Peregrine was often seen as mysterious, cold, and unforgiving.

Their stage presence was like no other, with a strong voice that weaved story through melody and song. Despite their talent, they often stuck to background vocals and instrumentals during The Lark’s performances.

Though, any member of The Lark, or those lucky enough to get close to them, would know that Peregrine was not as curt and cold hearted as the media made them out to be.

The river gleamed with flickers and flashes of moonlight, shining on each blade of grass through the leftover morning dew.

A lumbering figure sat by the creek, focused on weaving braids of their deep brown hair to perfectly sit on their shoulders. Something the Playwright would often do for them, though they tried their hardest to learn how.

Further off into the forest was The Lark’s current dwelling, a small clearing the group had parked the wagon in for a few nights. There were only so many nights left to go on the tour, and while Peregrine wasn’t particularly upset about getting to finally relax, it would be a sort of bittersweet ending to The Lark’s first official tour.

Peregrine hummed one of their signature melodies as they braided their hair, looking out at the ripples on the water and each following divot in the path of moonlight that shined down onto them.