Entry 47: The festival

Dear Diary,
 
Today was the day—the festival that would mark our official rule over Dogville, or rather, Wolf’s Rest, as it would now be known. The others were practically vibrating with excitement, but I couldn’t quite muster the same enthusiasm. Planning festivals had never been my strong suit, and if I was being honest, the whole ordeal seemed more exhausting than celebratory.
 
Alistan and Luke, on the other hand, had thrown themselves into the preparations with wild abandon. They barely let us finish breakfast before dragging us out the door, determined to check on every last detail. Their excitement was infectious—though in my case, the only real incentive to go along was the promise of food stalls.
 
Our first stop was The Gruffy Gryphon, where the ever-industrious Gideon Mudfoot had taken charge of organizing the festival. The moment we stepped onto the streets, the transformation was impossible to ignore.
 
Banners of deep crimson and gold fluttered from rooftops. Tables and wooden stalls lined the roads, some already piled high with baked goods, skewered meats, and fragrant spiced ciders. A handful of musicians tuned their instruments in the town square, filling the air with the occasional burst of a lute’s melody or the trill of a flute. Even the scent of the town had changed—less of the usual damp earth and worn leather, more of roasting nuts and honeyed pastries.
 
If nothing else, at least the festival would be a feast.
 
Gideon greeted us with his usual halfling charm, dusting flour from his hands as he beamed up at us. “Everything’s under control,” he assured us. “Food, drinks, entertainment—you name it. Gonna be a festival to remember.”
 
He wasn’t exaggerating. Among the planned entertainment was a traveling musician from Keralon, who had set up a grand podium in the town square. The only catch? Someone from our group had to give a speech.
 
Luke, ever the troublemaker, didn’t hesitate. “Alistan should do it,” he declared, clapping him on the back. “He’s basically our unofficial leader, anyway.”
 
Alistan groaned but didn’t argue.
 
With that settled, we made our way to the square to check on the final preparations. The podium loomed over the crowd, its polished wood gleaming in the sunlight. Alistan studied it with a pensive expression, then squared his shoulders. “If I have to give a speech, I’m doing it from there,” he said, already envisioning his moment in the spotlight.
 
I, on the other hand, was more interested in what lay beyond it—the food stalls. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced cider, and something buttery and sweet. I barely took a step toward the most enticing booth when a familiar voice called out.
 
Mazrif, the half-elf owner of Keralon’s renowned music shop, strode toward us, his usual air of showmanship on full display. “Ah, just the people I wanted to see!” he said, adjusting the cuffs of his embroidered jacket. “I’m organizing a little contest—The Battle of the Bards.”
 
Alistan and Liliana’s eyes lit up.
 
“The Feyroost Five rides again,” Liliana murmured, already reaching for her instrument.
 
Mazrif grinned. “That’s the spirit. I expect a performance worthy of legend.”
 
As they eagerly signed up, I couldn’t help but smirk. A bardic showdown, a looming speech, and a festival overflowing with food? Maybe this day would be more interesting than I thought.
 
After saying our goodbyes to Mazrif, we made our way to the two other stalls that had caught our interest. The first, Cleatus’ Root Shaping, was run by a towering firbolg druid with bark-like skin and kind, watchful eyes. He greeted us with a slow nod but was still setting up.
 
“I’ll be ready soon,” he rumbled in a deep, patient voice. “I shape roots from the sacred Irminsul tree—each one becomes a personal talisman, unique to the bearer.”
 
Intriguing, but for now, we moved on.
 
The second stall, Khan’s Mystery Brews, looked equally promising, but the merchant—a sharp-eyed man in a deep green cloak—was also still arranging his wares. With nothing left to explore, we decided to head back to the keep.
 
What followed was a whirlwind of attempts by Liliana to rebuild the Feyroost Five. She started with Gael, trying to press him into the group with her usual mix of charm and stubbornness. He declined, polite but firm, clearly uninterested. Undeterred, she turned to Dynia, who, caught off guard, hesitantly agreed—but I could see the uncertainty in her posture. And then, in a surprising turn, Dynia went back to Gael, asking him again. This time, after a brief hesitation, he agreed.
 
I watched the exchange from a distance, arching an eyebrow. Maybe Gael had no love for joining a band, but he did seem to have a soft spot for Dynia. Interesting.
 
With no further musical conscriptions in sight, I spent the next few hours tending to my garden before preparing for the festival. Which, in my case, meant putting on a fresh pair of robes. Midnight black, as always. I wore no finery for the king, and I wasn’t about to start now.
 
