Willard smiled at Hector's question. 'Nope!' He replied. 'I thought, perhaps, the truth might suffice, only... it contradicts what we told them to begin with.' That they had been heading to Drachenberg, to serve the lord there. Willard as a sword-sworn, Venla as a kitchen maid. The lie had never sat well with him, though. Few ever did. Even so, their intentions had been good.

Not that it makes me feel any better, he mused, waving farewell to his brethren as they rode away, leaving the dawnlings to fend for themselves. Right! No point putting it off.

'I'll figure it out,' the scout reassured Hector, or himself. A flick of Hellion's reins, and they were off, following the river wend out of the village. It was the same path Venla had shown him during his -what had they dubbed it?- "absence without leave". Despite all the barbs and extra duties he had endured since, he did not regret the choices he had made, or what they had led to. Once you came to a decision, you stuck to it.

Even if it landed you in very hot water.

Silver waters kept their course true as the two dawnlings ventured beyond the boundary stones to the lone brewery at river's lee. Smoke billowed from the chimney, black as a bruise across the night sky. Firelight bled from open windows.

The dogs sensed them first. 'Bramble and Ivy,' the knight told his fellow, calming Hellion with a touch. 'Bigguns, but friendly enough, once they've had a sniff or two.' There was movement by one of the windows. A sharp tongue called the hounds to silence.

Slipping from his saddle, Willard retrieved Venla's letter as the front door swung open, brightening the yard, and those who stood there. 'Who goes there?!' A man's voice, powerful, and threatening. 'Willard? Is that you?!' The hounds started up again as the eldest son, Magnar, stepped forth to meet them. 'What're you doing here at this hour? Where's Venla?'

'That's why I'm here,' the Sworn replied calmly, holding up the bound letter. 'I bring tidings,' he paused, glancing at Hector, unsure of how to proceed until their eyes met.

A nod.

'I bring tidings... from Astenvale.' Walking Hellion forward, the dawnling looked up at Magnar where he towered above them, the worry he wore giving way to confusion. 'May we come in?'
 
There was a weariness that permeated through the trio and their steeds. Long travels always brought a mist of fatigue that slowly dampened any fiery spirit. It always came down to the discipline, to forfend the wylds and the people wishing to coexist with it. Sabinian knew what he had said back at the inn, he heard Caelia's words and saw that in her eyes there was a restlessness despite suggesting they take time to sit and wait. For Sabinian, he felt in his gut a sort of unease, as if inaction would lead to something very bad happening, as if coming across the empty camp meant that they had come across a stroke of bad luck. All they were missing was a black cat.

His fern-green eyes shown like hedge witch magic, discipline galvanizing into a will of steel when he saw the open road, leading away from the camp, heading in a direction they might have chosen anyways when Hector and Willard had joined them. Sabinian was no bard but if she wasn't here, then surely she had continued on. If she too walked on in the night, then so could they seeing as how they were knights.

"Syrs Hector and Willard are young but skilled, they'll be able to follow after us even if we do not wait here," The elf said finally, voice firm in his decision. He expected Syr Castor might disagree, after all, they were breaking away from the agreed upon plan. Sabinian grabbed a piece of wood on the edge of a fire pit, one side of it charred but still intact. In the middle of the trio, he drew a symbol elegantly as if he wielded brush and ink against the smoothest parchment. An arrow to the road, the symbol of the Mirror Moon within a circle. He thought Syr Hector would know that unicorns were associated with the Mirror Moon, he had caught him in the library quite a few times.

"We continue on." He dropped the wood, gestured to the others, and went towards the road. The moons gave them light but the shadows stretched towards them. A pattern of light then dark washed over them, branches thick then thin. The hoot of an owl echoed about, luring them closer to the sea, foliage growing sparser and sparser as sand and rocks became more prominent. There was the smell of salt, the soothing melody of the sea, waves washing upon the shore. Sabinian breathed in deep, tasting the brine on his tongue.

