The Road to the Faire: Year of the Firefly

I ride, son, folks, a prairie, whether you're sitting with your cup of coffee, or you're in your wagon. Well, you're now accompanied by my voice. Let's talk about the second grandfair. A full year has passed since the nation's first gathered within the hidden city of Asheville and placed their names upon the alliance. Now, in the year of the Firefly, the road's Asheville opened again, across plains, tundras, forests, swamps, invitations shielding their blue wax, have arrived in the hands of old friends and new friends alike. Wagons have been loaded, banners unfurled, instruments tuned, and the firey brought out. Every road seems live, a traveler is making a way towards the hidden city. A magnate is promised that the second grandfair shall be great in the first. That's a mighty big promise, but if anybody is going to be able to live up to it, it'll be the magnate. It's got to be contests, feast performances, markets, games, champions, what once again, meet upon the field, craft folks are going to display their finest works, and the cultures will be given the opportunity to show the world what makes its people unique. Streets of Asheville are already being decorated, and not a day passes without some new pavilion or festival structure appearing up on the grounds. Most importantly, the grandfair offers something increasingly rare upon the prairie. The chance to gather without fear. For a few precious days, old companions will be reunited, new friendships will be made, stories will be exchanged beneath lantern lights, the people of the alliance will celebrate not really the sign of a treaty, but the fact that that treaty has survived its first year. Bells will soon tell, Asheville will awaken, and the second grandfair, well, it's about to begin. Now, the alliance hasn't transformed prairie overnight. Old rivalries still have not disappeared. Borders have not become meaningless, and folk have not suddenly ceased arguing. Overmatters are trade, a lot of politics, or precisely whose grandmother prepares the best version of a particular dish, and let you in on the secret to my mima, she makes the best corn be of hash, and don't let Ashecan tell you any other it was. But there is a big difference between the year of the Armadilla and the year of the Firefly, and that's that the nations no longer seem as distance from one another. Merchants now travel roads it rarely used before. Letters cross borders of frequency, travelers carry unfamiliar songs home with them, while crafts, fashion, recipes, and stories pass from one culture to another. The alliance has begun to take root and begin to flourish, whether those roots are deep enough to withstand what approach remains to be unseen, but I'm ever hopeful. Now on to the matters of Asheville itself. From the last Grand Fair ended, Asheville hid itself from the prairie once more, promising to reveal its location again, when the time came for the alliance to gather. The roads that had led travelers to the hidden city during the year of the Armadilla suddenly seemed to have no end. That twisted through the wilderness for hours, only to eventually return travelers to the very place where they began their journey, where it occasionally reached the alliance from within the hidden city, carried by members of the foxes then or by the trailblazers, who knew the secret roots leading through Asheville's protection. Now with the Grand Fair approaching, roads have begun to lead in Asheville once more. Now let's talk about our friends to the west, on the matters of the orders of winter. This year has tested the people of Vinland, though the orders continue to meet each hardship as they always do, head on like a ram. A succession of extreme winter storms damage much of the year's harvest, barri and farmland beneath deep snow and destroying crops before they could be gathered. Food stores remain, but the avid stretch then, and shortages are becoming increasingly common in the most isolated settlements. These difficulties have been compounded by a rise in the raids from the orders of spring, those acidly varmids. Farms, storehouses and lightly defended communities have been targeted. This is forced in the orders to devour their attention between protecting their borders and supporting those affected by the failed harvest. The threat of famine now hangs over parts of Vinland, though rationing, shared provisions, and aid moving between communities have prevented the worst of it from taking hold. The orders have endured harsh winters before, and fued out their willingness to do so again. The northern borders remain increasingly dangerous. Withered hand, feral dead, have harried settlements and patrols. Particularly along the shorelines, where attacks have been growing more frequent. Despite these hardships, though, the order of winter remains unbroken. Their granaries may be diminished. Their warriors may be hard-pressed, but their roads are still guarded. Their communities remain united. The people of Vinland continue to prepare for their year ahead. On to the matters of the Woodland Republic. The Woodland Republic has enjoyed a period of relative peace within its borders. The fragile secession of hostilities between the republic and the oscillationists has held, allowing patrols to withdraw from contested regions, and displaced communities to begin returning home. Though distrust remains on both sides, open violence has become increasingly rare. Trade has resumed along several Woodland routes, and the Canopy Road is safer than a husband and a year's. Now, however, it ain't all been daisies. Trouble reports have begun to emerge from communities along the republic northern borders. The strange, fungal lack infection has begun spreading along those living in those settlements, leaving the afflicted weak, feverish, and increasingly disoriented, as the illness progresses. As of right now, the cause remains unknown. Most recorded cases have