The festival of Wolf's Rest

Dear Diary,
 
Today is the day of the festival! The celebration of our district's expansion and its renaming to Wolf's Rest. The morning dawned clear and bright, a perfect day for a feast. The air was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of baking bread and roasting meats, drifting from the village towards the keep. Faint strains of music, lively and joyous, carried on the breeze, creating a festive atmosphere.
 
I headed towards the Grubby Griffon, eager to see how the preparations were progressing. The streets were alive with activity. Colorful streamers adorned the newly constructed houses, while torches, stacked high, awaited the evening festivities.
 
At the inn, Gideon greeted us with a broad smile. "Everything's coming together," he declared, gesturing towards the bustling activity. Extra hands, hired for the occasion, were scurrying about, setting up tables and chairs beneath brightly colored parasols.
 
"The whole village is buzzing with excitement," Gideon continued. "The square is already filling up with entertainers, all eager to perform. And the best part? Mazrif, a renowned musician trader from the city, has arrived and is setting up a stage." The news filled me with excitement. The festival, once just an idea, was now a reality, a testament to the resilience and spirit of our community.
 
Gideon then turned to us, his gaze expectant. "When would you like to give your speech?" he inquired. I turned to Alistan, assuming he would be the one addressing the crowd. He was the one of us who had been a noble the longest (especially since his sister was out of the circuit for five years) and I had every bit of confidence that he would do well. Alistan didn’t seem entirely eager, but also didn’t shy away from the task. "Perhaps just before noon," I suggested, "as a formal opening to the festivities." Gideon nodded in agreement. "Excellent idea. We can use the musician's stage to ensure everyone can hear."
 
We made our way to the village square, a simple patch of grass that now bustled with activity. A magnificent stage, adorned with colorful banners, had been erected. Several tents, each offering a unique experience, dotted the landscape. To our surprise, a group of Dwarves had set up a makeshift distillery, their banner proclaiming "Khan's Mysterious Brews." Nearby, a towering Furbolg, his muscles bulging beneath his thick fur, was meticulously arranging pieces of wood. The square, once a simple gathering place, had been transformed into a vibrant spectacle. The festival was slowly getting started. The air was filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of tankards. The villagers, their faces beaming with joy, mingled with the visiting entertainers. The smell of roasted meat and freshly baked bread filled the air, tantalizing our senses.
 
We approached the stage, a vibrant tapestry of colors and sounds. An elf, his arms adorned with intricate tattoos, was directing a group of stagehands, instructing them on the placement of hay bales, which served as makeshift seating for the audience. The elf, upon seeing us, immediately assumed we were the lords and ladies of Wolf's Rest. "Welcome, welcome!" he exclaimed, his voice booming across the square. "Mazrif, at your service, from Mazrif's Musics." He launched into a rapid-fire sales pitch, extolling the virtues of his magical instruments. "But today," he announced, "we have a special treat! A Battle of the Bards!"
 
We briefly discussed the usage of Mazrif’s stage to give a speech, which he readily accepted. Then Alistan raised his hand. "We'd also like to participate in your contest," he declared, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Liliana and I would like to enter as a band." Mazrif, intrigued, agreed, "Of course! The entrance fee is a mere 50 gold pieces per band. And the prize? A hefty 500 gold pieces and a magical upgrade for one of your instruments!" Alistan, his curiosity piqued, inquired about the nature of the magical upgrade. Mazrif, however, remained coy. "That," he declared with a mischievous grin, "is a surprise."
 
Before returning to the keep, we decided to explore the bustling square, eager to experience the festive atmosphere. Our first stop was the Dwarven distillery, but the pungent aroma of fermenting ales indicated that they were still in the process of setting up. We then approached Cleatus, the towering Furbolg, who was meticulously arranging pieces of wood. He greeted us with a slow, rumbling voice, "Greetings, travelers."
I inquired about his stall. "These," he explained, gesturing towards the wood, "are pieces of Irminsul, the World Tree." He continued, "Each piece is unique, imbued with the essence of the world itself. I can shape them according to your desires, crafting them into anything your heart desires." Cleatus claimed that the pieces of Irminsul had been gifted to him personally by the World Tree itself. His words, though fantastical, held a certain allure. The prospect of owning a piece of the World Tree, a tangible connection to the very essence of our world, was undeniably intriguing. But it would have to wait until the festival started proper.
 
