Wren sits alone inside the Moonpeak Inn, completely solitary apart from the invisible cooks in the back who have the majority of breakfast ready and set out. Odds are, Kaz has already left to tend to her temple restoration project, and the others seem to have little interest in being up at the crack of dawn.
Honestly, the calm and silence is kind of nice.
They take a sip of coffee, the very first of the morning, savoring the dark, bitter liquid as the warmth of it hits their stomach, blossoming out and causing a gentle heat to radiate within their entire torso. The invigorating concoction is one of the things that Wren has become very attached to, since leaving the Crown and exploring more of the world with Kaz.
Back home, such a thing would be unheard of. If someone didn’t grow or harvest it themselves, then it was simply not a thing to be had. Wren’s clan did not often trade with the outside world, as was the case of most clans within the Crown. That is likely still the case, even though the third era has ended, and the seemingly eternal war along with it.
Guess it’s the other way around. The war ending was the cause of the era shift, Wren muses to themselves. It’s not like someone proposed that we enter a new era and everyone just went ‘Oh, okay, guess we’ll stop all this fighting then!’
The breakfast disappears quickly, even the much-maligned beans. Unlike some of the others, Wren enjoys the hearty breakfast, though there isn’t a whole lot of breakfasts that Wren hasn’t enjoyed, in any country. Food was always sparse growing up, as the only things to eat were what could be scavenged or hunted.
The notion of just having food to look forward to is something that Wren will never fully get over. As long as you have a few coin to spare, food is almost always available in the more civilized parts of Vale.
Which is part of the reason that Wren decided long ago, maybe not even consciously, that they would always have coin to spare.
The gold from Bernadette and Andrew certainly has been a windfall, but no matter how much they earn, Wren ends up burning through their funds far too quickly. It’s not due to frivolous spending or poor bartering, it’s merely just how life is.
A new arcane foci was frustratingly expensive, for instance: A necklace with two gemstones corresponding to Wren’s birth month (Valafyr 7th, thank you very much), shaped to resemble the moons Corvega and Tryden. Wren can perform magical spells without one, but it’s easier with one, and more potent to boot.
Magic is, after all, about intent, focus, and connections.
Intent concerns the knowledge of what one wishes to accomplish. Some people study magic in an academic sense, learning certain concepts that are proven to function in detail. Some people, like Wren, need not study, instead having these concepts come to them naturally, at times in ways contrary to those found through research. Yet others have their intent shaped by inspiration from a deity, a powerful entity, the natural world itself, or even the beauty of art.
Once one knows what to do, how to do it is a factor, which concerns the ability to focus. Performing magic requires a power source, specifically a connection to the raw energy of creation, simply known as “mana.” The substance is intangible, a byproduct of life itself, and permeates every living thing, including the very world of Vale itself. Only through focus, through practice and effort, can a person learn to draw forth the mana within their bodies.
Connections help to conjure this energy and actually use it as intended: This is the why of magic. Handling materials that embody the intended outcome helps to channel the energy for said outcome. Similarly, some materials seem to have some inherent connection and are used to create foci, which can also be made from things of great personal significance, or that are related to one’s source of inspiration, can serve this purpose. These connections help link one’s focus to one’s intent, to create a magical effect.
Wren rubs the polished gems of their necklace between their fingers, pondering.
It is certainly a lot nicer than the one they had previously, which was crafted from bits and bobs of old belongings and stones taken from their former home. Before that, it took an immense amount of effort and energy to produce very little, but they had no concept of a magical foci back then. After all, it wasn’t until they left home that they learned of such things. That wasn’t until after their first real display of magic, after they…
After…
The point is the gems would’ve cost way less on the mainland, Wren thinks sourly. Between the foci, stocking up on potions and gear for the upcoming expedition, which Felix was decidedly stingy about, and some simple niceties that were of minor cost, really, Wren’s purse has grown far too light.
Felix’s words on the matter had been: “Necessary provisions are accounted for, anything beyond that is up to your discretion.”
Cheap bastard, Wren thinks.