been confined to communities on the northern fringes. However, at least one confirmed case has been discovered deep within the forest interior, far from any settlement previously believed to be afflicted. Healers, herbalists, and scholars have all been sent north to investigate. Some believe the illness may be natural, carried by travelers, animals, or contaminants and flies. All their fear may be connected to something spread and unseen throughout the forest. The republic remains washful, aware that even a small sickness can travel quickly along Woodland roads and through tightly connected communities. Now that we spoke about the republic, let's talk about the Woodland Asylationists. The magnate has personally sent invitations to the Woodland Asylationists, asking their leaders to attend the grand fair as honored guests of Asheville. There representatives of both Asylationists and the Woodland Republic have the opportunity to negotiate and sign what could become the first permanent peace accord between these folks. The current ceasefire has held throughout the past year bringing an uneasy comm to Zablethorne after generations of suspicion of bloodshed. Yet mistrust remains deep. There are many on both sides, we have now forgotten all that has happened over the last generations. Sure, the isolationists accept the invitation, the grand fair may witness a moment thought impossible only a year ago. Will the ceasefire finally become peace? And can the peace begin to heal an ancient rift within Zablethorne? Now that we spoke about the forest, let's get damp. On to the dark mile quarters. Life has been good in the dark mile quarters. Music fills the streets of Podlo, Lavny, Burbon, and the heart. Tithers remain crowded late into the night, festivals are held within increasingly regularity, and merchants from across the prairie pass freely through the quarter sports. Traders flourished, bringing wealth, luxury goods and new opportunities throughout the region. The people of the quarter have embraced the past year with characteristic enthusiasm, celebrating their prosperity loud, and celebrating their prosperity often. Yet beneath the music and reverie, unease has begun to spread. The Cypress Company has drastically increased its naval activity around the quarters. Company vessels have been seen patrolling at the outer islands, escorting merchant ships, mapping unfamiliar waterways, and gathering near old cults of strongholds. Thus far, the activity has been non-hostile. Fresh Company ships have made no open attack against the quarters, and their captains insist that they're merely protecting their commercial interests. Few in the quarters believe these explanations though. For now, the music continues to play, and ships continue to trade, but every sailor in the quarter knows that calm waters can conceal a gathering storm. On to the matters of the liberated cities. Liberated cities have enjoyed an extraordinary year of prosperity. Crop yields have been exceptionally high across the territories, filling grainaries, and allowing for merchants to export food all throughout prairie, but weather has remained remarkably temperate, with gentle rains, mild winter, and a long growing season. Markets are thriving, construction has increased, and new businesses have opened all throughout the cities. The success of the harvest has strengthened the faith of the new government, and many who once doubted the revolution now believe that the liberated cities may truly endure. There have been several small skirmishes with the feral dead throughout the year, but these encounters happen. scattered and quickly contained. More notably, there has been no confirmed sign of the wither hand anywhere within the city's territories. Roads once considered dangerous are now traveled freely, settlements that once relied upon our patrols have now begun lowering their defenses, and some communities have gone months without encountering any serious threat. "Now, however, the year has not passed without unrest. The petoring shield has carried out a small number of counter-revolutionary actions all throughout the cities. These incidents have included access to sabotage, intimidation, the distribution of propaganda, and public displays of loyalty to the followed dictatorship. None of these actions have posed a serious threat to the government, and those responsible have largely avoided direct confrontation with the authorities. Even so, their continued activities serve as a reminder that not everyone has accepted the revolution, or a man in hopes of restoring the old order. For the moment, the liberated cities status one of those prosperous nations, all thorough prairie." On the matter of the dwarven delegation, word has reached Asheville, that "a delegation from the northern holds is upon the roads to the grandfather." They come to speak before their lines on the matter of heart metal, and explain why the dwarf kin demanded that all the mine have been east Asheville cities last year. For the past year, the council has honored their warning to spite receiving little explanation. Alliance ambassadors and a company in Dorvkin visited the northern hold and recently returned to Asheville. Details of the exchange are waiting this year's Alliance council, gathering at the requests of the ambassadors in regards to what was discussed in these meetings. So I'm speculate a heart metal is too dangerous to distribute, while others argue that strange properties can prove invaluable against the darkness gathering up on the north. It is hoped that the dwarven delegation will finally bring answers, whether those answers will settle the matter or deep in the conundrum remains to be seen. "Now let's move on to some bulb of darker. It's unfortunate, but we gotta discuss it. Let's talk about the shadows at the edge of the map. From much of southern prairie, laugh continues as it always has. Troj is still playing the streets, neighbors greet one another, talk