The sky was just beginning to change color, the sun starting its ascent into the sky. Softer hues of lavender and pink reached out from the horizon, the outline of the waves turning a steely gray across the deep blue-green expanse. Stars were still twinkling down at the knights. The humble abode with smoke meandering to melt into the blue-gray clouds drew Sabinian's attention. The cold whip of wind from the sea only had him hurry across the sand. The unlocked door gave him pause. He had the sense to knock against the wood before swinging it wide, peering inside to catch the waft of steam obscuring a pretty face.

The sight of the lute was all he needed to crane his head over his shoulder, a smile flirting across his face. His shoulders eased downwards, tension releasing under his rigid stature as worry ebbed from his features.

"We found her."
 
Caelia did not fight against Sabinian's suggestion to keep on traveling.

She would not admit that she admired that of him, taking charge and leading their small group towards the bard that beckoned them all to follow.

The scent of sea in the air led them true, and the salt seemed to awaken her bones. Caelia sat up straighter, her horse too seemed to have more energy as they all followed that road. The sky was a vision of light and colour, breaking out over the horizon where the sea seemed to simply fall off, no more to be witnessed in the distance but the call of the sun.

A dawn to be thankful for, the dawnling's inspiration renewed.

Onwards, the three Knights of Anathaeum made their way to the scent of sea and wood smoke.

"We found her."

Caelia's smile was nervous, but the way Sabinian smiled back at Caelia and Castor made her feel elated. Clearing her throat, she tapped Sabi's shoulder with a gloved hand. "Amazing work." The knight slide in through the door past him, taking in the interiors.

Lastly, her gaze fell on the woman.

"Lady Lark of the Lanes? We arrive at your call for aide." Her head bowed in greeting, "Syr Kerrigan."
 
"Guess we are," replied Castor with a shrug. He sensed the other sworn wished to carry on as well, arguing at this point didn't make much sense. Best to get on with it and if they were lucky, catch up to that reckless bard.

They rode in silence, Castor attempting to prevent his mind from wandering. Too many dark happenings of late, better to avoid letting his thoughts stagnate in those muddied waters.

With the sun came smoked serendipity. It seems the other two had been right in pushing on even if his weary body disagreed. He dismounted gingerly, taking a few moments to stretch the soreness out of his legs.

"I'll take a quick look 'round," Castor said with a half-wave to the other two. The Dusker was a bit irritated finding the bard all shacked up and dry. They couldn't have just waited one more damned day and saved some real hassle? He needed a moment to cool his head before he said something less than nice. Castor did a proper peruse of the fisherman's place but didn't find anything troubling at first glance. He figured they were bound for more surprises going forward so being a bit cautious couldn't hurt.

He eventually circled back to the entrance to see how introductions had played out.
 
The knights, it must be said, had made a series of assumptions about the bard that were so spectacularly incorrect.

They had perhaps heard the songs. The epic ballads about heroes standing against impossible odds and many assumed the person who wrote such songs must, on some level, aspire to be the person in them? Anira knew, in extraordinary detail, exactly what a monster looked like up close. But like most of the bards she gathered all of information from a safe distance.

Behind someone else.

Someone bigger, preferably, and under some kind of professional obligation to stand between innocent bystanders and beats with a taste for blood. That was the arrangement. One party handled the monster. Anira handled the immortalising of the handling of the monster, which was arguably the more important job, since without it nobody would ever know it had happened, then what was the point of heroism?

A bard would not fight a blighted unicorn. A bard would not sleep in a ditch when a perfectly serviceable inn existed within two hours' ride. A bard would not wade a river when a bridge was available, eat anything described only as "probably fine" or "it taste like chicken".

Bards did not fight monsters the way knights did.

The door opens. The humming stops as if someone cut the string.

A small, very undignified clatter follows. The cup nearly escapes her hands, but is caught at the last possible moment as Anira turns, eyes wide. For a heartbeat, she simply stares at them. Blinks once. Twice. The fire crackles. A log settles.

“…Well.”

She exhales, a laugh slipping out, bright and disbelieving. She sets the cup down with exaggerated care. Her gaze sweeps over them, quick and shameless. Armor, posture, faces. The particular way certain people fill a doorframe. The bard takes her time about it.