Rations and torches are all well and good, but what about a good sleeping bag? A nice tent? Some coffee, which is as close to a ‘necessary provision’ as one can get aside?
Wren sips the last of their morning cup of said provision, holding off their irritation so as to not spoil the taste with such negativity.
Once fully consumed, however, the irritation is allowed to freely flow.
Silently complaining about absurd prices and stingy benefactors, Wren returns their empty dishes and silverware to the kitchen before hefting their bag over their shoulder. By now, the market square should be lively enough to turn a bit of profit
So, as they have done for the past several days, Wren leaves the Moonpeak Inn and makes their way to the dockside market, to peddle their wares and recoup their financial losses.
~~~~~~~~~~
Considering the population of Tarn’s Rest along with the drifts of snow still piled up on the streets, it would be fair to say that the market stalls are practically bustling with excitement. There are a couple dozen stalls set up and easily quadruple that many people, ranging from an elderly woman haggling with the fisherman to a group of kids playing in the mounds of snow.
The market is within view of the docks, where a cargo ship is currently docked and unloading various crates full of goods, which will gradually make their way to the stalls and the actual brick and mortar storefronts throughout the morning.
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Wren can see Walter, spry and full of good humor, leaving his shack in order to do his rounds, signing off on all the sailors and the cargo itself. Kattelox has long prided itself on being organized, though it is often taken a bit overboard (pun intended, in this case).
It is cold, of course, even if there are only a few weeks until the Spring Festival. Both children and adults are still in their winter clothing, consisting of heavy jackets and cloaks over their typical clothing. Some of the children are so bundled that they have to waddle around awkwardly, far more hindered by the clothes than they would otherwise be by the chill in the air.
Wren’s cold weather clothing, on the other hand, just consists of an extra fur cloak of their own make. The temperature here might be freezing for the Loxian folk, but for someone who grew up in the Crown, this is practically mild.
They finally finish setting up their stall, the front shelf of which has several small, carved wooden figures of varying appearance, some painted, some with bits of fabric as makeshift clothing, standing in a neat row facing out at the street. Wren takes another, only half-finished, and sits down on the comfortable sleeping mat and blanket that they had purchased earlier in the week. Despite being for the eventual expedition, there’s no reason to not get one’s money’s worth out of the sleeping gear when the opportunity arises.
Getting comfortable, Wren pulls out a small knife, made not of metal but of bone: Blade, handle, sheath, and all. Bits of leather serve as the grip, which is molded from years of use to fit Wren’s grip perfectly. It was a gift long ago by their mother and with it, a lesson: Waste nothing; learn how to make the best use of what you have.
The Eklund Clan long knew the secret of tempering bone to be as durable as steel, through a process of applying special oils and drying it, repeatedly. As the thin edge of the bone blade easily slices through the wood of the unfinished figure, it is apparent how sharp and durable the odd knife is, despite its age and the fact that Wren can’t remember ever needing to sharpen it.
They let their mind wander, thinking of home, of their family. From such humble origins, from such a tight-knit community, Wren knows the importance of tradition. It is comforting, a solid bit of ground amidst an ever-shifting sea. Yet, there is an entire world to experience on the other side of the surface of that sea, and refusing to acknowledge it can be dangerous. Can make someone bitter and paranoid, on their isolated little patch of land.
Wren snaps out of their thoughts, seeing a small Human child standing in front of their stand. Dressed in layers of thin, ratty clothing, with messy brown hair and big eyes that stare at the figures upon the shelf. On one hand, the disheveled look reminds Wren of a very tiny Demy, but on the other hand, they know that the rags are likely what the kid’s parents could afford.
“What are those?” The child asks innocently, pointing at the dolls.
“They’re toys: Dolls, made of wood and bits of stuff I find lying around,” Wren admits. “What’s your name?”
The child doesn’t answer, preferring to shuffle their feet with a mixture of impatience and awkwardness. Instead, they say, “But dolls are made of old potato sacks and sawdust. Why are yours made of wood? They’re supposed to be soft.”
Wren chuckles a little and admits, “Well, dolls can be made from a lot of things. I make mine from wood.”
