"The more the better," he said flatly. "No telling if we'll get the right prize on our first pull," Saw how Brinda looked at the lute, and its strings. How it carried the sweet sounds of story, and legend with just the slightest brush of the bard's fingers. "The songs," he said, derisive. "Glory doesn't keep you fed, and breathing,"

Brinda's eyes went to the Bard. Laughed. "You think this is bad? One time, me an old Jesp-"

"And most of those fools who go running in are dead and buried," Garrod cut. Eye hard on the bard.

Brinda's brow furrowed. "Oh, come off it, One Eye," she snapped at him with a flail of her fist. "We can't all just, glare, and scrawl away in our little ledgers!"

Ilan's brow's raised, curious. Smile all, cat watching the light gleam dance across the wall. "Well, that was, unexpected," nothing about his tone sounded like he had expected anything less.

Garrod's eye fell back to the kid. Softer, though no less perturbed.

"Was just talking was all," she said, wound up. Arm crossed over her chest, and tucked into what remained of the other.

The heron's neck coiled. Its eyes cocked. Head turned. Weight shift upon those ever still and steady legs that seemed to hold up the whole mirrored world beneath it. A push. Simple as breath. And the great bird took flight with a thrum of its wings.

The breath bled out of him. Shook his head and rose up. "I'll go check on the traps," he said. Grabbed up his messer sword, and hunting knife. Left the long road of dragon bone and revenant steel there in at their little camp. The ashwood box, laden with runes of sealing and strings of seashells, there beneath it.

Brinda huffed, and turned away from the lumbering man as he stalked away. "Bloody -" she choked under her breath. Shook her head.
 
"The more the better"

"Because, between you and me, I’d much prefer the taste of triumph over the smell of rotting kelp and claws under my nose.” Anira tilted her head back, biting into the red of the pomegranate. Juice ran down her wrist in sticky rivulets, glinting in the sunlight like liquid rubies.

“Oh, you solemn man” she said at Garrod while she licked the juice from her wrist. Anira’s lips curved into a teasing smirk, one eyebrow lifted as she turned her head to Brinda. The bardess let out a soft, knowing laugh. "A well-sung tale of your deeds will see coin clink into your purse before you’ve even drawn a blade.”

"You see, songs are clever little things. They wander ahead of you, whispering your name, the fearless hunter, to every tavern and hall, every lord and merchant’s ear. And all the worried souls along these roads will know exactly whose blade to hire when trouble comes swimming downstream.”

Anira let her gaze drift to the ashwood box beneath Garrod’s abandoned pack. “And pray tell,” she asked, tilting her head with a curious glint in her eye, “What secrets have you tucked away in that curious little box? Spells? Trinkets? Curses… or comforts?" Secrets were meant to be shared, right?

The white-haired hunter stomped off towards the river banks. "Tell me about that one time with you and old J.." Anira flicked away the half-eaten piece of fruit with a careless snap of her wrist, juice glistening on her fingers. Turning her curious blue eyes back to the girl.
 
Furious forks of lightning settled about her eyes. Spread across the swells of her cheeks, as her brow softened.

Tears didn't fall. Her eyes were glossy. Brow furrowed to scowl. She pulled in a breath. Head still shaking as she fixed her eyes of river weed and sun dashed wakes onto the bard. Wavered. As if the request had been a stone, plunked into deep waters.

Ripples spread out and she watched as the woman tossed the piece of fruit like it was no thing to worry about. Just another snack to be enjoyed. Juices dribbling, and fingers stained red. "Oh," she said. Watched how those big blue eyes watched her.

Recalled how she had called her young huntress. Felt her cheeks redden. She wanted to hear about Jes?

Nod slowly.

Ilan picked piece by ruby piece from the pomegranate. Peeked out to the river bank, saw Garrod pulling at the rope of the trap, hand over hand, loops falling behind him.

"Well, we were tailing a pair of Cazadores," she started, smiling easy as she shift in her seat. "Had to pass through a blood leech bog," shook her head. "Kept us upwind from the two we were following," picked at a loose thread that stuck out at the hem of her shirt, poking out from beneath her. "Had to crawl through the damn thing, on an empty stomach, because we had packed in light to carry more loot out," she smirked. "I came up, covered in blood leeches, one the size of a cat, sucking the juice right out of my elbow!" she showed the shortened end of her arm. Could feel its ghost turn. Twitch to flex.

Stared at it a long moment. "Was wiggling around, and smacking me like a fish," she reached over to the phantom leech. Snatched it, like she actually held the fat thing. Pretended to wrestle it a bit. Threw it down. "He grabbed it up, and ran a knife through it," smiled soft. Looked Anira right in the eye, and smirked. "Cooked it up that night," made a grossed out face.
 
