Green gulls, they fly with the weight of tradition. Fleeting, their appearance tells a story. It starts beneath the watchful ward of the Starburst Chamber, itself atop a grand black tower rising from the Court of the Dawn-Spring. In an underground eyrie, it is rumored they hatch after a year long cycle. So it has been for hundreds of years, perhaps thousands. Watchers care for them until they grow strong enough to fly or, perhaps, craft them using arts ancient and arcane, then turn the great underground wheel, open the grates of the plaza floor, and let the birds fly — to where is unknown. Most meet their doom. Yet their image can be seen in the sky all across Island, telling the tale that the Festival of the Breaking fast approaches. Faster, word of their appearance throughout the land on the tongues of troubadours and skalds.
Fyrkat ܟ Skolt & Pite
A ray of light vanquishes a clot of fog, exposing fresh blue sky to the two young kroca perched in their stick-stack abode. Lit therein is a sign. It sits atop the tallest structure in the village, a wooden clock tower in the menroh. A courthouse. At the summit, a weathercock. On the weathercock, a massive green bird. Wings flash like underwater emeralds, and it flings itself off and vanishes into the fog. They follow the ray down to the river, and there see a familiar dragonically-inspired craft near.
“Mother!” celebrate the twins.
Stakris ܟ Nadira & Ykka
In the foothills of the mountains north of Stavkat, a dream ends with a vision. High above, a shadow, unique in its dashing of the heavenly rays. No harpy eagle full on its snare of an ill-alarmed vole. Too fleet for most prey, but provacative enough to catch the keen-sighted birds attention and beg forth its scream. Then, all too suddenly, absent. A cry above, one of battle, a dash of wings, a clash of talons, and then a shout of shock. Around Nadira, a shower of emerald flakes.
Nadira is long-lived, and has seen the green crystal rain before.
It bodes the death of a gull and, if one so wishes, a bid to travel.
Porjkat ܟ Kerbera
Landbridge turned port, Porjkat is abuzz with news of the sighting of green gulls. Of course, it is an annual — expected. In this ostensibly modern era, timekeepers and skywatchers track with precision the passage of time. So, even before the sighting, the small town’s hostels, alehouses, and whoredens burst with boisterous foreigners from the southlands. A brief influx of wealth and violence, bawdiness and brawls. Then an overland voyage to Lundros — for most, heavy-laden with exotic wares, a crossing of a fortnight.
For some, who merely wish to attend, to be there when the Starburst Chamber’s crystal roof gleams in the light of a weird new star, it will be far briefer.
Arrowfalls ܟ Roan
Sleep descends on the Arrowfalls long after night reduces vision to the bronze flicker of flame and ember. Almost too soon it burns out, the long shadows of purple morning splay out in their stead. For those light and brief to slumber, the urge for relief strikes in that predawn. A quiet place, a strand of dry stones bordering the small rivulets running near camp, born of the mountains. Some feed into the west branch of the Yanvin while others fill the handful of large lakes separating Arrowfalls from Mirynkat. This morning, they shimmer a vibrant emerald green.
If that urge strikes Roan, he is likely to notice; else, another, less familiar with the strange dust glittering in the flow might request a breakfast song explaining the unfamiliar sight.
Lundros ܟ Cerwin & Phaedra
“There you are, just the volunteers I am looking for!” declares a young man.
Board hanging around his neck and a bag pregnant with pamphlets, he knows words aren’t enough these days to catch an eye, so he grabs by the hand Cerwin and Phaedra as they, by pure coincidence, cross paths on a busy Lundros street, perhaps out for a morning stroll or departing café-style breakfast.
“A dashing gentleman such as yourself and a lovely scholar are perfect pair of volunteers, nay, organizers! to make this the most fabulous annual festival in a thousand years!” he proclaims, relinquishing his grip, but leaving in their palms a strip of paper embossed with a salutation and address that they might recognize as that of the Iron Word’s guildhouse.
The Pale ܟ Vildrel
Fog dense and light thick, scintillating, and light gray — almost white — floods the gulf and adjacent fjords taken together as a region of Islund dubbed The Pale. Therein, it is impossible to see the green gulls. Impossible, except atop Mount Leirstyg. Thereup and year-round, a wind-watcher and weather-scryer can easily see the passing of these majestic creatures. On that annual, she blows into her alphorn, and roll a long undulating drone into the gulf. That tradition echoes from ship to ship, filling The Pale with the vibration of expectation for those who wish to make the trek to Lundros and partake in the celebration.
It rolls over Vildrel Könire, Iskra, and others along the rocky hillock.
Yanvin Valley, near Ghilros ܟ Willis & Vodilic
Thump-thrump, thump-thrump, a wagon loudly makes its way along the riverside road that weaves through the forest of the Yanvin Valley, heading first to Ghilros and then to Lundros. It is the lead in a procession long enough to deepen ruts that already cut down to bedrock. Cheerful chatter boasts of profit to be made at the festival, of how this annual is special, of how this man or that woman personally saw a green gull and spread the word throughout their village.
Of course, the noise carries through tree and branch to Willis.
So too does it drift up the hillside and touch the ears of Vodilic, bidding him depart from his shortcut turned sojourn.
If they desire to attend, perhaps they will march alongside the line of merchants, sightseers, and celebrants.
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