Anira Verseheart

Anira Verseheart

Lady Lark of the Lanes
Weaver
Character Profile
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Den Emperadizo

The massive doors of the old den loomed before Anira, black iron etched with the faded imperial crest. She paused for a moment, brushing a strand of hair from her face, then let her fingers drift to the top buttons of her doublet. With a careful, deliberate tug, she loosened them just enough to reveal some skin and collarbones. With her lute strapped across her back she approached the doormen with a confident, playful sway.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Her voice smooth as polished silver. "I hear your Den is the place to be… for those who seek a little glory, and perhaps… a touch of legendary inspiration. One can’t pen a proper ballad without knowing what truly stalks the dark corners of the world, after all.”

One of the doormen folded his arms over his chest. His jaw tightened. “One gold Maldizia. You don’t have one. You don’t enter.”

“Gold? My stars, surely you jest?" A pause. The two men exchanged a glance. The one with a blue and a brown eye leaned slightly forward, unimpressed, lips curling in a faint sneer. “No joke.” he said flatly.

“I don’t merely sing... I immortalize. A monster hunter at my side becomes a legend, not just another blade in the dark. Surely, you wouldn’t deny your hall the glory of being sung about for centuries?”

The other doorman’s expression twitched. “And you expect us to just let you waltz in, without a Gold Maldizia?”

“Rules, rules, rules… " She clicked her tongue "Surely a lady of… exceptional talent can earn her place by merit, rather than coin?" The bard gave a playful tilt, letting a coy laugh escape as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. She offered riddles about monsters and men, rhymes about fame and song, and clever wordplay she thought might twist their stoic faces into smiles. She flirted shamelessly, winking, swaying, letting her voice drop into sultry tones, and even loosening two more buttons.

The doormen didn’t move. They didn’t blink. They didn’t even flinch. Unyielding." Ah! So this is how it is!” Their silence was a wall thicker than the doors themselves. "Very well, gentlemen, you have bested me… this time. But mark my words, I shall find my way in!" Finally, the minstrel threw up her hands in theatrical defeat. Anira huffed a dramatic sigh, spun on her heel, and walked down the stairs. She skidded around a corner, searching for some forgotten window, a cracked shutter, anything she could slip through.

The sharp-eyed doorman was quick to react. Long legs ate the distance as he chased her, boots clanging, voice gruff. “Bard! Don’t even think...” Anira spotted a narrow window, slightly ajar, just above shoulder height. She grabbed the sill, and shoved herself upward, boots scrabbling for grip. Her grin was wild, triumphant.

But the guard was faster than she anticipated. He lunged, catching her legs with a hard tug. Anira squealed, yanking herself higher, one boot scraping the stone wall. “Oi, you brute!!” Anira wriggled, swinging her legs, digging her toes into the wall, trying to shimmy upward. He grunted, tugging again. “I said, stop!”

“Ah, but the chase is the sweetest part!” She cried, a manic laugh bubbling up.
 
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Ilan sighed, setting his book down upon an end table. "Another one, trying to jump the coin, eh?" honey eyed, and curly haired, he gazed at the sunbeams that poured from the outside, still lounged as he was in a plush arm chair. A piece of furniture that was at odds with itself.

Design, modern. In an Altalusian style. All sweeping lines of gilded walnut, carved with lines that gave the arm rests the look of drake heads, and the feet made to look like wolf claws. The silken embroidery, all flowers and fruit come to harvest, in old imperial motifs. A matching pliant acting as a foot rest there before him.

Hunt and bounty crafted into two pieces.

Ilan, however, lithe as a throwing knife, seemed to fit the luxuriant accommodations too well. Dark skin unmarred, silken robes a luminous ocher, and long pointed ears laden with rings and studs to match the luster.

The scrabble and shouts from outside were barely audible inside the stone walls.

"At least this one sounds more spirited than most," Garrod croaked from down low.

