She looked as frightened as a bird in a snare, as if his intentions might have been impure. While many men might take advantage of this frail woman, Larkspur was not among them. Misery had hammered the laws of chivalry into his head, speaking so highly of her dead love, reinforcing these things unto him. Even though she was gone, he intended to honor her until her return—and she would return to him, return as a prophet with gleaming proof on her coat. For now, though, there was a task at hand. Only when her face moved did he look up, eyes finding the collar around her neck. Larkspur was uneducated, and found the letters as foreign to him as the runes along his arms.
Both hands now took the metal around her own wrist, and read the metal by touch. A bolt stuck out around the end, and had since rusted completely. Even if he had understood how to remove it, the rust would prevent such a thing. Frowning, Larkspur lifted his hand to the band around her neck—this too, was rusted shut. “Come with me,” he once again ordered, heading towards the nearest building. It was a long abandoned home, and falling apart from the inside out. This was not what he was interested in, as a much smaller building stood nearby. The wooden door was worn and falling apart, and Larkspur removed this by brute strength. The wood splintered and pulled off, cast aside with a grunt. He went inside, and spent a few moments searching through the gardening tools. Even though he did not know what they were called, he understood the purpose was clear enough.
One hand grabbed his prize, a pair of cutting sheers, and he came outside once again. “I’m gonna need t’cut them off,” he explained, his accent thickening as he disregarded a need to sound more educated then he was. Larkspur was simple, and simple solutions were all that was needed.
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