The child answers with a question almost immediately: “Why?”
“Well, that’s because it’s what I had growing up,” Wren says. “We had to make our own toys, where I’m from, because we didn’t have any money to buy new toys with. And we kind of lived really far away from other people, so there weren’t any toys to buy even if we had money.”
“Oh,” the child says, their attention on the figure that Wren is currently carving.
“But, you can buy these!” Wren says, giving their best salesperson’s pitch.
The child looks surprised, then elated, then… they glance down at their hand, which is clenched as a fist. Inside is a single copper coin. “I dunno,” they mutter.
I’m losing ‘em, Wren thinks, panicking. Thinking quickly, they sit the figure down on the ground and hold their hands above it. With a couple twitches of the fingers, a loop of mental imagery and words, a bit of arcane power invisibly descends into the doll from their downturned palms.
Stiffly, though endearingly, the doll begins to dance, hopping around a bit.
The child gasps in awe and claps their hands, watching the little figure teeter and totter about. Wren finishes the display and picks the figure back up, finishing the last bit of carving on it with a smile, as the child seems to struggle with whether or not to give up their allowance.
Or, perhaps, not their allowance.
“But I’m supposed to bring back some bread,” the child says worriedly.
Wren feels their stomach drop.
The dancing figure and the sounds of the cheering child seems to have attracted others. A few more children, all in similarly ratty clothing, linger around the stall, longingly staring at the toys on display. Even the ones overly bundled that Wren saw earlier are done so because of the numerous holes in each layer of fabric. And, suddenly, Wren is that age again. Wearing hand-made furs and leathers, making their own toys from whatever they could find, always hungry. Always hunting for their next meal, their family’s next meal. Owning nothing but the clothes on their back and what they could carry from one place to another.
The image of the child’s face, full of awe and wonder, is replaced with the face of Wren’s mother. The look in her eyes the first time she saw Wren perform magic.
It was not awe in her eyes. Nor wonder.
It was fear.
Disgust.
Forcefully, Wren makes the thoughts go away, an ability long-practiced since leaving the Crown behind. Their pulse begins to slow, breathing gradually returning to normal, muscles relaxing.
These children don’t need to see that, Wren thinks.
They lick their dry lips and give their most genuine smile, looking out at the several children amassed in front of the stall as they say, “Well, you better come back with some bread, then. As important as toys are, making sure you can eat is more important.”
The child hangs their head sadly in understanding.
Wren’s breath hitches a bit, but they manage to keep their voice even as they gently tell the tiny crowd, “You’re all in luck, though, because… because as it turns out, I just made too many of these dolls!”
The child with the coin looks up, a bit confused, as do the others who tepidly linger at the edge of the stall.
“Well, since you have to get bread, you can’t buy any from me. But that means I have far too many to carry back with me,” Wren explains, face ponderous as they try to figure out how to handle this mock dilemma. “But I guess if I just let you all have some dolls, then you wouldn’t have to spend your bread money and I won’t have to worry about how to carry them all!”
The children’s eyes light up in surprise and delight. From the back, a small girl timidly asks, “Really? Are you sure?”
“Of course! It’d help me a lot,” Wren lies, though their smile is honest.
Each of the children leave with the doll of their choosing, happily running off to play and show their parents. For a moment, Wren considers that maybe this isn’t a unique incident, that the children have practice in how to pull at a shopkeeper’s heartstrings in order to get what they want. Yet, seeing how happy they are, Wren decides that it doesn’t matter, either way.
The child with the copper lingers and, after a moment, asks Wren, “Next time, if I have enough, maybe I can get bread and buy a doll. Would that be okay?”
“I’ll start working on one just for you,” Wren tells them, before watching them scamper off toward the bakery stand.
No profit for me today, I guess, Wren thinks to themselves. Though, the sound of children laughing nearby makes them reconsider this. Eh, maybe I broke even, after all.
Wren takes another piece of wood out of their bag. With a sense of pride keeping at bay the memories they would prefer to forget, they begin carving another figure, one that will look like its eventual recipient whenever they come back.
With or without a coin to spare.