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Anira tilted her head, eyes bright as silver coins as she listened to Brinda's story. The bard plucked a slow, lilting tune. Soft at first, then quickened into a cheeky little tune. The kind one might hear drifting from a wayside inn. Her laughter bubbled through the first few notes, bright and wicked.

Her fingers, still a little sticky from the pomegranate, left faint fingerprint smudges on the lute’s polished neck. Her gaze lingered on Brinda, and then she began to sing. The bard's voice carried clear and strong, as if she stood in a lord’s hall recounting the deeds of old heroes. Startled a few nearby ducks into flight.

“In mire deep where moonlight fades,
a maiden crawled through leech and shades.
With iron will and empty pack,
she braved the bog, ne’er once looked back."

As the tune picked up, Anira straightened up from her place under the tree and stepped lightly over roots and stones. Her boots made soft thuds in the earth as she began to circle Brinda, a smile curling at the edges of her mouth.

"A leech of size no beast should grow,
clung fierce where blood did freely flow.
Yet still she fought, though weak and wan,
till dawn broke gold on her trembling arm.”

Dramatically, Anira threw her free hand up toward the sun at “gold,” as though she was conjuring the sun itself, then mimed wrestling something slippery and stubborn. She leaned a little closer toward Brinda with a teasing look before straightening and finishing the song.

“So raise a cup to Brinda bold,
whose tale through mud and blood is told.
For courage comes in strangest guise,
when even heroes fear the size.”

The final note trembled sweetly into the evening air. Anira let it hang, smiling wide. “You’ve been a lovely crowd. Try not to all swoon at once.” Then she gave an exaggerated bow, the sticky hand pressed to her heart.
 
Brinda couldn't help but stare, wide eyed with wonder as Anira went to her work. Careful, precise. How her fingers just seemed to know what to do. What to reach for and find what she could feel.

The laughter that came out of her, made Brinda forget any haze of upset dredged up by the One Eye. The way her fingers left red prints in their wake. All thoughts cut through, clear as any sword's stroke, when her voice rose over the steady sounds of the river, and all the passers by just up the slope.

Couldn't care for the ducks, cuz all her young mind was full of was the way the bard sang.

Down by the river. Garrod grunt. Hands working the braid of hemp as the Lady Lark's honeyed rhymes carried through the air.

Saccharine. Fantasy. Fill her head with useless things. Hopes. Dreams. Things that would get her killed. He slowed his work. Felt the weight of the trap, being pulled by the river. Arms and back warm from the work.

Maybe that's what she needed.

Distraction. Escape.

A reason to keep going, despite the wraith that watched over her.

She didn't hesitate. She saw power, and she took it. Same as you.

'So raise a cup to Brinda bold,
whose tale through mud and blood is told.
For courage comes in strangest guise,
when even heroes fear the size."

Come the final note, fading over the din of running current. Twang of lute all golden honey through the air. Garrod huffed, and kept pulling up the rope.

Ilan clapped, dainty, fingers all measured slap at the butt of his palm as he went on lounging.

Brinda laughed, and clapped her hand against the side of her bicep. "You made me sound half a hero!"

Ilan nod along. Dazzling loops of gold twinkling in the sun. "That's the power of bards, little Mouse,"

A sharp cold whistle called up from the river banks.

Brinda's brow scrunched, and she hissed. Snatched up her sword, and hurried off to the muddy banks, half step slower when her eyes saw the thing Garrod had dragged on up. Wild grin on the hunter's face.

A crab. The size of a large dog scuttled and tharshed at the banks. Mud whipped and splattered and Garrod laughed as he hauled against the thing.

"Come on, Mouse, it won't get you from out there," he strained against the rope, kept it taught and angled away from the massive pincher. A lead of metal chain nearest to where the hook laden with meat was being crushed between pincher.

"Wha-what the hell is that?" she asked, eyes wide and afraid.

"Mudcrab," he said through his teeth as he pulled and bounced.

"Why's it look like that?!" almost a laugh through the titter of nerves.

"Cuz we got lucky," the crab tried to haul itself back in. "Sword drawn!" Garrod snapped.

Mouse blinked. Drew her blade, clumsy. Almost dropped it.

"Steady now," Garrod reminded. "Breath,"

The crab snap snapped its claw. Lurching inches and feet closer to the smaller Mouse.

She eeped, and stumbled back. Fell on her rump. Garrod's eye flicked over. Narrowed as his hands tightened about the rope.

The pincher clack clacked in her direction. She scrabbled back. The crabs periscopic eyes pointed at her as its stabbing legs sank in the silt and mud closer to her.

Brinda's eyes were wide. Looked to Garrod, who stared down at her from the white capped mountain he was.

