Friday, 1 February 2013

News from Caewal

Merry greetings to my fair readers from the capital; I hope that life is treating you well and that the snows will not delay this post from reaching you. Winter is such a beautiful time in the Royal City, when all the steep roofs are dusted with powdery snow... not like winter in Caewal, which mainly consists of rain, rain and, oh yes, more rain! So dull.


Well dears, here is the news from your southernmost reporter. A cold front in Cae-on-Wal marks the beginning of the Winterberry Festival in the city. This is when the winter berry-pickings are brought into the city, and various notable men and women vie for the title of Master Jam-Maker. There’s tents and bunting all over the market place, and garlands of winter flowers are strewn over the bridges. The role of judging falls to Lady Rosewater, who has been tasting jams these past thirty-seven years, and to Lord Ficket, a new face this year. What a lark!


A nervous memorial service was held for our dear, late Queen Janna, in the Golden Temple of Light in the Castle District of Cae-on-Wal. Hundreds of people turned up, mostly displaced Abevornians, despite uncertainty over how the Witch-Queens would react to such a display of affection for foreign royalty (no one here is quite sure what the Witch-Queens will take exception to until they have taken exception to it and a Scorprios demon emerges from your chest with your beating heart lanced upon its barbed tail). However, the vigil passed peacefully, with rivers of candlelight seen all the way to the seawall. Popular sentiment in the city is that Belgren is to blame, though a rumour has spread that this is the work of a terrible new sect of necromancers who plan to take over Aebron. Where do the commoners get their ideas?


News from the rest of Caewal, as always, is brief. It appears that those industrious little mages in Tannam have come up with a new method of imprinting spells onto paper, which, they say, will increase effectiveness by up to four percent. The Mayoress of Beckside has married the son of a woodcutter, a rather unsuitable match by all accounts. And traders from the Riverlands report that Farmer Gunthor’s prize-winning fowl was as big as a badgerlizard’s egg. Goodness, what an exciting life these country folk lead. It does make one rather long for the Royal City.


And readers, I know you must be dying to hear what strange new fashions from this eccentric country were seen at society balls this month. Lady Ysobel Withington quite surprised us all in a rather daring headdress made from some kind of woven plant, painted gold and red and styled into a firebird sat atop her bouffant. I asked her about it and she told me that it came from some little village on Arromere. How quaint. Master Frederick ‘Chuckles’ Peterbottom was less fortunate in voluminous breeches with a scalloped trim, which showed off rather too much of his hideous sea-drake leather boots. Turquoise with pink? They wouldn’t make that kind of error in the Royal City, I think!

Until next month, precious readers!

Master Karlton Atherton

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