about the weather, travelers complain about totals, and every other perfectly ordinary hardship that they're gonna find along the road. Yet traveling stories continue to drift down south from far north. Few southerners have ever traveled so far, reaching those distant lands would require planning and resources that most just simply don't have. What news does arrive has already been passed between merchants, messengers, sailors before reaching the nations of the Alliance. Stories speak travelers vanishing along remote roads, and once bustling trade and posts and an empty abandoned. There are tales of smoke rousing beyond the northernmost ridges, and of hunters refusing to enter places that their families have traveled for generations. All the rumours tell of refugees gathering in distant northern settlements. There are said to carry stories of burned farms, armed raiders, wander and dead, and villages disappearing in the night. Some supposedly come from communities so remote that they appear on no map held by the Alliance. The details change with every telling, but the heart of the story remains remarkably consistent. Something is happening in the far north, and it's driving people from their homes. Few believe every tale exactly as it's told. Stories from beyond the edge of the map have always grown stranger as it traveled, and a burned village can all of a sudden become a fallen kingdom by the time it reaches a southern tavern. But still, there are now too many similar accounts to dismiss that as mere fancy. On to the matter of the hollow witness, the hollow witness has not remained idle. Throughout the past year, the weathered hand has spread across the northern frontier with a violence that has certainly not been seen before. Once little more than scattered wrestlers, raiders and zealots, they now move in a disciplined company beneath the authority of the witness. They descend upon isolated border settlements without warning and with a terrible force. Villages are surrounded by dawn, roads are blocked by armed raiders, their houses are emptied, and homes are searched out of roof. Travelers are questioned, maps are seized, and local gods are forced to reveal every forgotten trail, every hidden crossing, and every rumor of a strange road throughout the wilderness. But witness, it appears, is searching for Asheville. The loss of the secret stones has not ended his pursuit. Instead, the weathered hand has widened its search, tearing through frontier communities in the belief that someone, an alliance messenger, a wander merchant, or invited traveler, must know the way to the hidden city. Wherever the hand travels, the hollow witness's new faith travels with it. He preaches that the archive is a false god, and that all who place their trust in it have been deceived. He claims that the age of the archive is anun, and that the one true master has ascended to reclaim the prairie. The name of this master is rarely spoken beyond the hands intercircle. To its followers, the hollow witness is both profit and herald. The one who has seen the truth and prepares the way for what is coming. Some settlements are stripped of food, livestock, weapons, and medicine. Others are commanded to submit to the witness, provide recruits, and accept the hands harsh laws. Those who resist are branded heretics. The weather-hand does not consider these acts to be robbery or of conquest. Its followers speak of correction, purification, and the building of something righteous in the wilderness. They believe suffering proves devotion. Raw resistance confirms the corruption of those they punish. Awful lot. From the hollow witness now to the feral dead. A feral dead have grown bolder. They no longer linger around, forgotten grave yards, ruined battlefields, and ancient burial grounds. Packs of the dead have been sat at wanderer in the open countryside. Fallen roads and trails as though answer in the commands of some distant master. One name now stands at the heart of these reports. Belisarius. During the first grand fair, the Alliance encountered this ancient and evil general at the northern burial barrows. Belisarius was said to be the oldest of the grave called, not a shablin corpse but a calculate and commander who retained the discipline, conund, and cruelty that he possessed in life. Though the Alliance seized the barrows and sealed them up, Belisarius escaped destruction. Now, whoever the feral dead gather, rumours of the ancient general follow. Some of the dead wear the rotten remains of soldiers' uniforms. Other carry rusted weapons were scraps of banners belonging to nations that have vanished centuries ago. They move without food. They move without rest and a slow advance from the north. Grave-colors have been seen among them, directing the dead with wicked spells. Yet travelers have reported far larger gatherings in which no grave-caller could be found. Still, the dead marched. They turn together, halted together, attacked together. Some believe Belisarius has commanded them from afar. Others claim that the grave-caller has now served beneath them. Searching old battlefields and forgotten tombs for warriors to add to his growing host. Rumor speak of a towering figure in black and armor, standing motionless upon the distant hills while the dead got him below. He is said to carry their remains of a weapon forged in an age no historian can name. Wherever he appears, scattered packs of the feral dead fall into ranks. And a mindless horde suddenly becomes a disciplined army. No reliable sightings from Belisarius have been confirmed since his escape from the banners. Perhaps these stories are merely a shape fear has given to an unseen eye in me. Yet the dead are moving with purpose, and their numbers are growling. Well, that's all I got to talk about for now, but I'm sure we'll be planning to discuss during this fair and plan to plan to more after this fair. Look forward to seeing you all there, safe travels to Asheville.