He loosed the rope.

Skitter scuttle. Splash and stab through the wake. Brinda's heart froze up. She snapped back, and up and drew her blade. Lashed out. Thwacked against its hard shell. Useless.

"Armor's too thick for that," Garrod gave. Smirk warn sharp across his lips. Eyebrow furrowed as he watched.

"Well, a little help would-" the pincher snapped hard against her blade. Caught it. Tried to pry it from her hand. "Garrod!"

"Slow it down, Mouse," the Cazadore said easy. "Breath," he rested a hand on his own sword. "We aren't in the wilds, this isn't life or death,"

Mouse blinked. Hand loosed its grip about her sword. Felt the give. Angled. Slipped the blade free. Saw how the giant crab moved. Slower than her fear made it feel.

"One strike, through the soft bits,"

"Soft bits? It's got no soft bits!"

Garrod chuffed. "That's all the help you'll get,"

Mouse grit her teeth, stalked about the stubborn crab. Still holding on to its prize with a deathgrip.

A a grunt. A lunge. A thrust. Blade clattered and scraped off carapace. No claws there to snatch it up. Mouse coiled back, sprang back on her feet. Again, and again.

Garrod laughed. "Come on then, Brinda the Bold!"

"I'm," she lined her thrust, arm cocked, blade pointed and long as her eyes found the gurgle of bubbles there between chittering mouth plates. "Trying!" she thrust forward. Steel tip sank clean and deep. Orange blood spilled out in a gush. Half the run of steel deep in the crab's shell. Eyes wide, she watched as the strength bled out of the crab. Pincher still pinching.

"Most of them are too stupid to let go of a good meal," he told her. Huffed with a smile. "Then again, who isn't?"

Brinda watched the bubbles foam about the sword's bite. Looked back to where they had camped. Ilan raised his bit of pomegranate up at her.

Her eyes looked back to Garrod, all smile, then back to the bard where she beamed brighter. "Did you see that?!" she said as she kicked a heel on the crab and shlucked her sword out. Almost fell again in the mud, but caught her footing before she started to run back.

"Hey!" Garrod called out, hands still on the rope. Brinda froze midstep. Peeped over her hunched shoulder. Garrod showed the rope. "Ain't done just yet," he smirked.

After much dragging up the shore. Garrod pointed out where to hack the bits. "Right here," he pointed at where all the legs joined. Set his heavy headed knife there. "Drive it in," he said, flipped it, handle out as he handed it over to the girl.

She looked at the knife. Took it. Felt the heft. Wrapped her fingers about the warm handle, drove it down with a crunch and a pop.

"One this big, should have plenty of bait to set,"

Ilan raised a brow. "Do make sure you wash plenty after, dear Mouse, or you'll stink like mudcrab for weeks,"

Gulls sailed on warm gales rising over cold winds. Circled over head and called out. Other pale wings joined in its circle. One fell to the toward the earth with a turn of its frame. Landed beside them all flap and flutter. Folded neatly and round as it waddled forward. Squawked.

Brinda worked the knife through the carapaces with the wet give of chitin.

Garrod explained the trouble with the Snatcher Pike. How their heads were too tough to pierce with most blades. How they moved fast as darts, but always in lines. How their fins could be as sharp as blades, and how their tails could take the legs off of an unarmored man the way they whipped them about, and the teeth were as bad as fishhooks once they got into you.

All while a fire was built, and Ilan read some book he had stowed away in his pack. Full of lascivious illustrations.
 
Anira had stayed just far enough from the banks to keep her boots clean, but close enough to look like she was part of the action, because appearances, after all, were half the profession.

She flinched when the crab came up. That was a massive, chittering monstrosity with eyes like glossy beads. “Oh no, absolutely not!” she muttered, stepping back quickly as mud splashed in every direction. When Brinda finally struck true, the crab spasmed and fell still. Anira exhaled a long, shaky breath, then clapped her hands in a soft applause. “Marvelous! Our brave slayer of crustaceans!"

The bard started to approach, then stopped abruptly as the smell hit her, a pungent, briny reek. Her nose wrinkled, and she pulled her cloak tighter. “Merciful stars above, that’s awful!!” she groaned and stepped back.

A mosquito buzzed near her ear. She swatted it away with a scowl and muttered under her breath, “Mudcrabs, bloodsuckers, and no wine in sight."

Anira strolled toward the fire, and let her gaze wander, innocently, at first, toward the book in Ilan’s lap. A careless glance, a flicker of curiosity. She saw that, some vigorous illustrations sprawled across the page. By the Eight’s bare arses! Of course that’s what he was reading. Anira hadn’t missed the way Ilan’s words curved into suggestion. The sharing of the pomegranate had been no accident either. Normally, that kind of game was her sport. A bard lived for such moments, the play of wit and want.