By the time we returned to the town square, the festival was in full swing. Nearly two hundred people filled the streets, laughter and conversation blending with the scent of roasted meats and spiced cider. As we approached, the crowd erupted into cheers, parting like a tide to make way for Alistan, Liliana, and Luke. They climbed onto the stage, ready for the grand speech.
 
I, however, had no interest in the spotlight. Instead, I slipped away toward the food stalls, where the true heart of the festival—at least in my opinion—awaited.
 
Mazrif stepped onto the stage alongside them, his voice carrying over the crowd with practiced ease as he introduced the so-called "Heroes of Wolf’s Rest." His introduction was brief—just enough to stir the excitement in the gathered townsfolk—before he handed the stage over to Alistan.
 
I half-expected Alistan to have spent at least some time preparing a speech, but as soon as he opened his mouth, it became painfully clear he was winging it. Not that it mattered. He had that natural confidence, the kind that made people want to listen. His words weren’t rehearsed, but they were passionate, and before long, the crowd was cheering, swept up in his easy charisma. Maybe if he ever found a sense of direction, he could make a great leader one day. Maybe even a king.
 
After the speech, the others decided to explore Cleatus’ stall and Khan’s Brewery, but I let them go without me. Instead, I moved through the crowd, mingling with both familiar and unfamiliar faces. I checked in on the people from my home village of Ravensfield, but also those who had already been living in what was now Wolf’s Rest. It was easy to get lost in the energy of the festival—the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread, the sound of laughter, the way the streets seemed alive in a way they never had before. More importantly, people looked happy. Content. And that was worth more than any speech.
 
As the afternoon bled into evening, special guests began to arrive. The first—and most unexpected—was none other than Ambassador Rachnar Ergoll. He had apparently heard of the festival and decided it was worth his time, bringing gifts that only served to confuse the already inconsistent tradition of gift-giving at these events. But the real disappointment for Rachnar? No ritual combat. Just music. The ambassador did his best to hide it, but I could see the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly at the realization.
 
“Music?” he muttered. “Not even a duel?”
 
When I assured him that the food would make up for it, he gave me a skeptical look—but he followed me all the same. If he couldn’t have bloodsport, he’d settle for indulgence.
 
And honestly? I didn’t mind. It was the first time I’d had the ambassador’s company all to myself, and once we got a few drinks in him, I found that he was actually… delightful. Rugged, sharp-witted, and surprisingly funny. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.
 
Just as I was steering Rachnar toward a promising food stall, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestone silenced the crowd. A gleaming carriage rolled into the square, its polished wood catching the glow of the lanterns strung above. It was the kind of carriage that announced importance before its occupants even stepped out.
 
The door swung open, and out stepped Elsa Colline, elegant as ever. But she wasn’t alone. As I found out later, the man stepping down beside her was none other than the king himself. Apparently, he had a habit of slipping into small, local festivals like this one, enjoying the rare anonymity of a crowd that didn’t immediately recognize him.
 
Unfortunately for him, that anonymity didn’t last long.
 
Liliana, never one to let an opportunity slip by, immediately announced his presence. The effect was instantaneous—gasps, bows, whispers rippling through the square like wildfire. The celebration stalled, all eyes fixed on him.
 
To his credit, the king handled it well. With a few well-placed words, a reassuring smile, and a casual wave, he eased the tension, nudging the festival back into motion. Then, turning to Alistan, he presented him with a gift—a small golden box.
Alistan opened it, revealing a beautifully crafted golden key resting on a silver chain. Quite literally, the key to the city.
 
With his royal duty fulfilled, the king offered us a polite nod, wished us a pleasant evening, and then departed, returning to the business of ruling a kingdom. Elsa, however, stayed behind—left in the capable, and suddenly very nervous, hands of my brother Luke.
 
Not long after the king’s departure, Mazrif climbed onto the stage, his presence effortlessly drawing the crowd’s attention. He raised a hand, and the murmurs died down.
 
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” His voice carried over the festival, rich with excitement. “The Battle of the Bards!”
 
A wave of cheers and applause erupted through the square.
 
“This evening, four bands will take the stage, each vying for the chance to face me in the final round. The winner will not only claim glory and gold but also a magical instrument of their choosing!”
 
That got the crowd even more excited. Gold was one thing. But a magical instrument? That was something else entirely.
 
