You’ll have to forgive my uncle, sir. He has a very unique sense of humor which involves not being funny.
Since she wasn’t riding horses, today’s costume was that of a paige. She was too tall and not chesty enough for the typical wench and the material still hadn’t come through for her chatelaine outfit, it was either a paige or a time traveller and people tended to be hostile to the latter.
Sara played her harp as an excuse to sit between guiding lost souls around and - in extreme cases - translating between Renspeak and regular english for the noobs.
A kid ran up between the guests and hid behind her. “Ididn'tdoanythingwrongpleasedon'tlet'emkillme.”
Followed closely by the faire guards.
They were impressive men with dull faces, currently chafing under their chain mail uniforms and the weight of their decorative halberds. And, like typical security goons, were paid to be there, dress like that, and menace anyone who was ruining an otherwise good day.
“Good morrow, fair gentlemen,” said Sara. “Comest thou seeking the assistance of this humble bard?”
And, like typical security goons, none had done their homework. “…zuh?”
“Can I help you?”
“That brat hiding behind you’s been caught stealing from the food carts.”
Sara looked behind her to size up the kid. Not in costume. Those rags were all he had to wear. And that dirt wasn’t makeup. Homeless. Alone and cold and terrified. That would not do.
“My nephew? He’s been near me all day, looking at the stalls.”
“We saw him.”
Sara put on an act. “Caught stealing,” she sighed, holding his arm. “Caught. Stealing. What have I always told you about being caught stealing? Don’t. Get. Caught.”
The kid faked a laugh. “You’ll have to forgive my uncle, sir. He has a very unique sense of humor which involves not being funny.”
Sara laughed a little bit more genuinely and patted him down. “Nothing in his pockets. Nothing up his sleeves. Where is your evidence?”
“He ate it.”
“And in a court of law, this would get…?”
“…not a lot,” the spokesgoon growled.
Sara dug a twenty out of her neck purse and handed it over. “See that this gets to any disgruntled shop keeps, will you? I’ll have a good long chat with my nephew.”
“See that you do, sir.”
Sara did not let him go. “A few rules, kid, that are going to help you live longer. One: if you must steal food here, steal the leftovers and act like you’re part of the scenery. Two: never pickpocket from someone who’s helping you and three: always keep an eye out for the goons.”
“How did you–?”
“I date a pickpocket, dear. I not only know all the tricks, but I also know all the signs… and he’s better at it than you are.” She neatly retrieved the money from what passed for his belt. “Now. I am about to make you a better deal than the one you’re currently in. There are strings, but the difference between me and most deal-makers is that I tell you what they are. Ready?”
The kid nodded.
“I am about to gift you with a better future. Clothes, shelter, a guardian with your best interests at heart. This will also include an education, medicine, immunizations and adhering to the law. Once you agree, you must become a model citizen to the best of your abilities. Understood?”
Another, terrified nod.
“All you have to do is answer one simple question: would you like me to help you?”
A slow, reluctant nod.
“I’m trusting you not to run. That trust will gain you all you can eat, today. And, fortunes willing, new clean clothes tonight. The caveat is that you have to bathe. Thoroughly. With soap.”
Sara let go. The kid did not bolt. “Well done. My name’s Sara, by the way. I’m an auntie, not an uncle.”
“I was named Bruce,” said the kid. “‘druther be Breana.”
“Born in the wrong body, hm? That might take a little longer to arrange, but I can also help you there.”
“But…?” prompted Breana.
“But they do like to wait until you’re an adult before they let you have gender reassignment surgery.”
Breana, age seven, rolled her eyes. Adulthood was forever away for her.
“In the meantime, I can arrange the necessary paperwork. But let’s worry about that another day.” Sara lead her between two tents to a third tent made to look like wattle and daub. There was a plank over the sacking door which read, in shaky pokerwork, HARGAS HOUSE OF RIBS.
“This place smells like grease,” complained Breana.
“True, but it does offer the all-you-can-gobble-for-a-dollar menu. Today’s prices, ten bucks.”
Breana giggled. Her face lit up when she smiled.
Sara bowed her into the greasy-smelling confines. “Shall we begin, m'lady?”
[Muse food remaining: 11. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]