Silence sat where a flirtatious quip should’ve been. Duscan’s shadow, damn him, had crept into the quiet.

A hundred times Anira had told herself that she was only traveling for the songs. For the stories. For the next verse that might make her name known all over Khurun. But that was a lie, a pretty one, neatly rhymed, easy to hum when the road grew lonely. The truth was far less poetic and it wore the shape of a man with haunted eyes. Everything after him felt too quiet, too small, too empty. So she had done what bards do best when cornered by inconvenient feelings: she ran. Saying she needed the road, the dust, the distance.

When she would catch herself thinking of him. She would tell herself again that she didn’t care. Of course she didn’t.

“Educational reading, is it?” she asked lightly, and the elf grinned back at her.

The bard sighed and turned toward the darkening horizon, arms crossed, boots shifting in the earth. “You know,” she began, glancing between the others. She let her hands flutter like she was tossing the idea into the air as casually as one tosses a coin. “there’s a perfectly good tavern with warm beds just past that bend in the road, I am pretty sure I smelled roasted pheasant when we passed..."

She turned to Garrod. “And before you say it, no, sleeping beside crab guts and river stink is not the mark of a true adventurer!” She gave a sly little tilt of her head to Brinda and Garrod. Letting the playful cadence slide over her words, “A proper bed keeps the muscles loose and the mind sharp. Surely you’d prefer to greet tomorrow’s hunt with fresh eyes instead of creaky joints and nightmares of giant mudcrabs?” Her mind already imagining herself curled over a glass of wine, safe from claws and muck.
 
Garrod laughed at the belly aching. "What happened to observe, and take notes?"

But then she went quiet for what, in the short time he had come to know her, be a long while. He let his teasing smile turn lopsided. Eye drift away.

"Just a bright shadow, cast behind my dark heart," he muttered.

"You know,"

Ilan's brow quirked, eyes narrowed with interest, smile curling. As if he, who seemed to know so much of where things were going, and how they got to getting, knew exactly what would come next. Naughty learning material laid flat against the splayed hems of his robe, and the airy blouse he wore there beneath the mustards ands caramels of his robe.

"perfectly good tavern with warm beds just past that bend in the road..."

"You hear that, Mouse?" Ilan teased from his seemingly permanent lounge across the root bed. "Pheasant,"

Brinda's mouth watered. Left hand still tight around the handle of the knife. Crab guts stained all over her. She looked about herself. Then to Anira, and then to Garrod.

Garrod almost seemed aglow, painted by the fire light, as the autumn sky darkened with the steady fall of the sun. Azure sky slowly burning pink and peach, to hints of purple scarred across the clouds.

Shook his head. Was ready to say how the Snatcher Pike preffered twilight. How fresh mudcrab always worked best. How this was not even close to the mark of a true Cazadore. Eye fell to Mouse.

Her own hopes hardly hidden behind those big eyes of hers.

A grunt. "Caza, Gana, Maldizia," Garrod uttered, as he ripped off a few of the mudcrab legs with his hands "We aren't adventurers, we are Cazadores... and besides," he said, all wicked grin as he took hold of another pair of prickly armored appendages. "Who said anything about sleeping?"

Brinda deflated. Shook her head.

Ilan smiled. "Well," sing song in the own play of his voice. "It was a valiant effort," he added.

A dip of the knife point. A wiggle of the blade. Her weight there behind it. "What if," it popped in sharp. She let out the breath. "I," she looked to Garrod as she wrenched and levered the weapon. Tissue tore, and popped. The legs came off, meat dangling. "Prepped your gear before dawn?"

A click of the teeth. "As if I'd want you touching my stuff,"

She fixed her glare. "Oh come on," still smiling as she worked the next leg off. "We were supposed to be at the Paradizo for the night, and," another sink, pop, and wet shuck as she piled the appendages and the fire started to crackle to life. "Well, isn't being well rested, and prepared, part of being a good Cazadore?" sink, crunch. Pop. Besides. She really wanted to see Anira perform for reals. Sing her songs, and weave that power of hers in honest. Not out here. In the muck, and dirt, where the bugs kept eating at her.

"Whining isn't exactly a winning negotiation, tactic, is it, Mouse?" A smile there with how he looked at the crab getting stacked up. "Sides, fire roasted crab leg makes for good eating,"

Ilan laughed. "Now, what was that saying about, what we eat?" he teased. Brow raised in playful invitation to the Lady Lark.

"That's our bait, isn't it?" Mouse protested.

