Anira Verseheart

Anira Verseheart

Lady Lark of the Lanes
Weaver
Character Profile
Profile

To the Knights of Anatheaum,
Sworn in Steel, Sunlight and Starlight.

If this letter has found you whole of limb and ego, then fortune yet smiles.

I write because something sacred has gone terribly wrong, and because such wrongness tends to answer
best to men and women who look good charging toward it.

Along the shore a day ride north of Arrowdale, where the tide runs a pale azure, there lies a cave. From
this cave now charges a unicorn whose idea of greeting involves trampling, goring, and general discourtesy
toward all living things. It's temper is ruinous!!! Fisherfolk will not land. Sailors will not anchor.
Even the seagulls have learned to stay away.

The horned horse is blighted.
Unfortunately for all of us, that shore is the only passage to the island I must reach.
The unicorn cannot be bypassed, bargained with, or safely avoided.
I have tried...

This matter requires knights!

Your strongest.
Your most valiant.
And yes, if the choice allows, your most handsome.

I will remain in Arrowdale until the fourth night from this writing. After that, I cannot promise the situation
will wait, nor that I will still be alive, sober, or optimistic. Should no banners arrive by then, I will be forced
to assume Anatheaum Knights has grown terribly cold, and that would be a tragedy indeed.

With an hopeful eye at the horizon,
Yours,
Lady Lark of the Lanes
⚜
​

The scroll is of fine vellum, pale as moon milk. It is rolled rather than folded, bound with a ribbon of soft pink velvet. Tucked beneath the ribbon is a single swan feather, barbs brushed clean, alongside a small sprig of pink heather, pressed to be able to travel without losing its color. At the heart of the scroll is the seal: baby blue wax, poured generously and stamped while still warm. The impression is crisp. A lark in mid-song and wings lifted. When the ribbon is loosened, a scent rises at once. Floral and sweet. Heather and wild rose, a hint of honey and sun-warmed linen.
 
Last edited:
Rigid fingers folded over the fine vellum. Wound it tight about the bones with twists of wrist until it squeezed shut. The warm sweet scent that had wafted up from the letter, still tingling about each of his breaths.

"Why does this feel like such a trap?" Hector said with a half laugh, straddled atop the saddle of a red roan mare. Shook his head beneath the wide brim of his leather hat. Handed the scroll over to a fellow knight set upon the quest.

The mare gave sound to her breath. Set her hooves to clop, and Syr Hector's gear to rattle.

"A blighted unicorn," he sounded a mix of sorrow there in the wonder at such a sight. "Now there is a tale to find,"

The mare but shook through the spine. Whinnies and stammers through her lungs as they pressed on toward Arrowdale that lay sleepy and fire lit before them. The dark night, a wide mantle across the two moon horizon and the sea of stars above.
 
"It does, does it not?" Agreed Syr Kerrigan. "But this Lady Lark sure has the right priorities. Are we not a handsome bunch of knights?" She grinned, taking the carefully addressed letter she had read before, and holding it aside for any other in their small company to take should they wish to read the contents once more.

Peering around, Caelia saw nothing more than trees. They were close, for the scent of something cooking and wafting to their small number told them Arrowdale was merely just past the treeline.

"Either way, eager to meet the one that penned this call for help." Curious, even. To so blatantly ask for help and then make known their thoughts that challenged the knights if they were to refuse in the same letter... Caelia wished to meet such a Lady.
 
'Road dust does wonders for my complexion,' came a voice from the back of the group. 'Trap or not, I've never tried tracking a myth before,' said Syr Willard, pulling off his felt cap to check on his bowstrings. 'Besides, from what scuttlebutt tells me, this Lady Lark of the Lanes is a bard.'

And bards didn't dirty their hands with ambushes. Everyone knew that.

Even so, discretion was the better part of valour, and the company Willard found himself a part of was nothing if not valourous. And well-armed to boot, he sniffed, fixing his hat so it sat snugly atop his head. With Arrowdale just around the corner, the wylder knight saw no need to announce their arrival. But he did steer them towards the tavern.

Bards and taverns went together like Dawn and Dusk. Everyone knew that, too.
 
"You'll encounter a few more before all's said and done," seasoned Dusk warned young Dawn. "Least this time we're the one's doing the tracking and not the other way 'round."

In Castor's experience these 'myths' ended up being monsters, the type to send you to the next life with nothing but nightmares. Recent events saw him wanting a break from all that and yet here he was against all better judgement. He should've just stayed on that bloody ship all those years ago. Surely piracy made for a safer occupation than a Knight Anathaeum.

