#UNDERBARKS

  ARC 1.   ROOTS
* When Naberius' physical form was first shattered for unknown reasons, portions of her power and body were split across Teyvat. Whilst most contained substantial chunks of her power (and were later obtained by Rhinedottir), an insignificant fragment of her body found itself embedded in an exposed Irminsul root situated along a riverbank on the Snezhnayan borders.
* This riverbank was frequently visited by a young boy with white hair, a basket full of flowers and a toy wooden sword. The Irminsul root and the shard with no name nor mouth to speak observed the boy, until the fateful final day. The boy had found himself by the riverbank again, and soon collapsed into the mood. The root and the shard, with nowhere to go and nothing to deny the way the world is turning, took in the blood and the imprint of the boy's finaly moments.
* An undetermined amount of time passed since the boy died by the riverbank. Until one day, the Fatui arrived with loud machinery that shook the ground violently enough to split the frayed Irminsul root, pushing the fragment of Naberius out alongside the memory that had seeped into it. Somehow, someway, the fading remnant of Life authority within conjuring a shape from memory that was never its to claim: a boy with white hair, covered in mud, with blood gushing from his neck. The root grew silent once the transformation was complete. He would never know that this body and the beginnings of a mind were never his own. The world becomes kinder, sometimes, when it lies.
* The Fatui would find the boy at dusk, face-down at the edge of their encampment, surrounded by a fresh bloom of narcissus. They were quick to assumpe he was an unfortunate consequence of a local skirmish; something common enough on unstable grounds to not require further investigation.
* When asked for his name, the boy said it was ████. But the name was too old-fashioned, and one of the nurses began to call him Larkspur. Perhaps it was due to the colour of his eyes, or the flower-like delicacy of his face past the dirt and bruising. Larkspur. Or Lark, when the syllables grew tiresome for the drunken soldiers who doted on him for the week he spent there.
* Upon their return to Snezhnograd, the high-ranking Fatui officer in charge of the mission took it upon himself to adopt the boy. Thanks to him, Lark was offered a life of relative comfort in a small village close to the capital: a lastname, an education, a mother, a chance to start again.
* Lark was a strange child. A happy child, but a strange child. He sociable, often finding himself in trouble with the other parent's of the village for dragging their less energetic children into all sorts of mischief in the woodland, but he contained a restless energy that concerned the adults around him. His adoptive father tried to channel the restless energy inside the boy into something sharper with the help of blunted swords and rigorous backyard training, but it was soon apparent that the boy needed a purpose more serious than his father's approval in order to guarantee his safety.
* The Fatui were good at recognising the talent of children. Lark would never be gifted a vision from the higher powers of the world, but he blossomed in the realm of combat nonetheless. He trained until his lungs burned and his legs collapsed, becoming a frequent visitor of Fatui hospital units as a result. His blade became second nature, and he found a new hunger in the realm of bloodied knuckles and battlefields. And most importantly: he enjoyed the work immensely. His adoptive parents had given him a place in the world, and the Fatui had showed him what he could do with it.
* The Captain was quick to take note of this peculiar young man. He took Lark under his wing, refining his skills into something truly extraordinary, whilst instilling in him what it truly meant to be a soldier. Capitano worked his brain just as hard as his body, teaching him the art of tactics and strategy. Thanks to him, Lark was quick to make Lieutenant; well regarded within the Fatui for his easy smile and the way he approached combat with an almost manic enthusiasm that had only been shared with the Eleventh Harbinger, someone he was reported to have spent a great deal of time with in and out of training. The resemblance was enough to provoke rumours that Lark would, perhaps, be offered a seat at the Harbinger table himself in due time.

