'll meet you there. Unless you would prefer I accompany you, uncertain times and all that?'
 
“Well now,” She breathed as a smile blossomed on her face. “... Here I was bracing myself for grim steel and grim grunts, and instead I find a man of blade and banter. How utterly refreshing! Complimenting my eyes, no less.” Delight chiming of her words. She tilted her head with theatrical appreciation.

"You’re full of surprises.”

The bardess took a step back, already halfway in motion. “We’ll regroup at The Last Drop.”


The moment the door to her room clicked shut behind her… the battle truly began.

One hour. Three full meltdowns.

Her favorite blouse revealed a tragic loose thread, which obviously meant it was now a cursed object. Her chest overflowed like a dragon’s hoard of fabrics, ribbons, scarves, tunics, skirts... Anira briefly considered wearing something plain… then immediately tossed herself dramatically across the bed in grief at the mere thought.

There were more clothes than sense, yet somehow, impossibly…

Nothing to wear.

She sat on the edge of the bed, muttering to herself, hands in her hair.

“Something practical,” she declared.
“Something cute,” she counter-declared.
“Something that says ‘I’m ready for adventure’"

In the end, she curated something only a bard would ever call “traveling attire”; high-waisted trousers of bold crimson, cut to flatter. A soft linen shirt in the color of cream. Over it, a corset, glinting faintly where gold stitching caught the light. Then a doublet, blue as deep sapphire and embroidered with swirling patterns. The lining was silk. Absolutely no sensible soul alive would consider it.

She tugged it into place, rolled her shoulders, and nodded to herself like a general inspecting armor. Perfect.


The Last Drop huddled in its alley, its timbers darkened by years of incense smoke and sun-baked days. Faded tassels fluttered from ornate jharokha windows. Someone had tried to scrub the symbol on the door frame once, but The Inkspider mark still lingered like a bruise. Here, every word, every glance, might be recorded, traded and sold.

Inside, wax candles burned low and lamp oil smoky. Cardamom, turmeric, and the acrid tang of spilled wine mix. The air is warm in a way that makes you dumber by the minute. Colored glass threw colorful shards of light in ruby, violet, and topaz across the worn stone floor. Low cushions and chowkis were scattered across the room, some occupied by murmuring patrons, others empty.

The bard threaded her way through the scent of jasmine oil and freshly ground saffron. Her eyes swept over the other guests: a pair of devas hunched over a game of dice, a veiled woman scribbling rapidly in a big leatherbound book, a child darting between legs with a tray.

She turned again, searching the shadows. “Where are you, dear blade…?” she muttered.
 
The Fourth smiled enigmatically. Surprise was one of the many weapons in his arsenal. 'See you there,' he replied, but the bardess was already gone, off to choose herself a new set of threads to go galavanting about in. Something "practical", the mercenary hoped, though he wasn't going to hold his breath.

There was business to conduct, a wayward sister to track down. The stone spilled its secrets willingly. All he had to do was listen.

---
​
The Last Drop. A fitting name for an out of the way taphouse. Aged, but unbowed, it nestled between its fellows, as if afraid to prove the sentiment false. Perfect for clandestine meetings or late-night knifings. The mark on the door frame was not the only one the blade found. Another had been carved into the end of the bar, just beneath the stairs. Yet to be defaced.

An Inkspider haunt. Very intriguing.

Hunched over the counter, nursing half a pint of something punchy, the Fourth did his best to blend into the furniture. Easy enough to do, considering everyone seemed to be minding their own business. That in itself was an act. Didn't bother him none.

Inkspider. Old guild. Hoarded whispers like rare coins, though both spent the same, depending on who and what you knew.

As it turned out, the bardess really was more lark than hawk. 'Right here, songstress.' Peeling back his hood, the blade swivelled to face Anira, a small smirk betraying a sense of humour he'd yet to bury. Brown eyes looked the singer up and down. The Fourth blinked. 'You look-' cute, ridiculous, beautiful '-ready.'

Whilst she had dressed up, he had gone the other way. Dressed down. Leather cuirass and shirt, belts, buckles and loose hose, the kind a fellah wore when casing a joint. Or taking a stroll through daytime heat. Muted colours.

Nothing at all like, well...

'You are ready, aren't you?' The Fourth slipped to his feet. 'No sashes or feather capes to drape about your shoulders... bravo?'
 
Anira turned at the sound of his voice, already smiling before her eyes fully found him in the dim. There he was, half shadow. She took the last steps closer and gave a small bow of her head. “I do hope you’ve been keeping yourself out of trouble while lurking."

She looked herself over with exaggerated consideration, smoothing a hand down her corset. At his assessment, she arched a brow and gave a slow twirl. Arms outstretched. “Ready...” she repeated and glanced back up at him through some loose strands of flaxen blonde hair. She nodded decisively. “Yes. Absolutely so."

Then she hesitated, turning slightly, glancing toward the stairs as she was imagining something draped over her shoulders. “…unless...” she added lightly as she tapped her chin. “...you think I should fetch my cape? Oh! It's purple.” The minstrel let out a soft, pleased little hum, the kind that meant she was about to talk about something she loved. Clothing. “Boiled wool, layered silk lining. Made by a Crorefell tailor. Sylvain Kastaria, do you know of him? He's mad as a box of frogs, but he does know how to stitch."

A glance at the Fourth, eyes glinting. She held up a finger, already anticipating protest. “And if the night turns cruel… Well. It’s generous. If you're cold, I’m certain you’d fit under it with me.” The bard gave a little shrug, all innocence poorly disguised. “Purely practical, of course." A faint laugh slipped out as she leaned casually against the edge of the bar.

The blondie waved a hand at The Fourth. “Oh, please, sit down again, Brother Fourth” she said, voice lilting. “We’ve got something to discuss with some very wellinformed acquaintances here..." The Inkspiders.

“Wine.” she said to the barkeep. A goblet was set down almost instantly, wine as rich as the color of dusk. "And what's your poison, Four?"
 
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