With the approach of low summer, the
Alkonosts, great long-winged seabirds with the torsos of
beautiful maids, complete their great annual migration from their
austral homes in the Weird to lay eggs on the beaches and roll them
into the sea. It is said by men of science and learning that that
when the eggs sprout open that great wracking thunderstorms are
unleashed on the sea. Blagoy, the Lord-Accipitrary of Lower Kezmarok,
is offering 2000 gold suns for each egg brought to him unbroken.
Boumila the Bountiless has
returned from a far voyage on the stout if strangely-named caravel,
the Flux of Doom. The crusty sea-lass spins wild tales of the land of
Cockaigne where the plum brandy runs in streams, halushky
grows on trees and where no dice are rolled for saves. She is hiring
for her next voyage.
A pitiless and odd gendarme named
Sir Eld has been harrying the villages south of Marlankh. Vile
cruelties and humiliations have been heaped on the local peasants by
this pitch-skulled menace. He has seemed to focus his depredations on
the backhills hamlets swept up by the Manzabarge schismatic cult last
month.
The Patriarch of Kezmarok is
offering 60 suns a head for border ruffians, reclamation experts,
hedge wizards, and other “adventuring types” to be part of his
entourage for the Night of Kostej the Deathless, a local
festival and night-time soiree. Costumes will be allotted. Tiger
wrestling and other feats will be greatly rewarded.
(Those of you visiting from the real
world should see the early post about the South Texas Minicon.)
Oh no! Not the notorious Sir Eld, humiliator of the young and sniffily Sir Calvin!
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