  ARC 2.   LARKSPUR
* His mission at █████ was supposed to be straightforward. That was what he had been told, and what the weeks he had spent mapping out a plan had suggested. Lark had led his unit into worse situations with minimal casualty. He had earned his rank, after all. He had earned his nation's, his Captain's, trust and he intended to honour that with another swift and successful mission. He could have never anticipated the extent of the damage being in the wrong place at the wrong time could present.
* When his consciousness returned, the earth was littered with remains of.. everything. Shattered swords, broken bodies, blood seeped so deep into the snow the sludge began to resemble mud. He could see his own arm several feet from his body, still clutching his sword.
* His wounds were extensive, and many doubted if he would survive. Down to one arm and one eye, it was at least accepted that his days as a fighter were over. Yet despite the doubt of his peers, his heart stayed beating, miserable in a coma until somehow, something deep inside him clung to the idea of being alive enough to wake him up.
* Many came to visit him in the hospital, but Lark had no words to say. Grief, trauma and pain were a combination that settled wrongly in his body, a deep desperation that had him contemplating the fall distance from his hospital window. His adoptive mother stayed by his side for the majority of the stay, until her only son was well enough to eat on his own.
* A few months into his recovery, The Captain arrived in his room with a strange looking man and the fulfilment of a promise the Captain had told him on the day he had awoken: you are not lost yet, Lark. It came in the form of a replacement limb, a complex and unfathomable outcome of Fatui technology and advancements, designed to endure war. It fit perfectly, and Lark hated it more than anything in the moment.
* His body felt wrong. Immensely wrong. Lark knew he was not supposed to survive that day, but something inside him that was decidedly not him had kept him tethered to the realm of the living. It was a quiet truth that unsettled him beyond repair, but he knew best to not let those around him know of this. So, he lied. He claimed complete amnesia, and the tremble in his still-human hand in the face of a fight was chalked up to trauma, something that would pass with time.
* As his body recovered and the nightmares got worse, Lark approached Capitano and requested a transfer effective immediate. He gave him reasons he thought would be reasonable: a desire for change, to ensure a complete recovery whilst still putting his other skills to use elsewhere in the military. Capitano did not pry, even if Lark suspected he saw straight through him. His former colleagues did not take long to begin their cycle of rumours: that the once mighty Lieutenant had become afraid of the battlefield, and now preferred to sulk and stalk in shadows where he did not need to look his enemies in the eye. That he was now set on running from the ghosts of his dead comrades with his tail between his legs, lost to the burden of knowing what he should not. They were not entirely wrong.

  ARC 3.   NIGHTSHADE
* It was Arlecchino who accepted him into her ranks with a specific purpose in mind. She gave him the lesser title of Major and a job better suited to a man who had become nauseous about his appetite for warfare. Lark became a key figure for intelligence gathering, covert operations, the quiet assassinations of those who oppose the Fatui and the Heatth. Any job that required a steady hand, a quick mind, and a death that did not involve the clash of blades was something Lark could still do, and do well. After a long time, he finally had some control again.
* Under the supervision of the Knave, Lark's reputation began to improve once more, though even his assistance in Nod-Krai did not truly quiet the insistence that he had lost his edge. Something in him was still different and wrong. And he had no intention of allowing anyone to discover what that was.
* The first and only gift Arlecchino had bestowed upon Lark was a garden of his own. She had simply told him that the children of the Hearth enjoyed the responsibility of cultivating simpler life, and left it at that. Lark recalled being fond of flowers in the past, but he had never considered taking up such a hobby until that day. The first plant he grew was belladonna, and he studied the potency of its poison as it bloomed into a beautiful flower. Aconite followed soon after, and before long his little escape became a sanctuary of carefully grown poisons tended to between assignments.
* Before long, the tip of his blade became drenched in the poisons of his own creation. Many would claim it was his way of making up for what he had lost on the battlefield years before, but no one could deny it was an effective method: now, even if his hand shook, all he needed was a scrape against skin to finish his job.
* Many expected Lark would return to his old post following the war in Natlan and the untimely end of the Captain's leadership. It seemed only natural for that to be the next step, the Captain's legacy for the last student of his who did not already have a respectable role in the Fatui. Perhaps sensing the lingering darkness in Lark's heart, the Captain gave his men to Tartaglia instead, leaving Lark only a simple letter, which he has yet to open.
* Lark's avoidance of the expectation of his former peers brought further rumours: that Lark intended to leave the Fatui after all. To take the coward's route and deny himself his responsibilities. Lark made no effort to correct them.

connections.

pennedᅠ byᅠ   *ᅠEMERY     ᅠ...ᅠhe/him,ᅠ24.ᅠest.ᅠ2023.