He was laid stretched out on a day bed. Black robes hanging loosely about his broad frame. Left arm draped over his forehead as he languished, right hand clutched about the end of a hookah pipe. Its stem bleeding fragrant cherry and chocolate scented smoke. A walnut frame, dark and sure, held him up by a suspension of amber stained cane weave, laced neatly into uniform holes. Acanthus leaves and vines sprawled about the swell of the woodwork.

A low set table there between the arrangement. Quills and parchment scattered about in messy piles. A coffee pot, sat upon patterned tray. Bowl of coals there too, beside cups all emblazoned by the same hammered texture.

It was a nook, amidst many such alcoves within the Den Emperadizo. Small reprieves for those hunt weary to gather themselves.

"Spirited," Ilan, mused beneath the green shade of a proud Monstera, and the dapple of sky light come pour through vines from the hanging gardens overhead. Shift his gaze down to the sullen hunter, and the curl of flavored dagger leaf. "Suppose she does have a bright sound to her laugh,"

Something crashed through the window. Ilan gave a yelp. Eyes and body turning toward the heap like a cat come startled. Garrod took another lazy drag from the hookah pipe.
 
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"Let go, you brute!" she hissed through gritted teeth, clawing at the stone floor inside the Den. "You’re manhandling a national treasure!”

The doorman below had a death grip on her legs. “Get down, bard,” he growled.

“I am down! Mostly! I’m practically already inside! Let.me.have.this!” She squirmed, twisted, tried to hook her elbow on the inside wall for leverage, but the doorman yanked hard again, and she slipped backward, caught in a horrible limbo between success and utter humiliation.

And then it happened.
Her lute, loyal, beautiful, slung across her back, swung forward with all the inevitable grace of fate itself. KLOINK! A dull, resonant thunk echoed inside the hall as the edge of the instrument caught someone square in the skull. There was a yelp from inside. Then a curse. Then a thud and grip on her legs loosened.

“Oh gods,” Anira whispered to herself. “That was someone’s head, wasn’t it?” And with nothing holding her back, she slid forward like a sack of flour shoved off a cart. Twisted, flopped through the window, and crashed onto the floor inside in a tangled, panting, victorious heap. Face-first and graceless into the Den. Her boots kicked the air, her hair ended up in her mouth. Her elbow caught stone floor. Her dignity scattered across the room.

But she was in.

She popped up like a jack-in-the-box, wild-eyed and flushed with victory. “Ha!” she cried, spinning on her heel toward the open window. “Sorry! Sorry! Instruments are dangerous, you know, especially in the wrong hands, though arguably this was the right one... mine, obviously. Shit, is he bleeding?” Quickly she slammed the window shut with both hands, rattling the frame. She threw the latch down with an audible click. The doorman shouted something that sounded deeply unprofessional and may have included her lute.

“Right, that’s quite enough from you.”
She grabbed the velvet and gave them a violent yank, drawing them shut with a theatrical fwip. Then, for good measure, she patted them as if to say, stay. She adjusted her lute where it had nearly strangled her in the fall.

A moment of silence.
She turned around.
And promptly froze.

The room was… wrong. In every decadent, beautiful, baffling way. And in the center of it all: two men. The first, one, had a book halfway fallen from one hand. He looked at her with wide eyes, stunned mid-thought. The second man didn’t even sit up, just lounged like a lazy cat in a fragrant cloud of cherry and chocolate smoke.

“You saw nothing.” she said sweetly, brushing imaginary dust off her doublet, “Now, let me just say… you two are far too devastatingly handsome to sit around looking so... bored. It’s a crime, really. Out there, monsters are trembling at the thought of your blades!" Right?
 
"My," Ilan said, wide eyed and bright toothed, folding his lithe legs under himself as he straightened up in his seat,"Aren't you a delightful mess," set his book down proper.

Another puff of flavored smoke streamed from Garrod's lips. "Without a doubt," he said, hazy with a half grin crept across his face.

"His blade, maybe," Ilan's eyes flit down to the lazing hunter. Back up to the young woman, sly spread of his thin lips. "I fancy a bit more, finesse, in the way I deal with those things that creep and crawl about the corners of Khurun,"

A laugh from Garrod. "Is that what we call mindfuckery these days?" still covered by his bones.