Garrod mimed at thinking, as he yanked off the last pair of legs. The wet slurp and sploosh of the river run splashed there after. "Only really need one leg each," he reasoned. "Count ten here, plus the claws, and the body," grinned, evil like in the fire light. "Plenty left for bait,"

"But the sides, Garrod! Think of the sides!" Ilan played, with a tippy tap of the toes of his feet. All little flail and kicks of protest there in the dirt.

"Say, do you think they have a good mash?" Mouse said, too clever.

Garrod's eye narrowed as he looked to Brinda. Then Anira. "Mash?" too curious.
 
Anira made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, the kind that came out when you were too tired to argue and too stubborn to let it drop. The bard eyed Garrod across the fire. Gods, he was so square. Everything had to be done the Cazadore way: eat the muck, sleep in the mud, wrestle the wilderness into submission. Grit through the routine. Stick to the schedule.

“All I am saying,” Anira began with exaggerated patience, “there’s a tavern not even ten minutes’ walk from here." She shot Garrod a sideways smile, one of those too-bright ones that said please, for once, be human. "Though I’m not sure Brinda will be allowed through the tavern door without innkeep’s cats’ll try to bury her...” Anira wasn’t entirely sure the tavern would let her through the door, not unless she hosed off in the trough first. But that was a future-them-problem.

Garrod went on about eating crablegs. Her thoughts turned over like coals under the surface: Mudcrabs. Bloody mudcrabs? Her gaze turned to Ilan, his eyes glinting like coins in firelight. “Ah,” she tapped a finger to her chin as if considering some ancient piece of bardic wisdom. “You are what you eat."

Then, with mock thoughtfulness, “Well then,” she went on, tone sweet as sin. Her eyes drifted to the heap of crab legs Garrod talked about and then back to him. “I suppose that means you’ve got crabs. Explains the mood swings, really.” She let the line hang in the air just long enough for Ilan’s laugh to start bubbling before she went on about the mash.

“Mash,” she echoed, voice lilting as she rolled the word on her tongue like a note in a song. “Oh, you poor soul, don’t tell me you’ve never had it... the warm, creamy, delicious thing you eat with something...” she gestured vaguely toward the dismembered mudcrab limbs, there was a crab’s leg still twitching. “...that isn’t that.”

She gestured with her hands as if sculpting the memory in the air. “Silken potatoes whipped with cream and butter till they sigh at the sight of a spoon. A little salt, a hint of nutmeg… served beside a roasted pheasant, skin crisp and glistening, meat so tender it falls apart the moment you look at it.” Her tone softened, like milk and honey for the ears. Brinda's belly made a loud, hungry rumble.

Anira’s eyes flicked toward Garrod then, a teasing glimmer behind the blue of her eyes. “But no, of course,” she said, straightening up with solemnity, “what need would a Cazadore have for such delicacies? You’ve got your claws and mudwater. Who’d ever trade that for mash and game?”
 
Garrod's brow softened. Lips pursing with promise born from the mere memory of such golden whipped spuds.

That Anira barbed him and his claws had him snap out of the warm and buttery haze of mashed taters past. Boiled, and stuck into stews as the spudly apparitions were.

"I've had, mash before, Lady Lark," he grumbled. The memory of extra pepper and a heaping ladle of brown gravy poured over haunting him. Looked over the legs. Some of them still twitching. "To think, I was going to cook for you lot," not able to hide how he had been looking forward to it. "Ingrates," he muttered.

"Oh, come, come, Garrod, you can, rustle up some dread roaches, and fry their fan sized wings like you did that one time in the Ylondrogavi swamps," he looked to Anira, partly getting up to go, and partly leaning in, nod all sincere and gentle. "Surprisingly tasty, I might say, despite the ghastly sound of it all, like fried potato chips, oddly enough,"

"Because of the lard we had rendered," Garrod added proudly.

"Who would have thought, Razorback Crocs had so much fat on them?" Ilan shrugged.

Garrod's own stomach grumbled. Guts twist with the pang of hunger. He grit his teeth. The shame, pulling on the corners of brows and .

Brinda's eyes narrowed, too sly, too keen. "Oh?" Looked to Ilan, then Anira. "I think the hunter's blown their horn!"

"There is no shame, in a tactful retreat," Ilan played. Dusting off the bottom of his robe as he stepped from the fire, and toward the road, just up the slope. "Rest, recuperate! Take to the hunt again come the morrow!" looked to Mouse, and tapped the side of his temple. Once, twice. "Old Cazadore Wisdom," he said with a gilded smile.

"Oh, stuff it," Garrod said with half a laugh. Picked his knife out from where Mouse had stuck it. "Wrap the legs up, bundle em in the hemp tarp, and lets go get us some mash and pheasant,"

Brinda laughed. Half jumped up with a pump of her fist. "Oh! I can't wait!"

