Vignette - Life in Telvin's Nest
Meeritza
Meeritza skipped carefully as she could across the rough cobbles that paved the wide Avenue of Blood. It wasn’t a particularly violent or dangerous place, but between the deep red jasper paving stones and the bustling crowd, one might tend to get the wrong idea about this street. Some whimsical beneficiary of times gone by had commissioned the Avenue of Blood running through Telvin’s Nest, calling it an “Artery of Trade, the Lifeblood of our fair city,” and the habitually ironic townsfolk had done the rest. A local quarry had supplied tons upon tons of the jasper at a cut rate in exchange for a lot of shady considerations.
It wasn’t actually any more dangerous than a normal street, in fact it was possibly the safest street in the city. All it did was lead from one end, to the market center, and then out again. Meeritza skipped her way carefully, however, because she knew just how dangerous the other streets in Telvin’s Nest could be. Better to keep with a bad dream than to pass into a true nightmare.
For most passing through, Telvin’s Nest was a bustling trade town that filled its coffers with the margin between the buying and selling of everything that passed through its roads. Deals could be made for nearly anything, from rotting pig slop and wagon loads of rubbish to jewels and magic. In between the nearly constant trade wagons were clustered the shops of artisans and craftspeople who added value to things as they passed through or fixed and repaired all those little necessities. It was often said that nothing ever passed through Telvin’s Nest unchanged.
In between the artisans and craftspeople lived the musicians and charlatans and performers. Between them, the beggars and thieves, shoe shiners and muck-scrapers, and between them there were the little people. Not actually always small people, but the little people. The invisibles. The wonderful ones. The ones that lurk in between.
The Fairies.
Telvin’s Nest had what some might have called an infestation. Brownies and sprites hid around practically every corner, whole houses were kept up by borrowers and domestics, gremlins crept in every shadow, and the creepy faces that you glimpsed in the corners of your eye really were watching you. The city was alive with the fey. This was their city. Everyone else just lived there. They fed off of the bustle that flowed through.
Travelers came and went, usually none the wiser, but every permanent resident soon became aware that superstitions and taboos were a very necessary part of life. Little sayings and gestures and symbols could be the difference between a life of luxury or of misery. Stepping on cracks, except for feast days, but only down that alley, had better see you turning thrice widdershins and whistling the correct tunes or else...
From the lowliest beggar to the lord-liest aristocrats, everyone in Telvin’s Nest had their little ways. It was more than superstition, it was survival. The survival of big folks was at the sufferance of the little.
Meeritza dodged around and through incoming traffic, grazing as close as she dared to the carts to pull their luck off onto herself. The trick was to almost get hit, but miss at the last moment. The closer she was able to get, the better things would go. Bonus if the carter or traveler didn’t notice her passing. More bonuses if she dodged the mud splatter and stones of the road as well. If she actually caught one of the stones... In her head as she heard the quick, exciting music that lent her a rhythm to follow.
One carter yelled at her passing, taking offense that one of the filthy street children was wandering around so freely, ducking through the huge wheels of the wagons ahead of him. A stone sailed inexpertly through the air at Meeritza and was easily avoided without even breaking her stride. The stone clattered off the cobbles and disappeared into a storm drain. A moment later, the stone shot back out of another drain and snapped the carter’s axle. The air filled with a nearly inaudible chorus of mean-spirited laughter as the wagon slewed aside and sent the carter tumbling into a pile of freshly swept road-droppings. The flow of traffic reluctantly bent around the wagon and continued on without stopping to help. The evil laughter became apparent as the air seemed to darken.
Gremlins.
If you didn’t have anything worth anything, gremlins were never a problem. They lurked in shadows and never let themselves out in the daylight, but in this case, the carter had given them ammunition and a target. Something as simple as a stone, thrown in anger, disgust, or any other strong emotion, could be revisited with interest if the gremlins got hold of it. They loved to break things, especially complicated things. They were notorious for backing up traffic and causing all manner of mayhem. The people who passed through Telvin’s Nest either learned to control themselves or they quickly found themselves in financial ruin with a horde of angry peers at their backs.
The street in full bustle was a riot of sound, scent, and color. People came from everywhere, and a little bit of everywhere could be found all over. Everything was there and everyone was employed in some way, repairing, cooking, tending, and... scamming of course. Meeritza had learned to live on these streets here, picking up the odd job or running errands for passers-by. In a cosmopolitan place like this, there was always opportunity for someone who could see it. She knew what she looked like to others: dirty, scrawny, and not developed enough to be confirmed as the girl she really was.
It was all intentional. Carefully maintained.
On the other hand, every newcomer to the city had something about them. They walked with worn shoes or had scuffed leather on their boots or saddles. Maybe their brass or silver needed a polish or their clothes needed a wash or their horses a brushing. There were people for that all throughout the city, but the newcomers wouldn’t know who was right to go to. Everyone on the main thoroughfare shouted and barked for business and charged outrageous prices to the un-savvy. But the wise travelers would seek out Meeritza or one of the other urchins just like her. They’d toss a penny or two their way and find themselves led to a back-alley blacksmith or surreptitious doctor, or an poorly placed saddler or someone with a spare cozy bed, and be road-ready, rested, and refreshed in half the time and at a fraction of the cost.
