The Crown in The Wild

A pint of ale and a steak pie at The Lucky Weasel used to cost three crowns and a shine of copper. These days a meagre feast like that will put you back twelve crowns and a buckle. Extortion at its finest.

It’s probably on account of all the killings.

Kaedra stares at the barmaid ahead of her, eyes narrowing as she silently checks to see if she’s developed hypnotic powers over the last few tense minutes.

She hasn't.

"Look love," the barmaid sighs, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her freckled ears. "The price is what the price is. I don't give a dam' if the King imself' walks in. Twelve crowns and a buckle."

"Darling Maedrin-"

"Merilyn." She corrects with a hard gaze.

Kaedra waves a hand in the air. "Merilyn, sweet Merilyn. Kind Merilyn, whose smile taught the flowers how to grow, and whose gentle laugh gave the breeze its name. I am but a humble minstrel. Four crowns are all I have to my name. Perhaps some kind of arrangement can be made?"

Merilyn snorts unpleasantly. She raises an eyebrow. "You play then, and earn yourself eight more crowns. And a buckle. Then come back to me."

With a scratch of her pointed ears and a sigh that rots through her bones Kaedra suffers herself to stand, slinking off the stool with a hand curled protectively over her lute. Merilyn cocks a smile at her that drips with an unnecessary amount of venom. Kaedra sneers back, dragging herself onto the small stage. One benefit of the big city taverns, they have come to expect the bardic performances and it sure beats being crammed up by the tables in the more rural inns. Kaedra sniffs, the apparent downside being nobody seems to truly respect the art here.

She grumbles under her breath as she tunes her lute whilst casting an observant eye over her audience of grim-faced downers. She rolls her eyes. No songs about the killings then, poor bastards are up to their necks in it. Something to lift their sodden spirits perhaps.