Garrod grabbed up the tarp, worked the binds loosed and dropped it down for the kid. "We get up before daybreak,"

Brinda was already fast at work. Stacking the spiny legs like so much stinky tinder. "Aye, Grand Cazadore, One Eye! The Fiend Bearer!" she giggled at that.

Garrod's mirth guttered out. Huffed. Picked up his greatsword, and the shellbound box of sigiled ashwood. "None of that," he said gruff.

The wind howled across the river's surface. Rustled through the reeds, shrubs set to creak and scratch as the leaves rattled.

"What?" Brinda asked. Eyes on Garrod, who stared at her from across the fire. Pack laden, swords worn. Cold again. He turned and walked up to the street.

"Pack the legs,"

Ilan huffed. Shook his head. "Don't worry little Mouse," got in beside her, and daintily began to bundle the bait. "Just old ghosts,"

Brinda scowled. Worked the rope over the bundle. "Not like he lost his fucking arm to it," cinched it tight with an angry grunt.

Toward the Pheasant and Mash they would go.
 
Anira stiffened at the mention of “fried dread-roach wings”, grimaced as if Ilan had described eating toenails. She pressed a hand to her collarbone. “Please. My standards weren’t raised in a ditch.”

She swept her pale gaze over Garrod then, narrowing, not unkindly, but in the way someone might assess a wild animal.
“And you,” she added, flicking a finger toward him, “You were about to feed us that twitching abomination. So don’t stand there with the tragic, betrayed look. I see you.” She gave him a bright, sugary smile. She lifted a dainty finger toward Garrod. “You are absolutely disgusting.”

The inn they were to approach wasn’t grand, but it was solidly built, lantern-lit, and welcoming in that warm, well-tended way only places with competent cooks ever achieve. The smell of herbs and roasting fowl drifted from the kitchen, and the promise of soft beds and food that didn’t try to kill you first.

Anira nearly teared up.

“Civilization,” she whispered. “Blessed, glorious civilization.”

At the inn The Happy Goose​


“No! Brinda, wait..! oh gods...”

Splash.
Brinda climbed into the fresh-water trough without hesitation.

“Come here, you wild creature!” The bard pushed up her sleeves. The girl was caked in mudcrab goo. Brinda giggled as Anira went to work, rinsing crab blood from her hair, flicking bits of crab shell away, scrubbing a smear off her cheeks and arms.

Brinda swished water at her. “It's not that bad!”
“You were!” The bard insisted.

She held a soft linen tunic, cream-colored, embroidered at the cuffs, and far too nice for a mosnter hunter. But after Brinda's cannonball into the trough, her clothes needed to dry off. “But… it’ll be a dress on me,” Brinda muttered.

“Yes,” Anira said firmly, “...because you are small. And your clothes are wet. And I refuse to let the innkeeper throw us out." Brinda obeyed, and Anira helped her into the clean clothes. Brushed the girl's tangled birdsnest hair. Brinda looked like she was enduring torture.

“And now…” Anira uncorked a tiny vial of perfumed oil, soft jasmine with a touch of citrus, and dabbed some delicately along Brinda’s wrists, behind her ears, and at the base of her neck.

Brinda blinked. “I smell like a lady.”

The minstrel stepped back, hands on her hips, pleased with her work. Brinda looked… adorable!
Clean. Soft. Presentable.

“Perfect!” Anira declared, tossing the brush to the side with a theatrical flourish.
 
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Disgusting.

The word stuck in his side like a thorn. All the more for how true it was. "Bloody bard," he muttered as he watched the songbird lead Mouse away. Gentle and easy. All golden toned and honey stepped.

He could see how the girl looked at her. Big eyed and full of wonder. Like Anira was from another world entire, and showed Brinda a world she wanted to be a part of.

A nudge, from Ilan. "Easy now, matador," the dark skinned elf wore his own honeyed smile. Seemed to know everything there was to know behind that curl of his lips. "Let the girl enjoy herself and the affections another can give,"

Garrod grumbled. Moved passed his fellow Cazadore. "Not that it matters none to me," he huffed. Stepped into the Goose.

Ilan sighed, and shook his head. Still smiling as he followed him in.

Of course, Garrod negotiated for the room's prices. Mentioned the work they had come to do, and that he could cut in a few catches of the snatcher pike. The front of house stared at him like he was a madman. Who did he think he was? Negotiating with the innkeeper of the Happy Goose. It was a reputable establishment!

But then Giroud, an aspiring young cook, had caught wind of the Snatcher Pike. "Good eggs on those beasts," he said with a wide grin. The Innkeeper was none impressed. Giroud explained how their roe, as it turned out, made for a luxurious ingredient if you just cured it with some salt. The sort of thing that you could put on the menu to really tantalize the guests. Lasted forever once it was processed, and sold for heaps. "Only we call them Crowned Sturgeon Caviar," he said with a wink to the hunter.

