Today dawned cool and fresh, a perfect, early-spring day. A perfect Fool's Day, with the wind off the Smoking Bay carrying the promise of good fortune. This year's Fool's Day Feast has proven more spectacular than the last, perhaps in an attempt to help people forget their troubles. Not all is well in the Margravate of Blackmarsh...
The Margravate, while nominally autonomous, has sat under the stewardship of the elves of the Greywood for nearly a hundred years. What might seem brief to an elf seems an eternity to men, with four generations passing under elven guardianship. But things have changed. While the elves once had the strength to keep the peace in much of the region, such strength is no longer theirs to command. Rumours of wild things beyond the settled lands can no longer be ignored, and even the Margravate itself has seemed to suffer, with stories filtering in to Castle Blackmarsh of trouble in the borderlands. Still, it's easier to forget one's troubles with a mugful of ale and a raucous festival.
The annual Fool's Day Feast, thrown by the Margrave of Blackmarsh (puppet though he may be), brings folk from far beyond the city's walls for the festivities. As the afternoon wears on, the air is filled with the smell of roasting boar and stewed apples, while the skirl of bladder-pipes and drone of the symphonie accompany a growing crowd of revellers. Most wait for the crowning of the King and Queen of the Fools, but for all of you the Send-off looms far larger.
Some call it Farewell to Fools, but most show more respect to the young, itinerant adventurers who set out to find their fortunes on this day. After all, isn't that how the Margrave himself came to his position (even if he has gone to fat since being appointed by the elves)? Choosing this particular day also has the advantage of being fed and kept for free, no small benefit when the last of one's gold has been spent on adventuring gear. The lot of you sit and enjoy food and drink provided by Harlan Thanes, a caravaneer and merchant of some success in the region, who clearly looks favourably on up-and-coming adventurers such as yourselves. Harlan approaches, both hands occupied by holding wooden mugs brimming with the head of freshly poured ale. "Ho, then, my young wanderers! Now that I've given you time to think on it, have you decided where you'll head to find your fortune?" he smiles at the group, radiating a genuine warmth that's been lacking in the polite smiles of most of the common folk. Perhaps he doesn't think you quite as mad as most do...
"If you'll let me, I'll tell you some of what I've heard, as of late. Not local gossip, mind, but rumours of trouble afoot. Because, let us face the facts," his smile broadens, "where there's trouble, there's often treasure!" he follows this last remark with a wink.
"Now, let me see..." he says, closing an eye and placing a finger to the side of his nose, apparently concentrating on recalling obscure details, "Word from the east is that there've been goblin troubles on the border near the Bleak Tower, along the road to Jorvik..." at the mention of Blackmarsh's rival, Harlan turns and spits into the dirt, then carries on without missing a beat, "...and the Seneschal there has been offering a reward for goblin-scalps, even more if the dirty buggers can be rooted out from whatever hole they've infested."
Harlan drops his hands and hooks his thumbs into his belt before continuing, "To the west, the town of Saltmarsh sits on the Lanis River at the northern edge of the Black Marshes, and the last shipment I sent there returned with worries of Vasan raiders being spotted moving up the Lanis. None have made landfall, mind you, but a barque full of booty would be worth the effort... there's also some talk of strange goings on outside of town."
He pauses long enough to take a swig from his cup that sat upon a nearby bench, wiping foam from his lips with the back of his hand, "You know, the funny thing about that is that I've heard nothing from Orlean, and there've been no watch-fires..." Harlan stops, seeing the blank looks on you faces, "Orlean is just off the coast to the north, on Fire Pot lsle. It's an old place, settled back during the days of the Bright Empire, but it's little more than a fishing village now. It watches the approach to the mouth of the Lanis, and my ships sometimes stop there for supplies, but the last captain to do so complained that things felt.... off."
"Your pardon!" he says, stifling a belch, "Of course, there's always caravan work. And no, I don't only mean mine. You can ask around in the market and see what turns up..." he glances off towards the merry-making, "But perhaps it's best I leave you to your deliberations. You needn't decide until morning, anyway." With that, Harlan strides away towards the music, and you are left feeling that you can see the road branching ahead of you...