A little adjustment of the robes as his spine tilt and shift. "Come now, darling, its just a bit of weaving, nothing to be so distrustful about,"

A turn of the head, so that his right eye might spy across the shadow of his arm to meet the newcomer. "That's a fine lute,"

Little claps from Ilan, along with nods that rattle the rings about his long ears. "Yes, yes, your voice, he called it, spirited, i believe," he tittered.

"Know any hunting ballads?" Garrod's grin tested.
 
“Delightful mess, you say? Well, I do try,” Her eyes flitted to Ilan, then back.

“Now, I suppose I should introduce myself properly,” she said. “Lady Lark of the Lanes, Anira Verseheart to those who insist on names." She gave a small, playful bow.

“Mindfuckery?” she echoed, “Darling, I don’t mind a fuck... mental, emotional, catastrophic, educational... as long as it's something worth to remember." She took a slow step forward, eyes sparkling. A soft laugh escaped her, bright and teasing.

“Hunting ballads?” she echoed, tilting her head. “Oh, dozens...” She strode over, slid the lute from her back and onto her lap with practiced ease before she perched herself delicately beside Garrod on the daybed.

“There’s The Wyvern of the West, Three Nights in the Maw of the Fenhound, Hollow Prowler, The Drowning Wail, O, Black-Spined Beauty, Horns in the Fog, The Laughing Thing Beneath the Hill…”

Her fingers wove melody beneath the list, soft and sure.

“And yes, before you ask, I know 'Gutterwitch and the Silver Knife.' Everyone does. " Leaning back, fingers drumming on her lute as a playful grin tugged at her lips.

“But.. and it wounds me to say this.. I've never actually hunted a monster myself.”

Her voice dropped to a melodramatic whisper and she leaned closer to the one-eyed man. “I know. Tragic. An utter fraud. A charlatan."

She fished out from her doublet and held up a single silver mazacoin between two fingers with exaggerated reverence.

“So I’ve brought… this!” she declared. “A humble offering. My entire budget. A silver for the ride."
 
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A grunt from the lounger, who covered up his little spy hole with a shift of his right wrist, and pulled another lungful of water cooled smoke.

"A voyeur," Garrod grumbled, whisps of richly flavored indulgence twisting about his lips.

"Ah, the Lady Lark of the Lanes, now there is a name!" Ilan said warmly. Bent forward in his chair and set the coals set in their little box to light with a trace of long fingers through the air. Let them burn a moment. "I am Ilan Dhur Malifazan, the Golden Stoat,"

"The Wily Weasel, more like,"

Pride curled across Ilan's lips as his hands reached for a carafe, poured water into the pot. "You see, he knows im clever and cunning,"

"Guileful even,"

A raise of the brows and a bow of the head. "Guileful even," three scoops of sugar, three scoops finely ground coffee. Carmel in color, and fragrant. "But he is upset I have a better sense in fashion," set the pot into the coals.

A little little laugh turned cough and spill of smoke from the moody hunter. Who worked himself up from where he had seemed so set on wasting away. If only to thump his chest and wheeze out the whisps of sweet burn that had.gone down the wrong pipe.

Swung his legs opposite of the Lark, and let his sandled feet slap against the tile work. kept her on his blind side. "He's not wrong about that,"

Ilan's smile beamed the prouder as he set back into the seat he made look a throne. "Well, Lady Lark, let's hear if your song can carry that silver,"

Garrod nod to that.

Ilan's Golden eyes cut to the big lump slouched beside the golden bird. "What of the Drowning Wail.

Got the green eye all big. "Weasel, don't,"
 
The Drowning Wail.

Anira’s fingers paused on the strings. Her brows arched, and for a breath she just stared, then let out a long, low, “Ooooh.”

“You want that one.” she said. The bard rose gracefully from the daybed and swung the instrument into place. Her fingers moved deftly across the tuning pegs, coaxing each string into obedience with flicks and hums. A twist. Then, there. Perfect. She rolled her shoulders, gave a theatrical shake of her flaxen hair, and paced a half-circle in front of them like a bard testing her stage, like a rogue sunbeam sliding across the room.

