Saya and the Dragon

So here’s the thing. I didn’t technically go to school. But I did get a comprehensive education in alleys, under tables, and on top of several disappointed scholars. I know my goog—googra—geography, and also numiz... numizz... fuck it, coin stuff.

Right. Coins.

Seebulba? Our coins got an octopus. Because of course we do. Eight arms, zero morals. Like the harbor guard after dark.

Sabrabena mints those delicate little silver ovals with three sardines laid out like they’re spooning. I call them fish biscuits. You get five for a good toe-suck and a limerick.

Delvida thinks it’s classy, so theirs have dolphins. Frolicking. Like real money has feelings. But I swear every time I bite one, it tastes like betrayal and overpriced perfume.

Toemacha stamps a lyre on theirs. For artistry. Even their coins are smug musicians. You drop one on the floor and it plays a tragic chord about your debt.

Tanagra? Oh gods. Just a triangle with an eye. Real subtle, your majesty. Definitely not cultish at all. I once tried paying with one and the vendor crossed himself and spat.

Thelveth coins got cactus blooms on them. Yeah. Flowers. But with thorns. Just like their women.

Lerida does coins shaped like tiny shields. Real thick ones. Impossible to hide in your holes unless you’re very determined. Ask me how I know.

The Amazons? They don’t do coins. They do branded iron tags you get after three months of ideology drills and communal scissor practice. Can’t bribe anyone with that unless they’re horny and politically confused.

Hanigalbat? I got paid in a coin once that had a goat with three eyes. No text. No value. Just a staring goat. I used it to hex a customer. Worked great.

And then there’s cult coin. Some triangle-within-a-circle nonsense you get at seaside rituals where everyone’s oiled up and chanting. You can use it in the markets. If you’re okay with buying fish that whispers at night.

Oh—and never, ever trust Barony coin. Half of it’s pewter buttons with saints scratched in. I once got paid in a melted bell. A literal bell. Still had the clapper in.

Anyway, point is—I know my money. I know how to jiggle it, flip it, taste it, and tell if it’s been washed in piss. And I will accept payment in cash, jewelry, rare mushrooms, or very specific acts of worship.

***

Now, technically—technically—they’re all supposed to be worth the same. Same size. Same weight. Same shiny metal. All of them pretending to be some noble descendant of whatever coinage the old Empire used to puke out. Like, ooooh, look at us, we still follow imperial standards. Bullshit.

Any street girl with a decent crotch and two working eyes will tell you: don’t trust that crap.

Take Delvida. “Ooooh, city of marble, city of gold.” Yeah, right. Rich my ass. They’re the stingiest pricks on the Inner Sea. Half their coins are gold on the outside and disappointment in the middle. I bit one once and chipped a tooth on lead. Or tin. Or gods know what. I’m convinced they just sweep up whatever falls off noble wigs and press it into coin.

Sabrabena? Always smells like cloves and bankruptcy. Their coins look nice—shiny, delicate, dainty little things. But they insist they’re full value. Don’t fall for it. If someone tries to pay you one sardine coin for something proper, you tell them: Two. For a Seebulban octopus, minimum. Or I’ll show you where to put that fish.

Now Toemacha, they’re dramatic, but fair. Their coins sing when you flick them. Real nice chime. You know they didn’t water down the metal with shame.

Tanagra? Pfft. You never know. Triangle Eye coins are cursed half the time. Might be full weight, might explode into spiders. You play dice with the gods every time.

And listen. I’ve seen priests get into shouting matches over whether a Thelveth bloom-coin is worth more in spring or fall. Depends on the harvest. Depends on the moon. Depends on how drunk your accountant is.

So yeah, “standardized imperial currency.” Cute idea. Like chastity belts—everyone wears one different, and they all open if you jiggle them right.

The only real standard is: our octopus is real. Heavy. Honest. Greasy. Just like home.

And then, then you’ve got elven coin.

Now we’re talking. That’s the real shit. Ethereal shimmer, rune-etched edges, faint smell of orchids and unattainable standards. You don’t spend elven coin. You weep gently over it and whisper poetry. Maybe rub it between your thighs for luck. Most working girls? Never even seen one. Just rumors. It's like the idea of a faithful client—sounds nice, probably fake, and if it exists, it’s married to someone else.

I saw one once. One. Slipped out of a diplomat’s boot pouch while he was snoring post-threesome. It glowed in the moonlight. Glowed. Not like shiny—like divine shame. I stared at it for twenty minutes. Then sold it for a bag of onions and a lyre with one string. Regret’s a flavor, darling. It lingers.

And then there’s the dwarven stuff. Oh honey.

No silver. No copper. No tinny saints or sardines. Just solid, thick, slabby gold. Heavy enough to ruin your spine. They don’t even put pictures on it. Just stamped weight and value. Like, "this is five threes of standard mountain-marked gold, deal with it."

No fuss. No lies. Just pure "bite this and cry" bullion. You get a dwarven coin, you know. Your fingers tingle. Your hips sway heavier. Your dreams start involving vaults and beards.

Problem is—it’s addictive. Too many of those thick little bastards clinking in your purse and suddenly you're waking up sniffing your own stash and muttering things like “fair market value” in your sleep. One girl I knew married a banker. Another started licking bricks to see if they were gilded. It gets in your blood.

Me? I limit myself to two dwarfies per purse. Any more and I start fantasizing about figures.