(Cydra) The Year 271 Campaign (Low Magic experiment)

[the Jester]

The clouds are turning orange as the sun sinks behind the mountains in the west. There’s a nice, cooling breeze- pleasant after a hot day. Only a few of the peasants are still toiling in the fields; the harvest is pretty much over. It is the nineteenth day of the eighth month of the 271st year After the Founding (A.F.). That means that the four-day harvest festival begins tomorrow.

Throughout the town of Whitewater, population 139, most people are taking off their shoes after a hard day’s work and smiling as they contemplate the morrow. Some of them have moved from one bit of work to another, however, and are setting up booths at the area designated for the festival that begins the next morning.

Brackburn Smith is erecting a small wooden structure; Bevin Tanner is setting up something simpler, just a place to hang hides and skins out. Bryan Boatwright and his son Bryan are putting together a large tent, from which they will try to sell toys and models- and to get real work. There are others putting things together, too. Jorgen Boatwright, self-appointed watcher of the town, walks around the perimeter to make sure all is well. He carries a spear; his is the only weapon in evidence. East and south of town, just a little ways down the river, several strangers’ wagons have camped for the night; doubtless they’ll be attending the festival in the morning. Perhaps some of them will even set up booths of their own- in fact, a very large area is staked and roped off with a sign.

Jorgen walks over and examines the sign. “That’s interesting,” he says aloud.

----------Reserved for-----------
the Amazing Longleap Sisters!!!

Jorgen scratches his head and fidgets.

“I wonder who they are,” he muses- again, aloud.

“I guess we’ll find out.” He turns and keeps wandering, keeping an eye out, making certain that all is well.

So far, so good.

***

“Thquire, come with me! We thould inthpect the fethtival groundth!”

“Yes, my lord,” replies Goer, picking up the pace a bit. Cedric, his master, was besotted already. Goer was certain there had been a time when his master had not been so... fond of the bottle, but he couldn’t really remember when that had been. He had been a page, and now squire (well, not technically yet), for almost eleven years. It was a good life- a comfortable life. It probably wouldn’t have happened at all if it wasn’t for his father’s skill at his trade. Speaking of whom, his father would likely be showing items of smithcraft for the next few days while the festival went on. Goer just hoped that dad wasn’t going to ask him to work for the festival.

If he had to work for his dad on the festival, not only would he not get to have any fun, but everyone would call him by his name, Fwaigo, rather than his nickname. He much preferred Goer. Why his parents gave him such a weird name, he had no idea... none at all. Eh, no matter. Squire Goer was good enough for him.

After a cursory glance at the skeleton of the festival, Cedric and Goer head to the nearer of the town’s two taverns, the Fat Mallard. Brandon Mallard, the proprietor gives a friendly smile to the two of them. “Good evening!” he calls.

“Good evening, my fine thir,” replies Cedric. “A mug of your finetht, pleathe, on my father’th tab.”

Brandon waggles his finger at Cedric. “I know better than that,” he admonishes.

Cedric scowls and sits at a table near a window. Goer buys him a mug of ale, and himself one as well. The two sit and drink for a few moments, watching the festival grounds.

”Hey, look, it’s the ‘watchman’,” Goer snorts. The two head outside and begin heckling Jorgen. Recognizing Cedric for the son of the Lord Whitewater, Jorgen can only smile and endure.

Night draws in. As it does so, with no more coin to buy himself a drink, Cedric determines to return to the castle. “Come, thquire!” he calls, and Goer trots after him. Watching them go, Jorgen sighs.

“I better go make sure there isn’t any trouble at either of the taverns,” he muses aloud. His patrol takes him through the Fat Mallard, from which Cedric and Goer had emerged, and thence to the Honest Man, Whitewater’s other tavern. He approaches that one with a touch of trepidation; if there’s going to be a bar fight, it will probably be here. The Honest Man is certainly a little more permissive than the Fat Mallard, but both are nice enough places. “I certainly hope the festival is peaceable,” he says to himself as he enters the Honest Man. All is well. Soon he begins a circuit of the town.

Soon enough, though, he is asleep. Eager thoughts about the next few days keep him awake for a time, but he must be alert for trouble in the morning!

 

[the Jester]

This is a story hour written around a low-magic setting I'm running. The rule changes and tweaks are detailed here.

The three pcs we have met so far are:

Cedric, played by omrob (knight 1).

Goer, played by cold1s (fighter 1).

Jorgen, played by seldomseen (also a fighter 1).

There are five pcs yet to come.

 

[Spider_Jerusalem]

Hey Jester, I read through your low-magic 'read-me' thread.

This sounds very interesting. I've always been such a fan of just scribbling out teleport style spells. Characters should travel.

Looking forward to see how this develops.

Spider J

 

[the Jester]

Hey Spider, glad to have you aboard!

Here is the next update and the next few pcs:

The night before the festival begins is a busy one for Cara Reed. She is very excited; tomorrow she will have a chance to show off both her talent as a musician and her beauty as a young lady. She plays extensively in both the Fat Mallard and the Honest Man, honing her skills on the disparate crowds at the two competing establishments. In both places, business is slow tonight; people are saving their energy for the following several days. This year’s festival promises to be a good one, for the harvest was good this year. The two will ever go hand-in-hand; on years with a poor harvest, the festival is always more subdued, less festive and more aimed at the lesson of sacrifice.

Cara sighs as she plays the Fat Mallard, her music crowded by the drunken shouts of the lord’s son. But his squire is buying him drinks at the start of the evening; it is not long before they must call it a night. Cara herself, with half of her audience vanishing, finishes her last number for the night and heads outside.

The stars are brilliant diamonds overhead, and Cara stops to take a deep breath. The smells of autumn are on the wind- hay and pollen and a ripeness that has no other word. Smiling, she walks back to her home, where she lives with her mother and her siblings. As she leaves the Mallard behind, so she leaves the river and the only bridge across it. The Fat Mallard and the general store flank the bridge on this side of the river; on the other side, their places are taken by the church of Belthizar, currently decked in husks of corn, and the Boatwright home. The town sprawls out on either side of the river, its one hundred and thirty-nine people content in their village existence.

Cara glances at the watch tower as she enters her own home. Atop it she can see the silhouette of the local self-declared watchman, Jorgen. She quirks half a smile. He means well. As she carefully washes herself down, scrubbing her makeup off, she sighs to herself. Tomorrow she will begin to make her name as an entertainer! Between her wide-ranging knowledge, her good looks and her sweet voice and delicate lute-playing, she should make quite an impression!

***

In the predawn light of very early morning, about two miles east by southeast of town following the curve of the Roaring River, a strange figure loads her donkey with gear, food and fodder. Her clothing is a mishmash of different bits of fur and leather.

If I’m going to go to the festival, the strange woman thinks, I’d best get an early start. Two miles could take a couple of hours! And who knows what bandits or goblins might lay in wait along my way.

Carefully, the woman balances the saddlebags on her donkey. Clucking her tongue, she takes his lead and starts walking upriver towards the town. Towards the festival! She wonders what strange entertainers or bizarre merchants will be there. Maybe she’ll even get a chance to meet the Weird Ladies! They sometimes go to festival- I’ve seen them there before, Dahlia thinks. She does not notice the dirt on her hands or the leaves that have fallen in her long tangled hair. She chuckles to herself as she leads her faithful beast of burden along. Whoever is there this time, she thinks, I’m sure there will be good fun to be had! There are always strangers, and it seems like there’s always some kind of excitement! She smiles as she remembers the year that a couple of the town boys tried to steal some honey from a beehive. Ooh, there was a lesson there, yes there was!

Humming and singing to herself in the tongue of the vanished elves, Dahlia heads to the town. When she arrives, most of the merchants are set up and a few early risers are already there, staring at the displays set up. Bryan, the town boatwright, aided by his son Bryan, has a display of miniature and toy boats (prices range from 5 sp to 3 gp each). Amanda Garden has a brilliant display of flowers and herbs. She is selling bundles of either for 4 cp, and sprigs of wolfsbane for 1 sp each. She has one of the Garden servants with her, doubtless in case there is any trouble with the Cookers. The owner of the general store, Mingus Menhure, has a booth set up with a sampling of various goods, hoping to sell stuff. “If I don’t have it here, ask me!” he booms. “I’ve hired one of the Miller daughters to run back to my shop as required over the festival!” Brackburn Smith has horseshoes, a breastplate, plows, shovels, picks, hammers and other tools, a longsword, nails, a pair of shields, a pair of metal gauntlets, spoons and knives* and other, similar items. He has two of his sons with him in case he needs to run off or send an errand boy somewhere. Bevin Tanner has a number of furs, hides and skins on display, including a wolf fur cloak (with the head over the wearer’s head) (1 gp), a fabulous, thick rug of winter wolf fur (20 gp), several suits of leather armor, one suit of studded leather armor and a variety of other, similar things. Ovina, the local priestess of Belthizar, is ready to talk to or counsel anyone. Lane and Johnson Cooker are there selling food- roasted goat, goat sandwich, stewed goat, goat on a stick, goat cheese, etc. Several of the bully-boys the Cookers tend to hire when they need a little muscle are standing around unobtrusively as well. Both Brandon Mallard and Jimmy Goodman, the proprietors of the town’s two competing taverns, have come to sell food, beer and wine.

There are two more areas of great interest. One is a medium-sized tent set up with a barrel out front. The barrel has a fire crackling within it- but a green fire! Dahlia gapes. She has never seen the likes of this before, that’s for sure!

On the other end is a large, roped off area with a sign. Several young red-haired halfling women are working on constructing some sort of large frame, shaped something like a triangular wedge. Dahlia scratches her head. She has no idea what that thing is for.

***

“Halflings!” Jorgen swears aloud to himself. “Thieves! I must keep a careful eye on them!” Already the festival has thrown him a challenge- if he’s not careful, the halflings are likely to take anything that isn’t nailed down!

It’s hard to watch the whole festival by himself, but by the gods, he’s going to do his best!

Next Time: The first day of the festival! Let’s talk to the halflings a little! Cedric needs a drink!


*The Year 271 Campaign does not use forks. Knives skewer food, spoons work for soups or liquids. Forks are broken.

 

[the Jester]

We have just met two more pcs:

Dahlia, elfblooded druid 1
*You know the crazy hermit in Keep on the Borderlands? Apply image to Dahlia. Elfblooded pcs are basically half-elves, but they are very rarely the result of the union of elf and human (since the elves are gone).

Cara Reed, bard 1

 

[the Jester]

The Harvest Festival of 271 AF- Day One

The sun climbs to the top of the sky. The summer heat increases. Sweat pours from the brows of simple farmers as they mill about through the various merchant stalls. Smoke rises from the green fire barrel in front of the large tent that the alchemist has set up. People gawk at the Cookers’ goat show. A beautiful girl named Cara Reed plays and sings, gathering a crowd of onlookers and admirers. Even the apprentices of Xastys the Sorceress, whose tower rises just outside of the town proper, have come out. As the first day of the festival moves on, the fun and celebration are just beginning. Drinks flow freely; at one point one of the Garden family’s servants passes out free bouquets to several of the townsfolk.

Dahlia wanders over to the alchemist’s tent, peering within. A pair of individuals are already in there, speaking to the merchant.

“Tho what do you have, fine thir?” the first- who we have already met as Cedric- asks.

“Why, many things, my lord,” the alchemist replies. He introduces himself as Braze, a merchant from Kamenda-

“Hey, we’re in Kamenda,” Cedric’s squire, Goer, interrupts.

“Kamenda City,” the alchemist explains. Smoothly, he resumes his sales pitch. From sleeping powder to stimulant root to impotence cures, he’s got it all.

“Well, thir,” Cedric says, “I am the thon of the local lord, and it ith cuthtomary in our landth for traveling merchantth to offer thome refrethment to the ruling family when they come to vithit, perhapth a thimple drink.”

“Ah, certainly, my lord, certainly,” Braze replies, and soon Cedric has a drink in his hands. He sighs in contentment. Braze also gives him a little something for his father- some of his impotence cure. Not that Cedric’s father is impotent, of course, but with all the stresses of the duties of lordship, and fatigue and such... well. One never knows.

Dahlia, having nowhere near the necessary amount of money to buy any of Braze’s wares, wanders back out into the crowd. The halfling girls are still setting up their large... whatever it is... at one end of the field. Dahlia stares intently at it for some time, but then shrugs, unable to quite fathom it.

Near the halflings, Jorgen, self-appointed watchman of Whitewater, nervously calls out to one of them, “Hi! What are you building?”

“You’ll see,” one of the lasses replies. “We should be ready to perform tomorrow night.”

“What kind of performance?” Jorgen asks.

“You’ll see,” the halfling replies.

Cedric, too, stops by the halfling area. He stares at their bizarre construction, then cries out, “Hello, thtrange halflingth! I am Thedic, thon of the lord of thith area! I thee that you have come to our fethtival- what ith it you are doing?”

“Greetings, my lord!” One of the three halflings walks over to him. “We are halfling entertainers, the Amazing Longleap Sisters. We are setting up a performance area so that we may provide sport and spectacle for your folk- and yourself, of course.”

“Hmph!” Cedric glares at her suspiciously. “You aren’t from around here, I take it?”

“No, my lord, we travel far and wide.”

“And where are you from originally? Tydon, perhapth?” Cedric leans in accusingly.

“No, my lord, we come originally from further to the northeast, in the plains.”

“Hmph!” Cedric harrumphs again.

”Ah, perhaps you could appease my lord’s suspicion with a drink,” suggests Goer. Soon, Cedric has another beverage in hand, and all’s well again.

Early in the afternoon, as the structure starts to become more complete, the halflings stop working on it long enough to erect a high curtain around it, obfuscating the rest of their construction. At one point Cara wanders by and looks it over, on one level admiring the halflings’ showmanship but on another level rather pissed off about the competition.

At noon, there is a little excitement as a brief scuffle breaks out between one of the Cooker bully-boys, Tom Breaker, and Drew Garden. It is over in a moment, though, with no lasting harm done. Jorgen scolds them both, but nothing further is necessary. Interestingly, Drew Garden is one of the Gardens who want nothing to do with the feud between them and the Cookers. Tom certainly must have done something to provoke him.

As evening rolls in, there are a number of folk from out of town present. Most of them are from another community, but a few either live alone (Dahlia) or are more migratory. A group of outcast mixed-blood individuals lives like this, traveling the general region of Whitewater, Cotton Hill and the foothills leading into the mountains that rise to the west. One of these, the product of rape and abandonment, is a half-orc named Cur Sed Seed. He is inspecting Bevin Tanner’s wares thoroughly- the man has a few nice pieces of work, especially that wolf fur cloak!- when he catches a glimpse of another half-orc walking through the crowd, this one armed and armored. Really, nobody here is armed and armored. Nobody.

Cur turns to pay a little more attention to this new fellow, and realizes that he recognizes him.

“Tumenore,” Cur whispers to himself.

Tumenore the Bandit-Hunter, and he isn’t alone: he has a bunch of armed men with him. The crowd is clearing space around them; men with swords are not anything to be trifled with. Yet at the same time, his name is going around the crowd like a whisper on the waves: Tumenore... Tumenore... Tumenore. It’s the sound of excitement, adoration mixed with fear. Quite a few of these folks have heard of Tumenore and his band before. They are known for bringing rough justice to bandits. The common folk like them; Cur Sed Seed does not. Not one bit. Tumenore and his folk are sometimes a little too resolute in their pursuit of outlaws. There have been times when they have raided the outcasts’ camps and taken members of the band away, claiming they were bandits or brigands. Was it true? Cur isn’t totally certain that it wasn’t, but... he is also very far from sure that it was. He frowns. Half-orc or not, he doesn’t like having that fellow here. It bodes ill.

Jorgen, Cedric and Goer approach the leader of the armed band that has just joined the festival. “Thir, I mutht demand that you tell me who you are,” Cedric cries.

“Of course, my lord, we mean no harm,” the half-orc replies. “My name is Tumenore. Perhaps you have heard of me?”

Cedric studies him. “Indeed not. It theemth a common name, with no notable houthe attatthed to it.”

“Notable... ah, I am not high-born, my lord, but your common folk know of me. I hunt bandits. With your permission, of course, we shall simply keep our eyes open for any sign of bandits that might hide here at the festival, concealing themselves among the good folk of your town.”

“Ah, I thee, I thee... Well, we thertainly don’t want and banditth hiding amongtht our populath. By all meanth, keep your eyeth open, and report any funny buthineth to me or my father at onthe!”

“Of course,” Tumenore agrees easily.

“Now, of courthe, it ith cuthtomary for visiting guethtth to buy the local knight and hith family thome refrethments at a time like thith...”

“Of course,” Tumenore repeats, and he presses a few coins into Cedric’s hand. “Here, my lord. I am unfamiliar with the local drinks- this way you can procure what you most desire.”

“With your permission, we shall set up a tent over there.” The half-orc gestures to a clear area near the edge of the festival. At Cedric’s nod, he strides away, calling for his men to begin setting up.

Staring after him, Cedric thinks, I’d best tell father about that one. He closes his hand around his drinking money.

By dark the bandit hunters have set up their area and several of them, having doffed their armor and most of their weapons, begin mingling. Jorgen groans inwardly. Now I’ll have to watch them and the halfings!

Night draws a curtain of stars across the sky, and soon enough the only people still out are the last of the traveling merchants, cooking late meals and sipping off of wineskins or ale tankards. Everyone is tired but happy. The first day of the festival was a smashing success. Most of the merchants did very well; only Bryan Boatwright has had little luck, and that might change if he gets just one good real boat building job out of the festival.

As she washes her face before bed, Cara Reed thinks about the morrow. Tomorrow’s the contest day! She is very excited. There are a number of contests, any number of which will be fun to watch, but only one of which she really cares about. Sure, she’s going to enter the sausage-eating contest too, but the one she really wants to win is the Prettiest Girl contest.

I am the prettiest! she tells herself desperately as she falls into sleep.

Next Time: Festival day two! We meet another pc or two! And the contests- from Prettiest Girl to the Chicken-Plucking Contest!

 

[the Jester]

As you can prolly guess, Cur Sed Seed is another pc:

Cur Sed Seed- half-orc ranger 1.

 

[the Jester]

Kyle Goldenbow spends much of the night preparing. Although he did not set up a booth on the first day of the festival, he now regrets it. He is Whitewater’s lapidary and stone-polisher (for semiprecious stones are washed downstream by the Roaring River), and he has many small stones and such that might fetch a few pennies from festival goers. Thus, Kyle rises early, puts on a cheerful face and heads to his booth. He spreads his wares out before him, careful to leave them all in view of himself when he sits behind them- the last thing he needs is a thief to steal his livelihood!

As the number of people present increases, and the singing of Cara Reed sweetly caresses their ears, the fun begins to flow. Gossip and rumors are exchanged along with coins and goods. “I heard that Tad Ranger has won the archery contest every year for the last four years! He’s sure to do it again!” “Did you hear? There is an alchemist here selling magic potions.” “You know, there used to be elves around here, but they all vanished long ago.” “The feud? Well, the way I hear it, it all started because Latin Garden is having an unnatural relationship with one of the Cooker bully-boys!” “The Weird Ladies are a trio of witches. They cannot be trusted.” “There is a crazy hermit that lives a couple of miles downstream.”

The sun slowly works its way into the top of the sky. Kyle makes a few sales, but nothing spectacular. One of the more interesting characters that he meets is Otis Optimus, one of the apprentices to Xastys the Sorceress, who dwells on the edge of town in a high tower. Otis and Kyle chat for nearly an hour as they barter and trade stones. Otis is polite but distant. Along one long edge of the festival, the sounds of construction still emanate from behind the heavy high curtain that the halflings erected yesterday. Cedric and his father are at the lord’s place of honor (by tradition, the local lord or one of his representatives remains at the festival while it is running to show their approval of it), chatting amiably with those that approach them. Jorgen maintains his vigilant watch over the crowd, keeping an eye open for thieves or halflings, and he also keeps more than half an eye on Tumenore and his men. He recognizes several of them in the crowd; though they are no longer armored, they are still armed. They are acting like everyone else at the festival, but nobody is especially fooled. They are on patrol. They make Cur Sed Seed entirely nervous. What if they accuse me? He can’t help but wondering... he is no bandit, but he is an outcast. Where do Tumenore’s men draw the line?

But nobody is accused, at least not before the contests that begin in the afternoon.

About noon the construction stops behind the curtains. The sign is changed- the performance will begin at the eighth hour. “What performance?” wonders Jorgen aloud. “I’ll have to keep an eye out for anyone working the crowd.” He glances worriedly at the nearest of the bandit-hunters. “And I need to keep an eye on all those guys!” Realizing he’s talking aloud, Jorgen gulps and self-consciously covers his mouth.

The first contest is an archery contest. There are traditionally only a few entrants, as one must provide his own bow (though arrows are provided). Jorgen and Goer both manage, though they both have to borrow bows. Their competition includes Tad Ranger, Greybold and Blake Cooker Junior. A target is set up just outside of the festival grounds, and three shots are allowed per contestant from a line at 50’ distance. There are three rings and a bullseye on the target. Jorgen manages to land one shot in the innermost ring, but his other two both miss completely. Goer has even worse luck- he doesn’t get anything. Greybold, a retired soldier, is clearly a little rusty, and quirks a self-deprecating smile when he completely misses the target once. Although Junior Cooker manages to land two shots in the target, Tad Ranger takes the victory again, for the fifth year running. This year’s prize is a fabulous golden arrow.

The second contest of the afternoon is a riding contest, with what amounts to an agility course for horses set up. The entry fee is 3 cp, a little stiff, but again, the main barrier to most would-be contestants is the need to provide one’s own horse. A few of the townsfolk manage to enter, including a number of the Cookers and one of their bully-boys. So does Drew Garden. Tad Ranger enters this contest as well, and Cedric borrows one of his father’s horses to enter, but unfortunately he is eliminated when his horse strays from the course. Ultimately, the victor is Tad Ranger again! He wins a child’s toy- a wooden horse suspended in a frame, which a young child could ‘ride’.

“Next year, my lord,” Goer commiserates.

Next comes a traditional favorite- the drinking contest. Cedric and Cur both enter it, along with a large field of other contestants. Two of the Brownstone brothers- the local dwarf population- enter; surely they will not be pushovers. The town drunk, Hadrian Fisher, already looks like he has had a few, but he’s ready for more. Goer’s dad and brother enter; and cajoled by them, he is persuaded to join them. Bangus Redcoat, one of the Cooker bully-boys, joins the fun. So does Antos Mallard, just a lad but willing to try.

Soon their heads are swimming, their mouths are mushy and their minds are dimmed. One after another they drop out of the contest, either passing out, vomiting or failing to set their glass down in front of them. In the end, it comes down to a tense battle of wills between Hadrian Fisher and Zandos Brownstone- and the famous dwarven tolerance prevails! Zandos wins. Drunk as a skunk, he receives his prize- a straw hat.

As the contestants stagger away, one of the bandit-hunters follows Bangus Redcoat with his eyes.

Cara Reed’s heart starts to pound as she enters the next contest: the sausage-eating contest. It’s a warm up for the really important one, which is coming soon. She’s getting more and more nervous; she spent a long time getting prettied up for today! Hopefully her hair looks okay- it’s been hot and dusty... Well, there is no time to worry about it now, the contests are under way.

“I could use a sausage after all that beer!” roars Zandos Brownstone. “Come, brother!” Showing an unusual level of jocularity, the two dwarves pay their entry fee and pull up stools to the table erected for this one. Little Cathy Cooker, the town’s milk maid (and a sultry, if aging, figure) sits opposite Cara. Several other townsfolk enter, as well as the retired soldier, Greybold. But when the long, thick sausages are brought out, Cathy demonstrates her legendary ability to shove things down her throat and stuffs the entire sausage down in seconds.

In awe, the others can only watch as she collects the prize- an entire goat, dressed and slaughtered. “Well, since I’m one of the Cookers, I don’t really need this,” she says magnanimously, “so I’ll pass it along to the second place winner.” She smiles at Cara.

There are two contests left: the chicken-plucking contest and the prettiest girl contest. People are laughing and joking as the pen that will hold the chickens is set up.

Across the festival, one of the bandit-hunters reaches Tumenore, at his tent. With a grim smile, the man- whose name is Narmox- tells his leader, “I think I spotted one.”

Next Time: The rest of the contests! The Amazing Longleap Sisters perform! And Tumenore’s men make their move!

 

[the Jester]

I almost forgot! Here are two more pcs:

Kyle Goldenbow (elfblooded rogue 1)
Otis Optimus (wizard 1)

 

[the Jester]

Afternoon is turning towards evening. The final posts are hammered into the ground, and the wire is strung from post to post, until finally the enclosure is finished. Then, one chicken per contestant is released into the enclosure, and the contestants are allowed to enter.

And the chicken-plucking contest is on.

Dahlia and Goer, among other folk, scramble after the chickens, struggling to be the first to catch, slaughter and pluck. Cheers, laughter and general jocularity ensue. The crowd shouts its enjoyment as the folk in the pen leap, run and scramble after the panicky fowl. Old Blake Cooker himself, head of the Cooker clan, and his wife Cathy (not the same Cathy that ate the sausage) are both formidable foes. Dirkyl Fisher, old weird Drendlin, Ulga Boatwright (Jorgen’s little sister), 11-year-old Terri Goodsoil, Dahlia, Jorgen and Goer all take part, chortling with glee as they catch their targets. Soon all of them have captured a bird, and the slaughter and plucking commences. Though it is a tight race, Drendlin, one of the so-called “weird ladies” in town wins. Dancing and cackling once she’s done, she holds the de-feathered, headless chicken aloft, dancing and crowing her victory. When she stops, face flushed, she receives a truly fantastic prize: the right to hunt pheasants on the Whitewater lands, so long as she sends half of each bird to the knight. Sure, there might have been more applause and acclamation if it were someone with a better reputation around town, but at festival time, even the Weird Ladies are cheered.

The shadows are growing long, but there is still enough golden autumn light for the final contest: the prettiest girl contest.

Cara Reed takes a deep breath as the contestants step up. I’m going to win this one, I know it! she thinks to herself. During the chicken-plucking contest she took a few minutes to clean up, check her hair and makeup, and compose herself. This is going to be her moment, after all- at least, as long as she doesn’t mess it all up somehow! She joins the other contestants, Fiona (one of the Garden maids), Prenda Miller (the younger), Tara (one of the Whitewater servants) and Lanie Cooker. And none of them have ‘the strut’ like Cara does. They are all dressed a little provocatively, but not to the point of looking unseemly. Just enough to look... enticing.

The young ladies line up, turn around, parade about; the five judges rate them by putting chits in a bowl for each. In the end, Cara has the most chits. Beaming, she is awarded her prize- a fancy ribbon leafed with real gold! She almost cries in happiness. That’ll show all the other girls! she thinks with a short burst of irrational jealousy.

The crowd disperses back into the entire area set up for festival. Kyle Goldenbow looks happily at the depleted supply of stones in his booth. Brandon Mallard and Jimmy Goodman are selling the folk ale and wine to clear the dust of a hot day off their tongues. The sun is near to going down, but large fires are being lit in several areas to provide lighting.

I think it’s near the eighth hour, Kyle thinks to himself. That’s when the halflings are going to hold their performance, whatever it is. With a slight smile, the elfblood begins putting his things away. As he does so, he glances up and sees an unkempt woman with more than a few splatters of chicken blood on her clothes (from the contest) and a few feathers in her hair. His eyes widen slightly as he realizes that she, too, has the blood of elves in her veins. And she is staring at him fixedly.

For her part, Dahlia is fascinated by things elven. She truly wishes to re-connect with her elven heritage, and when she sees the elfblood man, she exclaims to herself softly in elven and can only stare. He catches her looking at him, so she hurries off to the halfling performance.

And what a performance it is! The curtain rises to the amazing spectacle of the halflings hanging from platforms attached to ropes, and swinging from one end of their high-peaked frame-like structure to another, jumping off and catching themselves on another moving platform on ropes (or even on each other!)- it is amazing. None of the townsfolk have ever seen anything like it before. Gasps, oohs and ahhs, and finally, at the end, roaring applause are the halflings’ answer. It is an amazing spectacle.

“My lord, that was amazing!” exclaims Goer. “Perhaps we could invite them back to the castle.”

“Goer, I thall have to thpeak to my father about that,” Cedric replies. “But thertainly, they detherve thome recognithon for their amathing talentth!”

By the end of the halfling performance, everyone is tired and worn out from the day’s events. It has been a fun day, an exciting day full of contests. Jorgen congratulates himself for having successfully prevented any trouble so far. He watches as the townsfolk go home and the strangers retreat to wherever it is they are staying, be it in their wagons or in the common room at the Fat Mallard.

Cedric and Goer return to the Whitewater estate, just about a mile outside of town. The estate consists of a small fortress with a connected tower and a large outbuilding that is a combination servants’ home and stables (split half and half). They enter the fortress and Cedric soon approaches his father. He regales him with tales of the halfling entertainment and finishes by saying, “Father, you thould thee them! I thought perhapth we could bring them back to the ethtate for dinner or thomething tomorrow...”

But Cedric’s father, Sir Martin, frowns. “Son, I understand that these entertainers amused you, but that would not be... proper.”

“Oh. Of courthe, father.” Cedric is somewhat crestfallen, but he nods.

Sir Martin studies his son. “Perhaps, instead, you could take them out to breakfast in the morning,” he allows. “Here, I’ll give you a purse for them as well.” The old knight favors his son with a fond smile.

***

“I know I saw him,” Narmox insists. “He’ll be out here again tomorrow, I’m sure of it.”

“Unless we scared him off,” Tumenore replies. “But even then, the townsfolk will notice that he’s missing.”

Narmox rubs his hands together. “I can’t wait! We’re gonna hang us some bandits!”

Next Time: The bandit-hunters make their move!