Then she gave the lute a strum sharp enough to hush gods, and launched into the first verse. A bright, jaunty chord, letting it bounce through the air. Her voice rose, playful and teasing.

"She rose from the deep with her mouth open wide,
Scales on her hips and a tongue like a tide.
She coiled ‘round his waist, she sang to his bone,
Said"

Click! She slammed the chord short, letting the final note hang in the air like a tease. Anira kneelt on the daybed edge, eyes half-lidded, and fingers whispered over the strings. Letting her voice trail like a brush of lips in a sultry whisper,

“Come to my depths, and I’ll make you moan.”

A playful glance at Ilan and Garrod, and then she bounced back upright. Then, with a sharp strum, she jerked the melody back into the jaunty rhythm, laughter in her tone:

"Wail, o wail, drown in foam,
for the slick and the sweet,
drag your soul through salt and stone,
down where the cold cocks beat."
 
Ilan almost seemed a child, giddy at the rise of the performer. Hands set to little claps as her fingers worked the knobs of her fat bellied instrument. Little sounds, like the gentle stirrings of a wind that promised more.

She crossed the tiles, all bird finding their place. Bright and full of song's promise.

Garrod smiled, all challenge and unimpressed. Ilan was practically aglow.

The strings sang their first crisp note, then the sang begun. All bounce and play, push and pull with the lilt of her voice and the lyrics. Words that had Garrod groan, but he couldn't keep the warm curl from his lips.

Ilan bobbed his head, left to right, right to left, rings of gold a jingle as he sung along. Particularly enjoyed the whisper.

Garrod laughed at the little sound he made come the playful glance. Couldn't help but raise a brow and bow his head to the performer. Well done.

Come the end. And Ilan was still clapping along with the rhythm. "Wail, o wail, drown in foam~" he sang, sweet, if not a bit off key. "Come to my depths, and I'll make you moan~"

Garrod grunt, and shook his head. "Not bad," he said. Looked to the coffee. "For a sailor's version of the song,"

"Oh come, Garrod, don't be such a sourpuss,"

The white hared Cazadore snatched up a cup, poured in the dark and fragrant brew. Added a spoonful of sugar. A pour of cream. "Fancy a coffee?" he offered the singer.

Ilan seemed amused by the turn. "I would love one," he teased.

Garrod grumbled. Poured a second cup. Added only sugar. Readied to pour the third. "How do you take it, Lark of the Lanes?" he poured the cup.
 
Anira’s fingers stilled over the strings, letting the final echo of the last chord die like surf on dark stone. She flicked her wrist, silencing the lute. Then, with all the practiced grace of a seasoned performer (and not at all like someone who ungracefully crashed through a window minutes ago), she swept into a deep bow, one hand elegantly extended, the other still cradling her instrument like a lover she wasn’t quite done teasing.

Rising, she let her smile settle somewhere between charming and wicked. "Thank you, thank you," she said as she rose, all glittering eyes.

“A mermaid song, gentlemen,” she said, breathless and bright. “You’ll only ever hear them from sailors, they're the only ones foolish enough to go looking for love where the tide wants blood. So why not make it a shanty?” She shrugged her shoulders.

At Garrod’s offer, her smile turned sly. “Oh, I never say no to a hot, bitter thing handed to me by a man in robes. Just a dash of cream, thank you kindly.”

“Well,” she said, lounging again on the daybed as though it had always belonged to her, “since I’ve now thoroughly serenaded you about fucking mermaids, and I have endured a rather undignified entry,” she gestured loosely toward the window with a flutter of fingers, “...do I qualify?” She cradled the cup with both hands, looking between Ilan’s golden grin and Garrod’s scowl with the kind of hopefulness only bards and fools ever truly mastered.
 