Sometimes the businesses would be grateful for the help, sometimes the travelers doubly so. The odd time they might even have something secret or special that needed handling and, what with the helpful little scamp being so smart and savvy, they would find their way further into the chaotic mess of ill-planned streets into gambling dens or pawnbrokers or a fence for their less than legal merchandise. These were the dangerous parts, Meeritza knew, for many an urchin had gone missing never to be heard from again under one of those deals. You had to be quick and ready, on your toes, if you wanted those sorts of jobs.
Still, it paid to be helpful. When you didn’t have anything, you always had yourself. Third or fourth-hand clothes weren’t so bad once you got used to them, and it was amazing what people would pay you to do just so they didn’t have to do it themselves.
Meeritza remembered once, when she was darning stockings for a group who called themselves “the Thunderfoots”, they had invited her to sit with them around their fire and share their dinner. They told tales of sales and deft negotiations, of barley prices and feast-and-famine trading. Meeritza had soaked it all in with as much awe as she would give to stories of knights and princesses. She didn’t know most of the concepts, but she could quickly understand the usefulness of these things.
The head Thunderfoot had been happy to explain the ins and outs of trade to the waif that had dared to close the holes in those ghastly huge socks. He explained that everything had a price, including the sweat of your brow, the set of your face, and even time itself. As a leader, he always had a hundred things to do to make sure that his goods made it to market and fetched a good price and that his crew got paid their share. But the most important part of being a leader, he said, was getting the other people to do their jobs. Everything was broken down into what he called transactions, a word Meeritza had never heard before, and each of those had a cost.
Now, if he spent an hour on being a leader and got his crew an extra silver coin, then his time was worth that crown, but he could spend an hour brushing his horse or sewing his socks and it would cost him... that same hour would only be worth a healthy horse or more comfortable socks... BUT the time he would save not worrying about his socks or horse might pay for themselves later. He could focus on getting his crew their profits. But say he could spend a penny or two and have some hungry lad (he hadn’t guessed Meeritza was a girl) save him that hour’s worth of worry, why he could get that same focus and save himself the worry, and now at a profit! Wasn’t that worth a penny or two? Especially if it could earn him the silver for plying his trade for that hour?
It had been spellbinding. The world made a sort of sense with it.
Later, she had seen a few errors in the reasoning but, then and there by that campfire with the rough old man so confident and worldly, she had bought into it wholeheartedly. More than that, she had taken it to heart in her own way and made it her own. Ideas, she realized, were their own form of coin. One that you could counterfeit forever without any special tools, and it was just that much more difficult for someone to catch on that you had. You could carry any number of ideas and they neither weighed you down nor jingled to be stolen. You could give them away and still have them.
Another guy she had met had told her about the power of knowledge. He was another old man, but bald and tattooed all over with strange pictures that didn't actually look like real things. Beside him floated, seemingly of its own accord, a gemstone the size of a man's open hand, cut into a cushion-shape, and being half green and half purple, but transitioning smoothly into the other color right in the middle, hovering just above his left shoulder at ear height. He had told her of the powers of the mind itself, a magic that was not magic. Perception, it seemed, was its own force, and a sufficiently strong will could bend reality around that person's perception of reality. She didn’t completely understand, but she felt she understood the shape of the idea. People were easy to listen to, especially when they were quiet.
And so she shaped herself to the way she wanted to be seen. She wanted people to rely on her being around and for them to keep her fed and carefree. With all of this, she could keep what company she wished and remain unbound. The other path to freedom was a bit more literal. She needed to be nimble and fast, all the better to get away when her freedom would be compromised. Stealing had its own risks, but more than the risk, it was thrilling. It was something that she knew was frowned upon by society, but no amount of thinking about it or proselytizing by passing holy men would change her mind on things.
Stealing wasn't a habit. More like a hobby. Something to keep her hands active. And if what she stole could buy a bit of happiness or comfort? Why shouldn't it? It's not like a lot of the things she took were doing anything when she took them. Might as well make sure they were doing something to make her feel better for a while. It was a neat little arrangement, and for her it made sense and kept her comfortable.
That had been all she wanted. Maybe a little more time to relax, but she saw that everything had a cost, even ease. But she had been content.
And then she had seen the dragon in the bakery.
Now her head swam with thoughts of buying her way into society. Fancy parties, fancy clothes, waiters, servants, rooms full of treasures. Dragons had treasure, and if she found the dragon’s treasure, she would be rich and never have to work or want for anything again!
This had been her first series of daydreams as she tried to track down where the creature had gone, but following something that could simply fly away was nearly impossible. It had only been luck that she had seen the little beast flying away after having grabbed all the baked goods it could carry. The greedy little blighter had unwittingly left her a trail of crumbs and dropped buns to follow, though the trail had grown cold as the street birds realized their windfall. It was enough though. With sharp eyes and nimble legs she made her way off the streets and onto rooftops, dashing easily across. She had a direction now and she knew the districts well enough to have a guess as to where to find the dragon’s lair.
