A young Fyg held her arm upwards, her palm flat towards the night sky. The stars glittered between her tanned digits, which aligned with the massive stone hands above her. She pressed them shut, effectively blocking out the night, before opening them again. Her mother stirred behind her. Fyg opened her mouth to ask a question as Bautild drew her daughter in close. Her mother kissed her hair a few times before resting her chin on her daughter’s head. “Do you know where those stars came from?”
“Magic?” Fyg answered, squirming in her mother’s grasp.
“Sure.” She chuckled.
“You’re lying.”
“Why assume I knew the answer?” her mother asked, squeezing Fyg closer. “Truth is only spouted by the unimaginative settlers. Lies are for the creative adventurers.”
Fyg wriggled down, allowing her to look up at her mother. Her amber eyes were met with her mother’s equally golden ones. “And which one are you, mum?”
“First of all, I’m not your mother…”
Fyg giggled. “So, you’re a liar?”
Bautild grew silent and looked at the stars.

Greytry was the shining star of Etrid and its illustrious capital. It was where the fair folk of the land had gathered in droves to watch a human man get a shiny token of his power slapped on his head. At least it would remove the Order of the Third Moon from its seat of power. Or at least that’s what Fygawren Aescau had heard, and her ears were quite keen. Still, they would have been keener if everyone outside the North Gate would shut their mouths and let her think. Instead, they jostled her about like she was a sentient sack of potatoes as they trudged forward. It was rude. Fyg inhaled in exasperation. It also smelled horrible outside their fair city. Not that the Great Plains could really speak so highly of their fragrances—horses were aplenty along those flatlands. Still, the odor of so many bodies, pungent from travel, packed together as they squeezed through the front gate was enough for Fyg’s nose to draw upwards on her face. Two senses down, but her eyes still worked. She scanned the crowd as everyone pushed forward.

Men on horses, men on foot, men sitting in carriages, and exceptionally tall men. There was quite a variety about today. A flutter and a heavy mass landed on her shoulder with a bored flumph. It was Piotr, Fyg’s companion bird with the physical makeup of an overcooked dumpling. He practically oozed off her shoulder. She only had herself to blame. Fyg was far too sweet on him.

“So, Piotr, it seems as if we enter the city of Greytry with not a coin on our person,” Fyg said to the bird that definitely couldn’t understand her. She’d actually do better to talk to a plant. “Unless…” she trailed off as she pushed a hand into her coin purse. Unfortunately, all she pulled out was a bit of unmarked currency from the Great Plains, a button, and dried fruit of some kind. She blew the lint off the fruit. Piotr cooed and fluffed on her shoulder. “This is not for you. Candied fruits make you… well, you know.” She bit into it. “You know what I think? I think the number of people help and hinder us today.” Fyg didn’t finish that sentence but instead let the cogs in her mind crunch through the dangers of that.

There were enough people to get a bit of coin off of. There were also guards. Then again, there were a lot of people. Fyg would be taking a chance—a chance in the city where the Order of the Third Moon reigned. She could get away with her dalliances in the Great Plains. Could she here? Fyg sighed. She needed the coin. And better here than inside the gates where there were more walls to get stuck behind. It was then that Fyg spotted her prey. There were three of them atop horses in a sea of people. If she knew anything about giving chase mounted, it was that it only worked on flat and unobscured land.

She moved quickly, knocking at people’s ankles with her staff. More than a few curses were thrown in her direction, but she kept her head down and the scarlet cowl of her cloak pulled close. Yes, looking back, it hadn’t been the best color choice—but it had been her mother’s.

Fyg kept pace with the three men as she hurriedly prepared. She tucked her staff underneath her arm and spat the seed from the fruit into her right hand. Her other hand came to her belt and satchels. There she pulled a couple of potions from their secure latching. The liquid within the bottles, one a bleached green and the other a murky cobalt, viscously ran along the sides as she hoisted them up. She gave the glass a tap with her finger, the ring clinking against it to draw eyes and attention.

“Fine fellows,” she said, pulling from her diaphragm. Fyg tilted her head forward, casting a shadow over her face. “May I offer you some of the most sought after concoctions from the Great Plains. Brewed from the finest ingredients from within the Forests of Paeris and steeped in aged barrels from the oldest ruins in the plains themselves. They cure whatever ails you. Whether it be fatigue from the body or fatigue from the mind. They’re invigorating to the spirit… if you catch my meaning.” She lifted her head a bit and winked with her one uncovered eye.