We returned to the keep, the excitement of the festival still buzzing within us. Liliana, her eyes sparkling with mischief, turned to Gael. "Would you like to join our band for the Battle of the Bards?" she asked.
Gael, however, declined, claiming a sudden lack of interest in performing. Liliana, undeterred, turned to Alistan with a cunning plan to get Gael on board. "Let’s ask Dynia first," she instructed, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Alistan, with a knowing smirk, approached Dynia, who is certainly not Gael’s girlfriend despite all evidence to the contrary, extending the invitation. Dynia with some initial hesitation was eventually persuaded by Liliana's enthusiastic encouragement. However, Dynia immediately enquired if Gael would join them. The twins replied that that is a great idea and sent Dynia to invite Gael again, knowing full well the effect that the elf girl has on our friend. "It always sounds better when we play together," she remarked to Gael, her voice soft and persuasive. Gael, despite his initial reluctance, found himself unable to resist her charm.
 
While my friends sorted out their musical arrangements, I spent the remainder of the morning selecting the perfect attire for the festival. A touch of elegance, a hint of flair – I wanted to make a statement. The possibility that Elsa might grace the festival with her presence added an extra layer of motivation.
 
By noon, the music had reached a crescendo, a vibrant tapestry of sound filling the air. We made our way back to the square, eager to witness the festivities. Approximately 200 villagers, their faces beaming with joy, had gathered in front of the stage. Many held tankards of ale, while others savored delicious treats. Mazrif, the musician, was already on stage, his fingers dancing across the strings of his guitar, filling the air with a soothing melody. As we approached the stage, the crowd turned towards us, a murmur of anticipation running through them. Mazrif, with a flourish of his cloak, bowed deeply. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, his voice booming across the square, "please welcome the heroes of Ravensfield!"
 
The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices a wave of appreciation. Liliana, Alistan, and I stepped onto the stage, the weight of their gaze upon us. Alistan stepped forward, his voice resonating through the crowd. "Thank you," he began, his voice sincere, "to everyone who helped make this day possible." He spoke of new beginnings, of the district's rebirth, its name forevermore to be Wolf's Rest. "And remember," he added, "the doors of the keep are always open. We are here for you, to help in any way we can." Liliana, her voice warm and inviting, followed Alistan. "I hope," she declared, "that we can all live together in peace and harmony. No formalities, no airs and graces. We are all part of this community now." The crowd erupted in cheers, the atmosphere electric with excitement. The festival truly began. People milled about, visiting the various stalls, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Children, released from their parents' watchful eyes, darted through the crowd, their shrieks of delight echoing through the square.
 
We attempted to join the festivities, but the villagers, despite their newfound freedom, continued to treat us with a reverence that made me uncomfortable. Alistan, recognizing the awkwardness, began to shake hands with everyone he encountered, a deliberate effort to break the ice. Hayley, true to form, embarked on a culinary adventure, sampling delicacies from every food stall. She chatted with the villagers, her infectious laughter echoing through the square.The Ravensfield refugees, despite their initial apprehension, seemed to have settled into their new homes. The unease that had plagued them in the early weeks had subsided, replaced by a sense of belonging.
 
We approached Cleatus' stall, our curiosity piqued. He greeted us with a warm smile, "Ready to choose your piece of the World Tree?" We paid the gold, our anticipation growing. Cleatus instructed us to close our eyes and allow our hands to drift over the wood, selecting the piece that resonated with us. I followed his instructions, but felt nothing, no connection to any particular piece. Disappointed, I moved on and got my money back.
Dadroz and Gael, however, seemed to have a different experience. They closed their eyes, their hands tracing the contours of the wood. Suddenly, their hands paused, a sense of connection evident in their expressions.
Cleatus, with a knowing smile, invited them into his tent. The air within was thick with the scent of herbs and incense. When they emerged, Dadroz was carrying a wooden circlet, intricately carved with silver lines. Gael, on the other hand, held a wooden pendant, the silver inlay depicting a swirling vortex. Their experiences, unlike mine, had been truly magical, a connection to the very essence of the World Tree.
 