Garrod grinned. Good bit of trade talk, that. "Crowned Sturgeon," he laughed.

Ilan narrowed his eyes some. "All this time," he said, thinking on all the lavish meals he had indulged in. "For upsold snatcher pike," he laughed.

No discount. But a bit of coin on the side, if the party could secure the goods. Coin exchanged, meal tickets issued, and room keys given.

Come the ring of the doorbell, and in came the bard, and the one armed Mouse.

"My!" Ilan said, beaming and with clap. "Would you look at that!" little claps fluttered from his fingers pitter pattering against his palm. "What a vision, our young huntress has shown herself to be!"

Garrod stared a long moment. Face mixed up. Parts soft and parts scrunched like a storm churning on his brow. "You look... clean, Mouse,"

Ilan scoffed. Shook his head. "Clean," his smile turned knifeish. "Come now, Garrod, you can do better,"

Brinda laughed at the Goldenrod's jab. Straightened up with a proud huff. Fist thumped at her hip as she puffed up. "And it's Brinda the Bold!"

A laugh from Garrod as the perfume wafted through the air. "Brinda the Bold," he relented. Grabbed up their things. "Go then, be bold as an orange peel and," flung his eye toward the raucous dining room. "Find us a table." Ilan passed his pack onto the volunteer pack mule.

"Come, fairest, Mouse!" he offered her an arm, and invited Anira with him. "We shall be your valiant escorts,"

Garrod grumbled under the weight of the things.
 
The doorbell chimed, clear, bright, and perfectly timed.

And in swept Anira, not walking so much as gliding, her cloak fluttering behind her like a banner announcing her survival of the day’s horrors. With a quick, elegant slide of her hand, she pulled her lute down into place, stage-ready, hero-ready, and swept past Garrod, Ilan, and immaculate little Brinda as if they were merely the opening act for her.

“Dearest patrons, weary travelers, and fellow innocents who would never in their right minds brave what I have braved today,” she declared, “your evening has just improved immeasurably!”

She pressed a dramatic hand to her chest, eyes fluttering shut as though struck by a painful memory. In a very woe-is-me-but-in-a-pretty-way. “Yes, it is I, Lady Lark of the Lanes, survivor of horrors untold. Or rather… horrors told, because I fully intend to tell everyone about them.”

She shuddered theatrically, shoulders trembling. “After hours, hours, mind you! Of been tormented by monstrous, squelching, horribly moist crab-limbs from the very pits of hell!" Anira lifted her chin high, stepping into the warm room. “…I cannot begin to explain to you the unbridled joy I feel standing inside a place that is not dripping. Or clicking. Or trying to bite me.”

The bard spun on her heel, and extended an arm toward the girl as one does when presenting the heroine. "Behold the bravest girl to ever set foot in The Happy Goose! Brinda the Bold! She braved the muck, the claws, the unpleasant splashing! Slayer of monstrous mudcrabs! Conqueror of horrors that scuttled! Fearless wielder of a sword in one hand!" A few patrons blinked. Someone dropped a spoon.

“One. Hand.”

A round of impressed murmurs rose, encouraged by Anira’s encouraging smile, tiny applauding gestures and dramatic nods at anyone who so much as inhaled approvingly. Brinda blushed. Anira turned that into fuel. “So!” the bard announced brightly, clapping her hands once, “Seeing as our darling Brinda has risked life, I do believe she deserves…” She pivoted toward the nearest cluster of patrons, lashes fluttering, smile dazzling.

“... a drink, no, the finest drink! A warm meal, no, the warmest, richest meal the kitchen can conjure! And the best table in this entire establishment!" A soft ripple rolled through the crowd. A few patrons snorted, but even they found themselves rising, helpfully, cheerfully, compulsively, to drag the cleanest table into position. One tavern wench threw a tablecloth over it.

“Go on, go on!” Anira urged the crowd!

“See, darling?” she murmured to Brinda, voice sweet as honey and loud enough for Garrod to hear. “Glory do come with perks.”
 
Brinda laughed, grin cheese eating as the name she had come by. "Glory," voice all fog across a gold coin as the faces of strangers smiled and cheered.

Hooted and hollered.

The way their eyes twinkled and glittered. Raised their glasses and laughed. Swept up in the spell the Lady Lark had cast upon them. A magic, all too similar that she had worked on the grungy little Mouse. Turned into a proper lady. A heroine! Brinda the Bold.

Garrod scowled. "Glory." he muttered. All huff and stormcloud to the dazzle of sunshine and spilled drink.