As they rode into Arrowdale, he echoed the trepidation of the others. "Never known a bard to be magnanimous to anything but their own work."

His expression relaxed slightly upon their approach to the tavern. "The handsome bit was a nice touch though."
 
For an inn that supposedly housed a bard, it was unusually quiet and peaceful. Inside were some guests, a toothless older man who would probably have been handsome if it weren't for the strange, sunken shape of his lower face. Arrowdale's own town drunk, a one-armed half-elf with black hair and eyes as blue as ice. And two tired farmers, whose hands were still dirty and dusty after a day in the fields.

"The bard? She left this morning. I think she was going north." the older woman behind the bar told them. Her auburn hair had gotten silver strands.

"You missed her." said the thirteen-year-old boy who was sweeping the floor. Hair as red as a fox in a autumn forest. "She kept a table open for you. Many night in a row."

“She said the Knights of Anatheaum must be very brave, riding so slowly toward danger.” His brother, who was just a few years older, grinned, in that mocking way that only defiant teenagers could do. The brothers shared same red hair. “She’s already written the song. The chorus went something like ‘Too Late, Too Late.’ " The boys giggled, but went quiet real fast after seeing their mother's stern look.

The younger boy looks Willard up and down with the fearless curiosity of youth, eyes bright with gossip rather than sense.
“Aren’t you the one,” he asked, tilting his head, unimpressed with what he saw “who ran off with our cousin, Venla?” A snort from one of the farmers and the old man on his chair, grinned toothless.

“So that’s your trade, is it?” the older boy goes on, undeterred. “Steal girls?” One of the farmers laughs into her mug. The boy barely gets the words out before his mother's words cut through. One hand on her hip, the other gripping a cloth that has already seen better days. Fixing him with a look that could sour milk.

“Enough, Myle! Derron! You don’t speak to guests like that,” she said. The older boy opens his mouth, but thinks better of it. “Back to work.” she added, nodding toward the tables. The brothers mutters something that might be an apology and scurries off, cheeks red.
 
Last edited:
Sabinian's cheeks were warm from his collywobbles, and if he could have shrunk further behind Willard, he would have, but right now the couple contumelious cousins had their sights set on him. He took a step closer to Hector, hunching his shoulders forward, green eyes pensive.

They were all knights, surely no one would point out that they had set out later than usual because of Sabinian spending too much time in the stables as he fretted over Lily and Lilac's sudden dislike of their usual meals and refused to eat anything other than clovers and dandelions.

They were getting to that age when they realized they could get away with prancing and whinnying. It nearly worked on Sabinian a few times. Starbright unicorns were small and delicate, their concave head forever looking slender and refined, and their tails were always high. He sequestered his smile with a hand, turning his head away as the young boys scampered off.

"She has a headstart, but if we head North now, we may catch up with her. Some blighted creatures are quite sensitive to sound,"
Sabinian mused. Some unicorns were quite picky already when it came to music. He wasn't sure if a chorus like that would cut it, but certainly the bard would be a better singer than Venla's little cousin.
 
Hector blinked. Letting all that had just been put to the wind catch about his ears and sink in. "Well, how generous of her," he said with a hint of play on his tongue. "To leave so catchy a tune to spur us on toward the mouth of these perils." Hector but put heel to horse, and turned his roan toward the North.

Night riding, while the blight infected beasts roamed no less.

It was the sort of thing that got a person killed. Made for good ballads. And shit everything else.

And into such a mess this bard had ventured forth. Hector's lips screwed tight at the corners. His good ear twitched at the mention of lady Venla. Eye glanced over his shoulder to spy the odd look on the boy's face. Brash, and almost daring. The farmer hid their laugh, and not until the mother cut in, did the mood settle.

Steal Girls. Was certainly a way to put it. No sworn could swear to be a saint. Scoundrels and thieves, most of them, given a chance at something more. And so often that more meant staring down those things so dark and twisted, a soul broke before them. At times, held together in strange ways.

He shook the thought away. He knew little of Lady Venla, who always seemed almost afraid of him and his sworn kin. Like he was some strange beast, not to be trusted. And might be, she and this boy were right.

A nod from the behatted knight to the older woman. "Peace unto your village, good folk," he said, and set his horse onward.

Syr Sabinian made known his opinion.