Our next stop was the Dwarven distillery. Three Dwarves, their faces flushed with the joy of creation, manned the operation. One, a burly Dwarf with a booming voice, introduced himself as Morin Khan.
"Welcome, friends," he boomed, gesturing towards the array of ingredients. "For 100 gold, you may choose three ingredients to combine in a unique brew."
Intrigued, we began to examine the selection. After much deliberation, I chose three ingredients: Luring Lily Perfume, Betulua's Wing Dust, and Red Dragon Breath Glandules.
The Dwarves, their eyes widening, carefully measured and combined the ingredients. The resulting concoction, a shimmering, iridescent liquid, bore an uncanny resemblance to a potion of flight.
 
As we continued to explore the festival, Gael suddenly veered off course, heading towards a stall overflowing with colorful cupcakes. He purchased two cupcakes. To my surprise, Gael slipped one of the cupcakes underneath the table. A small, furry creature, a Boggle, emerged from beneath the table, its eyes wide with curiosity. Gael, with a gentle murmur, engaged the creature in conversation, his voice a low, soothing hum. After a few moments, Gael returned, a smile playing on his lips. The encounter with the Boggle, it seemed, had brought a touch of unexpected magic to the festival.
 
As evening approached, our invited guests began to arrive. Among them was Rachnar, the Dragonborn ambassador, accompanied by an imposing retinue of guards. Their presence, initially intimidating to some of the villagers, quickly subsided as Rachnar, with his booming voice and genuine warmth, put them at ease. He commended us on our efforts in rebuilding the township, offering his assistance in any way possible. "There may be a small matter," he mentioned, "that could use your assistance in the near future. Nothing urgent, more of a…nuisance." He extended an invitation for us to visit the Dragonborn embassy at our convenience.
Noticing the absence of other dignitaries, Rachnar inquired about the expected protocol. "Are gifts customary for such an occasion?" he asked. Gael replied, "No gifts are expected, Rachnar."
To our surprise, the dragonborn waved at two of his subordinates, burdened by a large chest, and they began to move away. The ambassador quickly recovered, joining my sister in her culinary explorations. Within the hour there was a remarkable transformation in Rachnar's demeanor. The stoic ambassador, known for his stern countenance, was now engaged in lively conversation with my sister and the inhabitants of Wolf’s Rest, his earlier formality completely forgotten.
 
As the festival continued, a sight that sent my heart racing unfolded before my eyes. A magnificent carriage, drawn by four majestic horses, arrived at the square. Elsa, radiant as ever, stepped out, her beauty captivating the crowd. But my joy was short-lived. Following Elsa emerged none other than the King of Keralon himself. The crowd, bewildered by the unexpected arrival of an unknown noble, fell silent.
Alistan and Liliana stepped forward, bowing respectfully. "Your Majesty," Alistan declared, his voice firm.
 
A wave of shock rippled through the crowd. Everyone, including myself, dropped to one knee, paying homage to the King. The King, however, seemed less than pleased. "Rise, rise," he commanded, his voice carrying a hint of disappointment. "I had hoped to remain incognito." He explained that Elsa had mentioned the festival and, intrigued, he had decided to attend in disguise. The crowd, still reeling from the King's presence, remained hesitant to resume the festivities. The King, sensing their unease, chuckled. "Relax," he said, "it's alright. In fact," he added, "I rather enjoy this. It's one of my guilty pleasures, to observe my subjects without the weight of royal expectations." He assured us that he would not stay long, his guards, no doubt, already searching for their missing monarch. Before departing, the King presented us with a gift: a small chest containing a golden key. "The key to the Gates of Keralon," he declared. And then, much to the astonishment of the crowd, the King proceeded to send for a sampling from a food stall, ordering a plate of roasted boar with a side of roasted potatoes. He seemed to relish the experience, savoring the local cuisine.
 
After the King departed, Elsa immediately approached me, her face flushed with embarrassment. "I am so sorry," she apologized, "I had mentioned that I was attending the feast this evening. But I had no idea he would insist on coming." My friends, excusing themselves, headed towards the stage, eager to prepare for their performance. Elsa, eager to make amends, suggested we explore the festival. We strolled through the square, hand in hand, admiring the sights and sounds. I showed her the new constructions, the bustling market stalls, the vibrant energy that now permeated Wolf's Rest.
However, we made sure to return to the square in time for the Battle of the Bards. We secured front-row seats, eager to witness the performance of our friends.