Ilan laughed, all sharp and clear at the quips. "Ah, Lady Verseheart, you've not met many Cazadores then, I take it," eyes aglow with mischief. The tiniest tilt of the head pointed to the dour brute who poured their dark drinks. "Worse than sailors, I'd say,"

Garrod grumbled. Splashed a bit of cream into the brew, and handed it to the fluttering song bird. "How's that usually work out for you?" he answered all toothy. Bunched up to himself after the hand off.

"Oh, I would say most certainly so," Ilan said delighted.

Though the shuffle of hurried steps cut through whatever warm glow the gold laden elf was about to impart.

Garrod looked up. Saw the guard duty hustle on over. A dark bit of laughter fell off his tongue. "Come to collect,"

Ilan sighed. "Well," fingers already on the coin. "Since you've been on a bad run as of late, Black Thorn, I'll take care of it,"

Garrod's face scrunched up. "Bad run?"

Ilan tittered, too pleased.
 
Anira lifted the cup with both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingertips. The smell was dark and strong, and she smiled faintly before taking a slow sip. It bit her tongue like a promise.

"How's that usually work out for you?"
“Disastrously, every time." she met his words with a spark in her eyes.

The rim of the cup touched her lips again, right as Ilan’s long fingers plucked the coin neatly from hers. Her ticket, her plea, her one small chance to tag along on a real hunt. A silver glint of hope. She looked happy when the elf plucked the coin from her fingers. Finally! The echo of hurried boots cut through her moment. She glanced over her shoulder, saw movement, the guard, no doubt one of the doormen from before. She sighed, shouldered her lute.

“Very well,” she said, as though she were the one in charge of the entire affair. “I’ll wait outside." But the guard’s grip found her arm before she could reclaim the coin. Firm grip, but not cruel. Anira gave him a look caught somewhere between affronted and amused. “I’ll take this one to go, if you don’t mind." Clutching the coffee like it was a treasure.

“A bad run?” she echoed as she felt the tug of the guard’s hand on her elbow. Reluctantly, she let herself be guided toward the door. “No one remembers a bad run if there’s a bard around!" she called over her shoulder. "That’s the beauty of traveling with a bard, disaster becomes legend.”
 
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Garrod's lips fell lopsided as his eye watched the guards pull the bard away. "I don't like this,"

Ilan laughed. "You hardly like anything," flipped the coin up in the air with a flick of the thumb. Caught it again.

"Don't like what?" A younger voice asked. Mousy brown hair still damp from the baths. Something almost like a smile, ghosted across her scar riddled face.

"Fun," Ilan teased.

The young girl bobbed with a laugh. "I could have told you that,"

Garrod groaned, as he shook his head. "Go and get your kit,"

"What, why?"

Ilan's brow quirked. "Why indeed,"

"The Goldenrod here has volunteered us for a job,"

The girl's eyes lit up. "Really, a real Caza?!" too excited as she moved between them. Eyes on Garrod, who's frown but deepened.

Ilan's smirk widened. "Best now, with my supervision to ensure everyone's safety, wouldn't you agree, Garrod?" too pleased with himself.

"Hardly," He said as he got up.

The bright chime of silver Maldizia sent the coin all silver rainbow through the air. Garrod snatched it. Ilan smiled. "Well, good thing I'm here then, to make sure you avoid any future, legends," winked at at the girl.

The girl laughed. Her hazel eyes looked to Garrod, who just glared at her. "What?" she shrugged. Mimed with her arm and the neatly dressed sleeve of her stump. "It was funny,"

"Get your things," Garrod said. Some hint of a smile on his lips.

Kitted up. Robes, chainmail, leather and blued plate. Packs laden. Garrod stood with a full kit, and a small ashwood box, bound by chains of seashells, and webbed with sigils of ancient magic hooked underneath his pack, a runed greatsword slung over his shoulder in a tear away sheath.

Brinda rocked on her heels. Kept her kit light. Longsword in its sheath there over her shoulder. "I don't know why you wouldn't let me bring it,"

Garrod shook his head. "Not that kind of job,"

Brinda blew a raspberry. Eyes narrowed. "You didn't leave anything behind,"

"I-"

"Am a stubborn ass," Ilan chimed in. Bright as summer rain, and resplendent in his mustard colored robes, and amber stained leathers.