"We ride along the shore then," Hector replied, sure. "Hope we come across whatever place she may have set for camp," the jostle of the horses trot, the sound of all the hooves of their steeds. They had ridden long, and fast as it was. "Might be wise to have some of us rest our steeds for the night, catch up come the morning," no hint of shame in his voice.

In the end, theirs was the doing of deeds.

However horrid they turned out to be.
 
Caelia was unable to hide a smirk and snort of laughter as young Willard caught some needling questions. Her mirth did not recede until the mention of the bard going on ahead, and whereas Sabinian was right that they could catch up, it was Hector's other idea of them resting and catching up come the morrow.

This did not sit well with her, so much that she struggled to form the right words to speak.

As always whenever she was in that state, Caelia blurted out whatever came to mind.

"And what if she was right that this blight needed to be dealt with sooner? Did she go alone? Is it not our care of duty to follow her as soon as we can before something terrible happens? Not only for the bard's sake, but those that have been terrorised by this blighted mythical creature?" Her eyes looked to Castor, to Willard, to Hector, before settling on Sabinian. Perhaps if she got him to agree with her, to add expertise on the subject, the others may heed her thoughts. Caelia smiled, sweetly and gently, and kept looking at him as she continued to speak. "We rest for a short while, but I think it is best we venture on until we need to take rest again. The matter of blight should not mean we delay any longer, is that not so my brother-knights?"

Now, she tore her gaze away and looked to the mother of the two boys. "Did she go alone? Has anyone else taken up arms and went forth by her side?"
 
The older boy's remark as to their trade drew laughs and smiles aplenty. Until his mother got involved. Then they fell as quiet as church mice, which was fine by Willard. 'Only the pretty ones,' he answered the boys, nodding gratefully to the barman. 'Your niece sends her love. Peace be upon you all.' The village drunk guffawed. Willard ignored him as he stepped outside.

'Seems our reputation precedes us,' he grinned guiltily. 'Maybe you were bang on the money, Hec. An ambush is sounding more and more likely by the minute.'

Whether the Lady Lark played a hand in it, willingly or otherwise, remained to be seen. 'Don't much fancy riding in the dark,' the dawnling echoed his brother-knight. 'A broken leg will slow us all down. A broken neck, even more so.' They had the light of the moons and stars to guide them, true enough, and they could light torches to complement the ambience. But then that would leave them all night blind.

'I say we rest here for the night, make up for lost time in the morning.'

Chain rustled and jinked. Dust tickled his palate. Willard washed it away with a pull of his waterskin. Splitting the company when they did not yet know what they were up against sounded like a fool-arse notion. But then he had partaken of his fair share of fool-arse notions.

'I ride where you ride,' he looked about himself, to his fellow knights and companions. Sabi and Lia, the two 'tors. 'If the majority says go, we go.' He'd gotten in enough trouble the last time he'd broken protocol.

'There's a letter I need deliver first, though. Won't take long.'
 
Familiarity slapped Castor 'cross the face like a jilted lover upon entering the inn. Somehow it hadn't occurred to him that he'd been in this very town so long ago. He reckoned it was probably cause he was bleeding like a stuck pig the last time 'round. There was also the drink, if it could've been called that. Probably would've been better for cleaning rust but gods know it near knocked him out.

The mention of Venla only served to confirm his suspicions, though the Dusker turned to Willard and gave him a questioning look. Castor only recently returned to the Monastery from a mission and was yet to hear about this alleged 'theft'. There were long days of riding still ahead, a story or two always helped to pass the time.

Those bard's little jibes echoed by the lads had suddenly become far less amusing. Running off after a blighted creature by their lonesome sounded real damned foolish. Chasing after them in the dark sounded like following in the bard's footsteps.

"Tracking's hard business at night, even when rested." Yet from Syr Kerrigan's expression, he doubted she would relent. "As it happens, I was down in these parts not too long past. There's an old hunter's camp favored by the locals just off the shore northwest of here. Could be our bard knows about it too."

Who knew getting ambushed and stumbling through the woods bleeding could end up being useful.

"I'm thinking the three of us," he said with a nod towards Syrs Sabinian and Kerrigan, "Head there now. Hopefully we find our bard and keep her there 'till morning. If not, we still wait and head out come morning once you two join us." he said turning to the other two dawnlings. He figured that also might give them a chance to ask around and see if there was anything else to this whole business. "'Course I'm fine packing it in right here and doing a bit of dicing before the night's out."
 
They set off as though this were going to require skill. Quiet voices. Careful steps. Eyes lowered to the ground, searching for signs. They do the tactical thing first. Which is, of course, the wrong thing.

