The Turning of the Scales
The Turning of the Scales is Trinda’s most cherished festival, held each year to commemorate the day the town was nearly destroyed by a purple worm—and saved by the legendary adventuring group known as the Scions of the Turquoise Cod. What began as a small act of remembrance has grown into a town-wide tradition, celebrating both tragedy and triumph. The name reflects the pivotal moment when the town’s fate shifted—when the scales tipped not only toward survival but toward transformation.
History
The Turning of the Scales began as a spontaneous act of gratitude in the years following the purple worm attack of 4179. When the Scions of the Turquoise Cod saved Trinda and chose to retire there, the town entered a new era—shaped by survival, transformation, and strange prosperity born from the carcasses of monsters. In the early days, locals hung worm scales outside their homes or wore turquoise bands in honor of the Scions. Over time, this grew into an annual tradition, celebrated not only to remember the destruction but to honor the turning point that saved them. The “scales” refer both to the creatures that once ravaged the city and to the symbolic tipping of fate that brought Trinda back from the brink.
Execution
The festival begins at dawn with the ceremonial hanging of purple and turquoise cloth from doorways and lantern poles, often decorated with actual fragments of scale or painted imitations. A bell is rung once for every citizen lost during the worm attack. At midday, a gathering is held in front of Scion Keep, where townsfolk share retellings of the battle, often passed down orally or read aloud from journals preserved in the Museum of the Turquoise Cod. Children wear scale-shaped paper masks and participate in a procession called the March of the Deep, which symbolically drives out a costumed “Worm” from the city center. The night concludes with a town-wide meal, and floating candles are released into the bay, each one representing a hope for the future.
Components and tools
Key items used during the festival include scraps of purple-dyed cloth and turquoise ribbons, hand-carved scale tokens or painted wooden charms, paper masks resembling worm segments, and small floating lanterns. Some families also prepare a dish called Deepspike Stew, a spicy fish-and-root meal believed to be inspired by what the Scions ate in their adventuring days. Wormbone trinkets, once seen as eerie, have become traditional good luck charms gifted during the festival.
Participants
Every citizen of Trinda participates in some way, from decorating their homes to attending the evening meal. Elders and museum curators take on the role of storytellers, keeping the tales of the Scions alive for younger generations. One child is chosen each year to wear the ceremonial turquoise sash and lead the March of the Deep, representing both the innocence that was once at risk and the hope that continues to guide the town forward. Craftsmen and artisans often host open workshops to teach others how to carve scale tokens or paint worm imagery.
Observance
It is a day off for all miners, merchants, and guards, and though trade is paused, the celebration weaves through every corner of the town.
"Thirty years ago, the ground beneath our feet betrayed us. It split and groaned and screamed—and from it rose death in scale and hunger. We were not prepared. We were not strong. We were not ready. But we survived.
And not alone. When the world seemed ready to turn its back, the Scions of the Turquoise Cod stepped forward. They did not ask for gold. They did not boast of glory. They came with blades and grit and hearts bigger than even the beast that nearly swallowed our home.
And when the battle ended, they could have left. Gods know they earned it. But they stayed. They rebuilt. They shared their strength. And so the scales turned—not just those torn from the creature’s hide, but the very fate of Trinda.
Today, we wear the colors of transformation. Purple for what we endured. Turquoise for what we became. We do not forget. We do not bow to fear. We stand on wormbone streets, beneath banners stitched by survivors, and we feast not only to remember—but to prove that we are still here."
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