Brinda laughed.

Garrod huffed. "Where is this bard," muttered.
 
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Anira leaned against the stable post, the faint scent of hay and horsehair mixing with the last of her lukewarm coffee. Daylight spilled in through the cracks between the planks, turning the dust motes into tiny floating stars. The stable's atmosphere was tranquil, with big warm bodies shifting in their stalls, the gentle stamp of a hoof, the faint jingle of tack swaying on a peg.

For now, she eased her lute into her arms, brushing her fingers over the strings until a warm hum filled the space, the kind of tune that made boots tap. The horses flicked their ears, curious. One big black stallion stretched his neck over the stall door to inspect her, and she smiled. “Ah, a connoisseur of fine music, I see.” The horse snorted, and she took that as consent. The bard swung one leg over the hay bale and let out a long, theatrical sigh. “The trouble with waiting for monsterhunters is that they never say how long you’ll be waiting. Could be an hour, could be a week..." The nearest dun colored mare flicked an ear.

"No grief shall enter here,
Come close, draw near!

She sang softly. Her fingers moved as if tracing something half-remembered, a melody of a memory too tender to speak aloud.

"The wind may howl, the night may bite,
But in your arms, all feel..."

Anira froze mid-strum, her fingers hovering over the lute as the distant shuffle of boots and the low rattle of armor reached her ears. The melody died in her throat. “Ah! I hear the hunters at last,” she murmured. With a quick, exaggerated bow to the stable crowd, she tucked her lute into her arms and quickly strolled out from the stables. As she stepped into the open, she spotted the group, all kitted up.

Her eyes fell first on the towering figures of Garrod and Ilan, then softened as they moved past the seasoned monster hunters to a smaller, lighter figure. "I had no idea a new face would be joining us. How delightful!” Anira said, a flicker of delight in her eyes. “And who might you be?” She stepped forward, lute still strapped to her back, and offered a theatrical bow. “I am Anira Verseheart."

The bard also quickly chose to intercept any harsh comments, letting her hands flutter in a playful gesture. “No need to worry. I only intend to observe, take notes, and perhaps immortalize the trio of you in a ballad or two.”
 
Brinda stared blankly at the bard and all her theatricality. Seemed every bit as young as she was then. Flustered by the sudden lock of attention. Shirked back, just a touch. Not used to being so front and center.

The white streak that tore across the kid's auburn mane a constant reminder of what had transpired all those moons ago. How Garrod had come across the spindling youth. Malnourished Buzzard that she was. And all the misfortune that followed there after.

Don't come after me.

The mousling cleared her throat, as if it was a moment of most importance. Back a little straighter, her strong shoulders squared. "Brinda D'chooha," she gave.

Garrod huffed a little smile at that. A whole head taller than the girl.

"No need to worry, I only intend to observe... "

Ilan raised an eyebrow at the melancholic brute at his side. "Now, if I were a clairvoyant," he smiled wider. "And mind you, many a Tower Weaver of Altalusia would argue that I am indeed, such,"

Garrod smirked.

"Things might turn out a bit more, mundane, than what you two are expecting," Eyes flit from Anira to Brinda in kind.

"What? How? It's a caza!" Brinda chimed.

"Patience, planning, and finding the right moment," Garrod intoned. Solemn

"Oh," Brinda huffed. Lips down turned and brow screwed tight. "Right,"

As it were. They would set to the hunt.

"Read the bounty," Garrod said flatly.

Brinda huffed. "Again?"

Eye up on the river that cut through the heart of the city. The lazy cut of fishing canoes coasting atop the ripple and surge of the timeless vein, born up high in distant mountains. Garrod nod.

Ilan laughed. Lounging in the shade of a wild pomegranate shrub, that was stubborn enough to sprawl out of the clay laden soil. Managed to hold on, after all the years that it had kept sprawling out. A leathery red fruit, firm in his hand. He played with it like a cat with a ball.