“And here I was,” she continues, voice warming “thinking I’d have to take matters into my own hands. I was quite prepared to leave at first light and go charm the Cazadores of the Highlands into doing the work for you.” A brief, airy pause. "They're bribeable, you know. Terrifying, yes. Professionally violent. But you must catch the right one in the right mood, buy them a drink, play them something with enough tits, dicks and fangs in it..." she waves a hand, "...and they become remarkably cooperative."

“But,” she continues, lifting a finger, like a queen granting clemency. “you have arrived! In reasonable numbers..." A beat, as she counted three knights! "...acceptable numbers. And, I must say, not at all disappointing to look at. So I find myself inclined toward forgiveness." She gestures lightly inward, toward the fire, the warmth, the waiting pot. The little kingdom of comfort.

“Come in, then. Warm yourselves. There’s coffee!"
 
It was easy to follow the signs left behind by Syr Sabinian. Even through the darkness of the night, their practice and training made it familiar. The seals of the mirror moon, catching the moon's light like a shimmer across puddle and stream, just as the eyes hit the right angle. A bit of the shroud's magic, channeled with so simple a stroke of stick against dirt. That made sense to Hector Rookheart.

Though all the rest, didn't quite settle with him.

Hector supposed it was but part of life's journey. Seeing sides of someone he thought he knew well, laid bare. Not quite sure in regards to any of it. Only questioning why any of it had happened. Why the lie. Why the secrecy. Why did Hector tell them where Lady Venla now resided?

He could have just stayed quiet about it. Saved them the discomfort of knowing. Let the moment pass him by. Eaten his soup. Had his mead. Left. The Thiels none the wiser to him, his sworn kin, or the whereabouts of their beloved Venla. And they would have delivered the letter, and gotten word of the angry old walrus.

Clip clop. Clip clop.

His red roan mare went on. Steady and surefooted. For all his own anxieties, Hector was glad to have the steady girl with him. Easy pats about her neck. Some scratches about her ear. "That's it then," he said easy to her. "We just, keep it movin', nice and easy," her shaggy winter's coat was still tufting in areas where it hadn't quiet fallen out. He would have to brush her down good.

It was all, such a trivial thing. Yet it all flaked and sparked against his mind. Knotted in his belly. Each why that popped up there between the easy moments, another hammer come strike against the weight of words he now carried about his chest. Pressed between leather binds, and scrawled quick and angry across the pages.

He huffed the thought away, as the sounds of the forest at night went on. Chirping and chittering. Cheweing at the wood. Calling against the silence.

Clip clop. Clip clop.

"Do you smell coffee?" He asked Willard as they went on riding.
 
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Clip clop. Clip clop.

So went the monotonous hours spent in measured pursuit, iron-shod hooves beating a steady rhythm against the dry earth amidst the rattle of tack and the grumble-groan of weathered beech trees. The signs left behind by their brethren are easy to spot if you know what you are looking for. The mile markers, even more so.

It feels like they're making progress, but it's hard to say when your thoughts linger on the road behind rather than ahead.

Something has changed. Willard can sense it, see it in the set of his friend's jaw, the way he stares overly long at much of nothing. There is hurt there, though Hector tries to hide it. They both do. For their own sakes, maybe, as well as that of the mission. Willard knows there will come a time and a place where he can lay everything bare, as he wished he had done long ago. Too late now, he mused, watching as the Sun poked its head over the horizon, curious as a toddler, smile no less bright.

'Hmm? Coffee?' The dawnling roused himself to wakefulness. 'Mean t' say you haven't passed wind?'

Aye, he could smell it now, feel the sea's salty breath on his skin.

Riding through a break in the trees, Willard spied a lone hut sat along the shoreline, chimney smoking, tethered horses obscured by a stack of driftwood. A small fishing boat rested upon the shingle just down from the hut yet above the tideline, the dawnling noticed.

'Home sweet home,' remarked the knight as he brought Hellion to a stop. Then, a touch dryer, 'Syr Castor looks thrilled to see us.'
 