Mazrif gestured toward the side of the stage, where the competing groups had gathered.
 
“Competing tonight, we have the Feyroost Five!” A round of applause greeted our very own Liliana and Alistan, now joined by a few newly recruited members.
 
“The Fiendish Greys!” A group of all Tieflings stepped forward, their crimson eyes gleaming under the lantern light.
 
“The Brass Quartet!” The dwarves stomped onto the stage, their instruments already gleaming in their hands, exuding an air of confidence.
 
“And last but not least… the Dead Divas!” A group dressed head to toe in black, their pale faces set in dramatic expressions.
 
Mazrif grinned as the crowd whooped and cheered.
 
“Let the battle begin!”
 
The Battle of the Bards should have been the highlight of the evening. But in the end, it was overshadowed by something far more sinister. Still, I’ll try to keep things in order.
 
For the record, I cheered for every band. Let the best musicians win.
 
The first showdown pitted the Feyroost Five against the Brass Quartet. The dwarves played with heart, their instruments thrumming with rich, deep tones, but they were no match for my companions—especially Gael, whose impeccable rhythm carried their performance to victory. The crowd roared in approval.
 
As the music swelled, I scanned the audience and noticed something odd. A group of mercenaries, still armed, lingered at the edges of the festival. They blended in, laughing, drinking, nodding their heads to the beat. Nothing outright suspicious—yet. But something about the way they watched made my skin prickle. I kept my eye on them.
 
Next came the Fiendish Greys versus the Dead Divas—a battle of energy versus sorrow, flutes against mournful violins. The Fiendish Greys played fast and wild, their music soaring, but in the end, it was the haunting, heart-wrenching strings of the Dead Divas that won over the crowd.
 
After a brief intermission, the Feyroost Five stepped up for the final round against the Divas. The audience buzzed with anticipation, but my focus had already shifted. The mercenaries were moving. Quietly, all at once, they started slipping away from the crowd.
 
That was no coincidence.
 
I sent Fiachna to tail them from the air, her keen eyes tracking their path, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dadroz melt into the shadows, following on foot. When Fiachna confirmed their destination—our keep—I didn’t waste another second.
I turned and made a beeline for Luke. By the time I reached him, the contest had ended. The Feyroost Five had won. Cheers erupted. Applause thundered through the square.
 
But I barely heard any of it.
 
Because something was coming.
 
And we needed to be ready.
 
We barely had time to talk before a decision had to be made. The others wanted to rush to the keep, but something about it felt... off. Too convenient. Too perfect a way to lure all of us away from the festival. I argued that at least some of us should stay behind, just in case.
 
In the end, Alistan and I remained at the festival while Luke, Liliana, and Gael hurried after Dadroz.
 
It turned out my instincts had been wrong. It hadn’t been a diversion at all. But it wasn’t a risk I could take.
 
The mercenaries had stormed in, flanked by two elves—one a cleric, the other an assassin. Our friends managed to drive them off, killing the cleric and scattering the mercenaries, but not before two of our guards lost their lives. And when they tried to pursue the assassin, a fire elemental erupted in their path, cutting off the chase.
 
It wasn’t over. I sent Fiachna after the retreating mercenaries, determined to track them down. Someone had hired them to attack our keep. I wanted to know who.
 
But for now, the festival had to go on.
 
The final round of the Battle of the Bards was still ahead. The Feyroost Five against Mazrif himself. The half-elf stepped onto the stage, and with a flick of his fingers, he sprouted an extra set of arms, each hand gripping a different instrument. Then he played.
 
The music was mesmerizing—otherworldly, even. It hummed through the square, wrapping around the crowd like an enchantment. But my companions were ready. They played their hearts out, and when Liliana stepped forward for her solo, everything changed.
 
Her fingers flew over the strings, each note crackling with raw, untamed energy. The crowd held their breath, spellbound. Even Mazrif looked impressed. And maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with Viviene, her mysterious fey mistress, watching from the shadows.
 
Then, as quickly as she had appeared, Viviene was gone.
 
Mazrif bowed low. “The winners,” he declared, “are the Feyroost Five!”
 
Cheers exploded through the square. As their prize, they were granted one magical instrument, and there was no question—Liliana deserved it.
 
After that, the night blurred into laughter, music, and more than a few drinks. I found myself in the company of Rachnar, and I have to say—I need to spend more time with that man. Turns out, he’s an excellent drinking companion.