Brinda managed to pull the bounty notice from the inside pocket she'd stashed it in. Missing hand moved to help her unfold it. Caused her to freeze a moment.

"I don't hear you," Garrod cut. Eye still on the trap, full of rotted butchers waste. The little flag bobbing on the cork buoy just above the water.

Brinda growled, and huffed. "And I wish I didn't have to hear you, you one eyed-" snapped the paper open. Took in a breath. Cleared her throat. "El Prem...eh...io,"

"Again,"

A click of teeth. Cut of eyes to Garrod. Face screwed up the more. Old scars like cracks in a vase about her eyes, and lips made her look almost a fiend.

Garrod's eye flit to her. Measuring. "Go on,"

"Don't want the songs to remember your not being able to read now, do you, Mouse?" Ilan said lazily. sprawled out as he was against some roots. Tossed the pomegranate up. Caught it. Eyed the girl with brows raised, and smile easy.

Brinda huffed. All deflated as she shook her head. "No," she said. Looked to the bard. "You leave that part out!" she warned with a flap of her shortened arm. Eyes back to the paper in a huff. "El Premio," she said sure.

South Ilica, Telephasa, Barrio, Callejon Azul

Hunting Ground: On the banks of the Rayo River

Presa: Monstro Maldito - Walking Snatcher Pike

A recent infestation of Walking Snatcher Pike has plagued the traders and fishers of Telephasa. River barges and their entire shipments have been lost to the Rayo's banks due to wrecks caused by Snatcher Pike attacks. Bargmen and ferrymen alike have been snatched up and off the decks of their vessels.

The Majordomo of Telephasa has issued an order of extermination. One gold coin per full grown Walking Snatcher Pike skull delivered to sanctioned Dens.

Her eyes went wide. Looked to Garrod with excitement. "One gold coin?!" then Ilan, who gave a lazy nod. Fingers peeling back the waxy skin of his fruit to reveal the ruby seeds inside.

"Per full grown Walking Snatcher Pike," Garrod said with a cruel cut of his teeth.

"So... why are we fishing for mudcrabs?"

Grinning, almost proud. "Snatchers love mud crab,"

Ilan ripped a chunk of the fruit, and offered it up to Anira. "Riveting, isn't it?" he said with a lilt of a laugh.
 
She leaned her lute against her hip and gave Brinda a smile that tilted between charm and mischief. “Brinda D’chooha,” she repeated softly, as if tasting the name. “A pleasure." This was already shaping up to be quite the tale. A one-eyed monster hunter, a silver-tongued weaver, and a brave girl with scars like lightning.


“No one will ever know you misread a line, young huntress."

The bard leaned her shoulder against the rough bark of the tree, her gaze drifted to the river, its sluggish churn. Watching how the sunlight turned its sluggish ripples into molten bronze. A heron stalked the shallows, tall and unhurried, its grey feathers catching the rays of the sun. She watched the bird tilt its head, calculating, patient. That was a creature who knew the value of waiting.

However, the bard was not a freshwater bird. Restless even as her eyes followed the heron’s slow, deliberate movements. Anira's fingers idly brushed the strings of her lute. Her thoughts leapt ahead to the riverbanks and the hidden monster, the thrill she had yet to feel. She hummed a note, soft and teasing, and flicked a hand at a mosquito that dared to drone too close.

“You know,” she began, glancing sidelong at the monster hunters “in all the songs, the brave monster hunters stride straight into glory. No one ever mentions the bit where they stand around discussing strategy while the mosquitoes win the battle instead.” Another mosquito buzzed near her ear, and she gave it a sharp flick.

"‘Walking Snatcher Pike’ truly? Who names these things?" the bard muttered and reached for the offered fruit.

She popped a seed into her mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and gave a slow, exaggerated nod. “Riveting, indeed,” she said. "Positively spellbinding...”

"Say,” she called over to the hunters, voice light but carrying a hint of impatience. “how many of these mud-crabs do we really need to chase?"
 
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