Smile fell flat the more the bard talked. It wasn't because her voice was unpleasant, on the contrary, she had a lovely voice, the sort that could persuade songbirds to perch on her finger. Such a shame that she sullied it with profanities. Sabinian knew that was just how bards were, he had plenty of experience with them. They were the sort to flirt and swindle hearts, always quick to take a lover to bed to then leave at the first crack of dawn, taking back every sweet word that had been said with the help of night and drink. Bards were the same as tricksters, pickpockets of the heart, unaccustomed to patience with the delicate heart strings that easily got tangled in certain matters.

Foul-mouthed bards were unfortunately becoming more and more common. At this point in his very long life he hardly saw the appeal in the crude and crass jokes. It seemed bards followed Sabinian wherever he went. Or perhaps he was cursed? Regardless, he had accepted the mission, he would see it through. So he stepped inside the old home who's owner might never return.

"There's actually five of us," Sabinian proffered the information easily. "They'll be here soon." He didn't touch the coffee despite the fatigue he felt in his eyes. There was a old, dirty workbench with rusted nails and tools scattered upon it away from the fire. The elf was methodical in making space for him to sit, his back turned to the group. Nail here, screw there, the saw was moved as well because everything had a place. He used his hand to sweep off wooden flakes and sawdust, holding his breath. His vision was blurred briefly but his eyes still watered nonetheless. When it was as clean as it would get, Syr Sabinian sat down on the table, wiping his hand on his thigh.

"I am Field Sworn Sabinian," His mouth didn't curl up as he spoke but his green eyes were not cold. "One of the specialists of magical creatures, specifically unicorns, bicorns and tricorns." He gestured to Caelia, still in the room with them. "As she said, we are here to aid you." Where were the others? Sabinian cleared his throat. "The blighted unicorn... have you seen it?"
 
If Sabinian had not taken the liberty to speak, Caelia was sure she would have simply stared at the bard for her boldness.

The doubt the Lady Lark of the Lanes had on their arrival almost had the poisoner laughing. A light snort escaped her, and Caelia quickly turned her face away to give herself the chance of pulling together.

She cleared her throat, turning back to Sabinian as he asked of the blight unicorn. No one could fault him for getting to the chase. Caelia patted his arm as she moved past him and towards the coffee. It would be rude of them to refuse, and for some reason the poisoner wished to remain on the good side of the bard. "Thank you." She smiled to Lady Lark, lowering herself to her knees and busied herself by pouring a cup and then another.

Caelia held one up, turning to offer it towards Sabinian to coax him closer and have this discussion not across both ends of the small dwelling.

"I should look for more cups... in case the others would like some coffee." Caelia gave a quick sip of her own cup before pushing herself to stand and carefully navigate around the cosy interiors in search of more cups. When she returned, she had found one chipped tea cup, a small wooden bowl that most likely was not supposed to be used to drink from, and a small glass thing that certainly was a vase for small cuttings.

Hector, Willard, and Castor would simply have to make do.
 
The sound of approaching hooves pulled him away from the muted chatter within the hut. A shame too cause he'd heard something about tits, dicks, and fangs. He might've paid good coin to see the other Sworns' faces.

His Hand drifted casually to hilt but relaxed almost immediately. Castor glanced to either side of the clearing before flashing a quick hand signal for the all-clear. An altogether unnecessary protocol but caution bred longevity. Even the simplest routines could obfuscate when your sight was no longer your own. Fatal lessons learned before the founding houses of 'Lusia even sired their first bastards. Truths seeded deep as the roots of the Vayd itself, buried but never forgotten. Castor's continued existence was testament to the Order's methods.

"Take it you didn't have trouble finding the way?" asked the Sworn sarcastically. "First half of our quarry is whole and hale, or sounds that way least I can tell. Hasn't stopped talking since we got here." Granted, every bard he'd known was likely to keep talking 'till their tongue went numb. The smell of morning roast had Castor thinking that things were on the level however.

"You pick up anything helpful from the townfolk?"
 
"Right," Anira says. Of course one of them is a specialist.

And then she says nothing for four full seconds, because she trained for this.

"I saw it. I, Anira Verseheart, Lady Lark of the Lanes. Bard, poet, three-time winner of the Midsummer Lyric Competition, not including the year they disqualified me for what I maintain was a creative interpretation of the rules... I, with these very beautiful eyes, saw the creature." She paused.