All the while, a few small vines peeled out from the seed within her hand. All she needed to see was where their hands went when considering coin, and she’d move just as quick with the aid of her little saplings. Fyg knew not to make her magic visible. Quick and silent was the game.

Fyg should have expected the lewd joke. She’d phrased the poultice’s properties to humor the darker parts of one’s mind. Still, she found it amusing. The cities in the Great Plains weren’t like Greytry. They were more skeletal, allowing for much space between the bones of buildings. Yet, she imagined there were brothels here like anywhere else across the lands of men. And she wasn’t one to judge. The grass wytch might have considered giving them a bit of attention herself had she the coin or the time. No, she wanted to see this coronation, and she needed the money for that.

Her back stiffened like the mast of a ship when a guard’s voice piqued above the rest. Piotr let out a disturbed coo. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the time to slink off into the shadows. The guard approached them, asking for the removal of their hoods. Her one visible eye went wide. There was little about her visage that would make anyone give more than a glance. She wasn’t pretty in the way that tailored folk like the guards and the men on horses seemed to enjoy. Hewn from the rough living, her attractiveness was tucked away into her aloofness. The only thing about her that might have raised alarm was the slight curvature of her ears. Yet, Fyg didn’t think herself an elf or elf related. A few people had made comments about them out of interest, and she’d only shrugged. Still, that night on the plains, and the inscrutable eyes of the Inquisitors and their ilk made her fearful.

It only took a moment for her to realize that the guards cared little for her, but instead were interested in the men on horseback. Fyg might have huffed and rolled her eye had pride not shushed her and urged her to move on. There were plenty of other marks to be found in Greytry. She didn't need to further bother these men as they’d announced their affairs, and the guard seemed happy with all that. Yet, there was a clandestine way in which the men spoke. It tickled the curious part of Fyg's mind. So, she slunk alongside them into the city proper. They’d asked for a tavern, and she guessed it wouldn’t hurt to locate someplace for gossip and ale if she needed it in the future. Her mission, now, was most pressing. Fyg wanted to see the Grand Inquisitor himself. She wanted to know what the figurehead behind her mother’s disappearance looked like. She wasn’t a cruel woman, but she enjoyed wearing grudges like the latest fashion.

Fyg looped the potion back on her belt and filed in line, palming her staff in one hand and the sprouted seed in the other. She might still have use for it. The consideration fled, however, when the words MAGIC ignited into the air like a wellspring. Her tanned face went white. She dropped the seed and stomped it, squelching the life within. Quickly, she grabbed her staff with both hands and squeezed. And for the second time that day, she found that she was not the focal point of a guard’s call. Figures breezed past her and she heard calls for people to head to the circus. Her lips twisted. I'm acting like someone that is begging to be caught... dramatically.

Another call of fanfare caught her ears, and she became aware of the coliseum alighting with jubilee. Dammit, the coronation. Piotr scrambled, his small claws grabbing onto the hood of her cloak and dragging it down with his weight as he flipped inside. The curve of his form caused the hood to distend awkwardly. Fyg tugged at it until it straightened, but the shoulder of her cloak covered him like a malformed hump. Fine, she’d be that sort of potion peddler, the type you’d lock see in a bell tower.

”Fine men,” she said. ”I won’t keep you, as you seem to have business and some of it might pressing. In a possible literal sense, but I digress." She cleared her throat. "But to answer your question, it’s the sort of elixir that’ll embolden you and invigorate you from your travels. I’m only asking for a small sum, much less than I’d usually charge.” Piotr let out a muffled coo. Yes, her hump was now talking. ”If you were not aware, the prince’s coronation is today, and I wish to attend. This is less a philanthropic venture of mine and more a trade of services for minor wealth. I’ll even throw in a bit of advice.” She eyed the toddling urchin that was making its way towards the group, followed by a man of large stature and build. Maybe the child's guard or extortionist of sorts? “Types like those will just take your coin by glancing at your handsome faces and assuming you're daft. Use this time to hide your coin purses closer to your chest.” She smiled, tilting her head up and revealing features—younger than one might expect but older than any fair maiden. “That alone is worth the paltry entrance fee to an event that one would be foolish to miss.”