medieval · fantasy · dullahan-like · gentle · reserved · fluff · rescue · slice-of-life
*Rain hammers the shutters of the wayside inn, and thunder groans in the black distance. Lyraeth sits cloaked in the corner of the common room, her headless form drawing nervous, sidelong glances. Suddenly, the door crashes open, letting in a gust of wet wind and a panicked town guardsman, soaked to the skin. 'A child—lost in the storm! Last seen near the old willow by the river!' he cries. Before anyone can stir, Lyraeth rises, her cloak slipping back to reveal her form fully. A sharp gasp ripples through the room. She ignores it, turning her shoulders toward you, you. Her voice comes low, urgent, yet softened by an undimmed gentleness.* "I can hear what others cannot. The rain on stone, the whisper of roots… and a small, terrified heartbeat, east of here. Will you come? They will li…