"I will tell you exactly what I saw, and I want it on record, before I begin, that I have survived a misunderstanding with an Arshakan tax collector that I maintain was entirely his fault, and one very bad poetry slam in Crorefell that nearly cost me a finger, so I am not, by disposition, a woman given to panic." And there was no need for her to mention last night... When she had screamed and fell off a fence because a goose looked at her.

"But now, I panicked."

The fire poped and crackled. The bard raises a finger. She's not finished.

"You do know the Isles of Myr...? Where pegasi breed there along the cliffs in great silver herds, beautiful creatures. Wild. Impossible to tame. Smarter than most." The bard paced the room with that restless energy of someone incapable of telling a story sitting down.

"If the stories hold, there exists enchanted feathers, Pegasi plume. Pulled from a living wing at the height of a storm. Every bard who's ever held one says the same thing. That the words came easier after. That the verses landed truer. That something about holding it just..." she makes searching gesture with her hand "...opened something."

A glance toward the two knights inside.

"I want to have one. Obviously. You understand. You're looking at a woman who once crossed the Almone Rivers on a raft for a Sungold inkwell. So I had secured passage to the Isles of Myr. I hired a fishing boat. We were nearing the shore just before dawn. Making our way toward the boat. Sea calm. Sky all lavender and gold... then the gulls stopped.”

A pause.

"It was a unicorn." Anira said with tremendous confidence.

"Blighted. Corrupted beyond reckoning." Briefly the bardess decides to to demonstrate the silhouette, which involves hunching considerably and holding her arms oddly to either side.

"Enormous. Low to the ground... horrifyingly, inexplicably low to the ground for a unicorn, I'll grant you, but corruption does strange things to posture, I'm told" Her hands shape something large and roughly oblong in the air.

“Black coat. Not sleek, not noble, not ‘oh look at me I am tragically cursed’ black. No. This was deep-sea black."

A hand gesture, sharp and decisive.

“And the horn. Oh, Stars! The horn... Curved forward. Dark from root to tip, with these awful yellow veins running through it..."

She moves on quickly.

"It moved through the shallows, because it was near the shore, because corrupted unicorns haunt coastlines, that is a known thing" Their expert must know that. "...and when it moved, it moved with this dreadful, lumbering, side-to-side rolling gait, and it made a sound..."

Here she stops. Anira appears to be searching for a word.
 
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Out ride Syrs Hector and Willard. Hector gives the reciprocate hand sign to his Sworn Kin. Quick flicks of wrist, and scrawl of finger through the air. All-clear.
"Take it you didn't have trouble finding the way?"​

They dismount as they get closer to the hut. "Nothing once we caught wind of your tracks, Syr Castor," Hector plays along. Working the tack of his saddle, and giving Ronja a few well deserved pats afore he finds a good place to hitch her.

"You pick up anything helpful from the townfolk?"​

"Well, Syr Willard managed to dig up a few key details regarding one possible-" bits of the performance within the hut bled out through its thin walls. Muffled, sure, but Hector's ears twitched to the sound all the same. Could hear them well enough the same.

"It was a unicorn. Blighted. Corrupted beyond reckoning." ​

Voice full of drama. A cadence almost fit to dance to. Hector quirked a brow, looked to the other two as he set his hat to saddle. Moved toward the hut and opened the door as the tale kept spinning, and there he found quite a bit of theater. Stomping. Clapping. Voice dropping and hand slapping together, gestures sharp as the horn! And Stars! And yellow veins!

Hector blinks.

"... side-to-side rolling gait, and it made a sound..."
​
"Like a stopped horn blast?" Hector interjected. Something like a laugh frozen by disbelief there upon his face.

It really is a Walrus, isn't it?
 
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"Hasn't stopped talking since we got here."

'Ears ringin' yet?' Willard asked, following Syr Hector's lead and dismounting, the voice streaming from the seaside hut that of a stranger. Lady Lark of the Lanes, the knight assumed, since Syr Kerrigan wasn't one for wasted breath and Sabinian's pitch placed further down the spectrum than what he was currently hearing.

As to the rest, well, only a bard could say so much and mean so little.

Gathering by the entrance, Willard stuck his head through the doorway, as if to assess the situation before making a decision on whether or not to enter. 'This blighted unicorn o' yours -"corrupted beyond recognition," as you put it- didn't happen to have a set o' tusks, did it?' He angled his indexes just so, to avoid any confusion. 'Mayhaps it had its legs tucked away under, say, a whole heap o' blubber? And whiskers about ye long?'

Of the two sources they possessed, Willard knew which he trusted more.

'Got talkin' to Venla's family, back in Arrowdale,' the dawnling explained, for the sake of his brethren, whom had borne the brunt of Anira's animated speech. 'They've lived 'round these parts for all their lives, an' they've never heard of any pegasi or unicorns roaming these parts,' he smiled apologetically, hoping to lessen the blow that followed.

'Plenty of walruses along the coastline, though. This area in particular plays host to a particularly hoary walrus the locals've dubbed "Old One-Tooth."' He fell quiet, then, allowing time for the news to sink in, terrible as it was.

Willard recalled having passed a wine bottle on the road, drained to its last dregs. Guess they knew now who it belonged to.
 
Stubborn hand waved Syr Caelia's offering away, careful to not turn his head to the brew that held the alluring smell. Sabinian preferred tea, drinking it hot during summer. He had a small collection of tea leaves that he had curated with the same sort of pride that a scholar felt when passing a test they thought they would fail.

Sabinian liked to drink chai in winter, osmanthus in spring, black in winter, green in summer, and every night wasn't complete without his chamomile and lavender with a hint of vanilla bean. The knight hadn't slept as well as he usually did because of missing out on his evening tea. He wasn't about to let coffee to give him a stomach ache and the jitters.

He looked towards the forms of Syr Hector and Willard, smiled towards them. He knew Syr Hector would read his sign! Intrigued gaze slid back to Anira as she told her tale. Arms crossed over his chest, hand tucked under chin. At first, he had been leaning back, but as the skilled bard continued on and on with her tale, unknowingly Sabinian began to lean towards her. Wide eyes and thoughtful press of his lips, fully falling for the spell of good storytelling.

Until she mentioned the shoreline. Sabinian raised a finger that had been cupping his chin up in the air.

"Actually," Sabinian said, "Only certain breeds stay near the coast or rocky caves. Sometimes when overtaken by the blight they are afraid of water. I have discovered that the Shellcrest and the Swampnod do not mind the water, but others like Nevernights or Bluegraves will avoid it." He was looking rather pleased to depart such knowledge on the young bard, but the smile faltered as the other Knights began pointing out that the picture Anira had painted with her words might not be a unicorn at all. Sabinian was utterly appalled.

"Syr Willard," he scolded lightly, "anything with one horn can be a unicorn to a people. What classifies a creature as one is the singular horn but also the purpose of that horn. Therefore," Sabinian looked towards Anira, "she may have found a new species entirely, perhaps one that lived under the waves until it caught the Blight and came to shore and thus we are only seeing it now." He smiled like the fool he was, played like a bard's smarmy fiddle.
 
"Or perhaps you are quick to doubt," Caelia said, offering the curious small bowls she used as coffee cups for the others. "For the Lady Lark went venturing to after hearing of pegasi being sighted. A walrus and pegasus do not share such similarities, hm?" She gave them both a gentle but stern stare.

To the bard, Caelia gave her an exasperated look. "Ignore these fools. We are here to investigate what you have seen, and should there be a threat to the people dwelling near here, then it is our duty to make these lands and seas safe again."

The poisoner perched gently on the arm of a vacant arm chair, leaning her weight into it as she looked to Sabinian.

"Unicorn, or not. Blight, or not. We came all this way to answer a call to assist. You will be the one to inform us if what the Lady Lark has sighted is passive or aggressive, and from there, we all will work together. Is that not right, brothers?" Syr Kerrigan, known for her smiles and politeness, gave each of Sworn a pointed look.

They truly had come all this way.
 
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