Chapter Six: The Muster of Caltlikrath

Mordred manages to make himself look somewhat costumed.

None of you recognize the specific particulars of this festival, but harvest celebrations like this one aren't uncommon throughout the land. Presumably, the wooden figure will be burned as a sacrifice at the end of the festivities. It quite reminds Felor of the Greimadken Festival, where the townsfolk would build an enormous goat effigy and cover it in wildflowers and the High Earl himself would come out to chop off its head and light it ablaze on the third and final night.

The party wanders in closer. A few children gather at the base of the wooden man and throw gourds up at his head, trying to land them in the overfilled basket.

"Come, travelers! Join us in celebration!" says a man walking by, wearing a long-feathered cap and slapping out a beat on a hand drum. He gestures toward a row of benches and cooking pits, where chickens are being spit-roasted and herbed flatbreads are being baked in clay barrel-ovens. There are people there, eating and talking, and a man stands upon one of the benches playing a fast, freewheeling melody on a wooden flute while a young woman and two men laugh as they engage in a heel-kicking, spinning dance.

The party takes some time to enjoy the fair, each member gravitating to some aspect that particularly appeals to them.

Zangua and Mordred head toward the cookfires, buying bread and roasted meat and sweet wine to start with. There are, as well, tarts and cakes made with tree fruits and squashes and nuts, golden ales, and so on. The townsfolk are friendly and in good spirits, introducing themselves freely, offering welcome to Folderey (the town's name), and showing no particular fear of Mordred, although it's hard to say if his pretense of being costumed is the reason for that.

Domarc soon finds himself joining a trio of musicians: a man with a long salt-and-pepper beard who plays a low-tone bone flute, a dwarf woman (not of the humanoid race, but a human of unusually short stature) with an elaborate timbrel, and a young, long-haired man with a lyre. Domarc finds that he improvises quite well and quite naturally with them, though he knows none of the tunes in their repertoire, and is given much free food and drink from appreciative fairgoers between songs.

Leth spends some time eating with Zangua and Mordred and watching Domarc play, then wanders over to the vendor stalls where various crafts and trinkets and goods are being sold. There's a trembling man with gray-hued skin selling fancy, colorful felt caps, an old woman and her three large adult sons whose shelves are filled with hundreds upon hundreds of clay idols of all the myriad gods of Bload, a perfumer who offers to create a unique signature scent for Leth, never to be smelled anywhere else in all the Werld, for a mere five pieces of silver, a maker of tin and copper housewares who sings as he hammers his wares into shape, and much more.

Felor, meanwhile, finds himself drawn to the wooden figure. A child offers him a small round pumpkin and tells him to throw it into the figure's head. Felor tosses it up and lands it right on top, knocking a few other gourds loose to fall into the hay below. The child is terribly excited at Felor's success, jumping and cheering loudly; when he calms down he explains that Felor will have good fortune in the next year. "If you're a child, it means you'll grow a full inch," he says solemnly. "If you're a man grown, it means you'll have a baby. If you're old, it means you get another year of life. So you're going to have a baby next year because you got a punkin in the Bridegroom of Semla's head."

Would anybody like to take any specific actions, ask any questions, or investigate any other parts of the fair?

A gray-haired but sprightly singer with braids in his beard is the first person Domarc manages to find who has heard rumors from Hazard. "I don't pass through Hazard, no. That city takes a piece of your soul to keep every time you step through its gates. But I came through the villages sou'river on my way here and the rumors are deliciously strange! As I heard it sang, the Hierophant's lady lover was abducted by a sorcerer who's bent the very winds of the cold north to his will. He sent an entire legion to rescue her and only a single man came back alive, the rest turned to ice and shattered like old pottery!"

Domarc searches for corroboration of the singer's story, and talks to a winemaker who confirms that the Hierophant has fallen into deep disfavor in Hazard over some martial mishap that took place somewhere to the north, but he knows none of the details.

The singer returns to Domarc later with a third source, a man wandering the fair with a long curved pipe who sells dried herbs and performs tricks with smoke rings. "Twas a dragon abducted the Hierophant's paramour and slew the venturing army," he offers.

The singer stands slightly behind him and shrugs comically. "I don't believe it, but that makes a better song!" he says. "I'll have to compose my own version."

Probably no updates until next week. I am sorry. I will definitely be back though.

Take it easy and thanks for the update!

We'll just talk amongst ourselves :)

Prompt: is there anything else you guys would like to do at the festival while your DM is on semi-hiatus?