Ilan fixed him a look. All easy tilt of the head. A little motion of the hand, to ensue a touch of calm.

A snap of the head away from the crowd, the table, and show. Up the stairs Garrod went.

Brinda stepped to the table, all on her own little cloud. A kindly stranger motioned her forward, playing his part on the theater, and Ilan stepped there at her wing.

Plum wine, followed by a bottle of apricot mead. Brinda wasted no time in grabbing up a bottle. All eager little thief that she was. Bit the cork and ripped it off.

Some of the patrons gawked at that.

Ilan chuffed, and snagged up the bottle. Easy as a cat grabbed up a fish. "Come now, Brinda the Bold," he teased tip tapped the glass of the bottle . "You have your faithful companions about, and an adoring crowd," he took the cup, and measured, just the slightest pour for the young adventurer. Figured, if the child had eaten roasted blood bog leech, she had dealt with plenty worse than a half measure of mead. "You simply enjoy the moment,"

Garrod thumped down beside the kid. Swiped up the mead. Left a few onlookers startled. "Not so much you'll forget tomorrow's hunt."

Brinda glared, and through her teeth. "I wasn't going to forget, One Eye,"

That one eye looked down at the child. Let the cup down, beside her.

She swiped it up, eyes all crinkled with lightning.

A plate of Crowned Sturgeon Caviar found its way to their table. Airy crisps there with the dark puck of fish eggs topped green dill. A slather of fresh cream, and some bright golden lemon wedges there beside.
 
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The bardess did not linger at the table with the hunters.

Anira had drifted from table to table, trailing compliments and laughters. Inserted herself into the soft pockets of conversation. A merchant with rings like constellations, a pair of sisters debating which knight smelled best, a table of dockhands who begged for a mermaid verse. A hand on a shoulder here, a conspiratorial whisper there, and “the mud-crab horror” somehow grew larger, wetter, and more dramatic with every retelling. All the while she sampled on bubbly wines and canapes.

And rumors fluttered to her ears like curious little birds...

“Hello,” she sang, notes of delight twinkling like stars. “There you are." With a bright, glittering smile and a swish of skirts, Anira flowed into Ilan’s lap. Her arm slipped around his shoulders, fingers brushing his collar. "You do understand,” she murmured to him, “that if you insist on looking this charming, I am obligated to sit here.” One leg crossed with nonchalant grace.

“I’ve been mingling,” she announced to the table. “I shall not, under any condition, build my artistic identity around fish nightmares! I refuse to write The Ballad of The Twitching Snatcher Pike. It lacks…" Hands fluttering while she looked for the right word. "... glory." Her gaze flicked toward Garrod. A sparkle. A pinch of venom.

The bardess leaned forward. “But.” Her smirk sharpened. A pause, sweet and dangerous. “Up in the ridges north-east of here… there’s talk of a wyvern.” Smoke on the wind. Scorched pines. The merchant had sworn the sky growled at him.

“Now that, sounds like a hunt worth witnessing.”
 
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Golden robed and umber skinned, Ilan grinned as the flaxen feathered Lark lounged about his lap. "Darling, you don't need to explain a thing," he went along, taking up a cup of wine and giving the golden colored drink a whirl. Took a long and luxuriant sip.

Brinda stared at the bard, wide eyed. Nod along with what she said. Looked to Garrod, who stared on, flat eyed and tight lipped. Green eye pointed anywhere but the table they all sat at.

Ilan seemed to see it. His eyes only brighter as he leaned back in his seat. Took another sip.

...It lacks...glory.

"To the Broken Mirrors with your glory, song slinger," Garrod muttered. Scar riddled hand tight about cup.

Too bright and gold a blade, the Lady Lark of the Lanes, to catch such low smoke. Her sights set higher.

"...north-east of here... there's talk of a wyvern."

Garrod barked a cruel laugh. "You want us to take on La Cicatriz Roja?"

Ilan's lips curled like he heard the name of an old ex. "Roja Vieja," he sounded like ice.

Brinda blinked. Shook her head. "What?"

Garrod shook his head. Thumped a hand on the table. "No way," the words crackled out of him. "Too dangerous, especially with a party this..." he looked to the three at the table. "Pear shaped,"

"What?!" Brinda smacked the table. Wobbled some. Snuck her hand about the neck of a bottle. Drank.

Garrod squint.

"Reyoso took up the contract, not two days ago,"

"What?" Garrod cut.

Ilan just nod. "Your favorite Cazadore,"

Garrod growled. Looked to the bard. Looked to Brinda. Growled again and smacked the table. "Chingalo, pues," stormed off. "BE READY COME MORNING!"

A few guests startled up. One fell over. Brinda blinked. Took another drink.
 
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