The hunter’s camp appears, tucked where Castor said it would be. Fire pit cold. No one has slept here recently. Not so much as a footprint worth admiring. No signs of life beyond some shimmering green beetles. Whoever they were hoping to find had not even paused there. This camp hasn’t been used because no one who enjoys wine, music, and soft surfaces would willingly spend a night here. The wind cuts straight through it. The ground is hard. The insects too intrusive.

From there, the wilderness portion of the search ends.

The road is right there. Wide. Obvious. Doing most of the work on its own. And once they look at it, really looks... All that careful tracking melts into no need to creep. From here on, the trail requires no skill whatsoever. Just follow the road, which has been politely carrying the bard toward shelter this whole time. The bard was not a hardened scout nor a woods-born woman. No, she believed roads existed for a reason.

A cork in the dirt. A few grapes crushed, ants march in tight formation toward them. Bent grass where someone stepped off the road briefly, then thought better of it and returned to the sensible path. There’s even a pause next to a leaning waystone where someone clearly stopped, drank, sighed, and decided that walking was once again required. The empty wine bottle set down neatly by the mile marker.

By the time the sea comes into view, the matter is settled. Footsteps lead straight toward shelter. Toward walls. Toward a roof. Ahead, on a low rise above the beach, sits a stone fisherman’s hut with smoke lifting from its chimney. With one shutter askew, the other still hanging on by rusted hinges. Wind carried the smell of salt and kelp.

Anira sits on a crate pulled close to the doorway, wrapped in her cloak. The door is open just enough to let the morning in. Outside, the sun hauls itself up over the horizon. Rays of light spills across the water, turning the sea into a field of broken gold. She cradles a ceramic cup in both hands, letting the heat seep into her fingers. A careful sip. It is good. Very good. The bard hummed between sips.
 
Last edited:
At first, his heart had dropped when they came to the camp that Syr Castor had led them to. He knew that bards weren't tough like buzzards, and seeing the camp forlorn and forgotten solidified that sentiment. His green eyes studied the burnt edges of the fire pit, the moons above illuminating the scorch marks just enough to make them look like shivering shadows. Sabinian yawned, covering his mouth. After his suggestion of going after the bard instead of resting, he didn't want anyone to think that perhaps he regretted the decision.

"Do we keep following the road?" Sabinian looked towards his two comrades. "Or head back?" The breeze had him shivering in his saddle, much cooler than it was when they were at the inn. The leather and thin tunic were cold to the touch when he straightened his collar with a bare hand."It seemed like she was set on going to the shore herself. Surely, we'll find her there," he didn't need to add 'dead or alive,' but it was clear that he thought as much.
 
She chewed on the insides of her cheeks, brows furrowed as her eyes darted about before staring down the road.

Sabinian asked a question, and it never sat well with her to stay still and wait. This time, she kept quiet to calculate what was happening and how best to go on from here. The night offered light for their travel, but it was not always safe to travel at night. When it was becoming clear to her she was stubborn and wanted to keep on moving, to find the bard quickly and have the knowledge they were safe...

But Caelia glanced to Castor. She shrugged at him, hoping he would be the one to make the final decision.

"You did say if we did not find her here, we would wait until morning light came before we would continue." Her eyes flicked to the other sworn brother. "Perhaps we earned some rest after our travels. I can take first watch."
 
Hector mulled over the prospect of what awaited them.

Willard needed deliver a letter, whilst the rest of the party moved onward, unto the Lady Lark of the Lanes'.

Hector only hoped that shew as well when they met her, and not a pruned corpse fetid with bloat.

"You know what you are going to say?" Hector asked his sworn brother. "To Lady Venla's folks, that is," he assumed that was where they were going.

What exactly would be there to greet them however, he had not the slightest.

Concern? Outrage? A plea for them to bring back the young woman who now resided amongst the Knights of Anatheaum. It was a matter that gave him much pause.

His own time with the order had been so radically different from lady Venla's. And his brother Willards at that.

Born to the order. His parents, died Sworn to the ranks, and the cause of Dusk and Dawn. It was something that caused him to oft wonder, in those moments between steps and breaths.

How did others see them?

Sworn Knights of the Chrysanthemum. Witch Knights of the Balewood. Keepers of the Vayd Tree.

How he remembered all those eyes at Sumu. That horrid War Gheist, stuck in so much mud. The dead he had burried. Burned. Trampled. Killed.

He could still feel the ache in the tendons of his arms, and the cartilage between his spine.

Never would he forget the smell.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom