Looking out from the ports of Valdalis, the approaching vessels line the horizon like battlements on a castle wall. Coastal lookouts spot the flags through their spyglasses, identifying each ship as belonging to one of two fleets: The Empire of Jade to the east, and the Bedouin Sultanate to the west. Surrounding each ship, a pair of caravels, waving a flag emblazoned with a peacock plume. Only after the boats drop anchor, and the streets flood with gifts and song from distant lands, do the people of Dregamire allay their suspicion.
Meanwhile, heavy boots take their first steps on Travancian soil. Living relics of the ancient north, the Hibernians march under the weight of weapons anointed in the blood of hundreds. Weary from carrying death, they humor the call to celebration, each harboring inside them, quietly, the slow burn of hope.
The emissaries of Quinaria feel no such sentiment. To them it felt barely a minute since the call was answered, the Weave arranged, and their troupe carried across the continent with the effort of a morning stroll. At their masters’ request they come to entertain the Kormyrian and their grand festival, remind them of true culture, and most importantly, under no circumstances appear impressed.
Arawyn has become a stage, and so do the players convene. The promise of games, gifts, and the gossip of royalty call heroes and villains again to Travance proper. The lords and ladies of all the realm will be at their best.
With their festivities come sovereigns and ambassadors, bearing questions and intrigue. Who will you meet? What will you do? Who will you be?
