Life is simple in Frostspire, a sleepy little village perched by the sea, cradled in the lap of mountains tall and snow-clad. Yet a simple life is not without its problems. Fortunately, the folk of Frostspire have someone to turn to when in need; a...
"It's not meant for such crude tasks," the wizard would say as he gently picked apart each tangle in the brush, and polished the oakwood handle to a shine, while the rest of the house lay hid beneath a carpet of dust that raised clouds when trod upon.
Simply preposterous, thought Alvar, who had no interest in knowing what less crude task was the much prized broom for. He went and fetched his own cheap one, that had no fancy oakwood handle but did its job fairly well. And with that he proceeded to sweep the house clean one sunny morning.
"What's gotten into you?" said Lars, who took refuge at the top of the stairs, his cloak drawn up to his nose to shield himself from the dust storm that rose from all the aggressive sweeping. "I thought you were supposed to be my gardener?"
"I can garden indoors too, seeing how much dirt there is!" he retorted.
Alvar succeeded in cleaning out years worth of dust despite his protests, and seeing him suffer through a sneezing fit as a result, the wizard promised to do his own cleaning from then on. By the time he made a habit of it, spring was around the corner.
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For the folk of Frostspire, this was a time of merriment and laughter and music, to celebrate the passing of winter and the arrival of spring.
It was time for the village fair.
As always, they held it in the meadow by the Northwall Plains, just outside the village.
One misty dawn, Alvar was out, seeing off one of his old customers, a merchant who ran a shop in the flower market of a nearby town named Roselake.
He found there was much hustle and bustle about on the meadows. Traders from nearby villages and towns showed up early with their goods, and were more than welcome to stay at the local inn. The harvest of this year had been plentiful, and the folk of the village were cheery and generous.
Many stalls had been put up, and others stood half-ready, but he could already smell the delicacies that the baker was busy putting on display, huge apple pies, caramel pudding, and of course, his signature pumpkin bread that everyone knew and loved. A fishy stench reached him next. There across the baker's stall, fishermen brought in the day's catch, a great many herrings and mackerels and sardines caught from the sea. But the one that caught everyone's eye was the massive trout Sigrid's father showed up with, caught from the lake where Ilaira lived.
The shrimps were all sold out in no time, to be served at the stalls of food, where bright fires leapt up and oil sizzled in large pots. He couldn't wait to have a taste of them, golden and savoury, and fried to a delicious crisp.
There was a stall dedicated entirely to beers and ale and mead, hosted by the owner of a brewery from Roselake. Right beside that there was Mr. Launceleyn with his famous giant cabbages, though who was going to buy them was anyone's guess, because if they did, they'd also need to hire a carriage to carry it home. Artisans from the neighbouring villages showed up with their wares, figurines of animals carved from wood and stone, painted earthenware depicting warriors and scenes of battle from a time long gone, hanging lanterns that when lit from within, cast patterns of stars all around it. Wind-chimes made from seashells tinkled in the gentle breeze that swept across the meadows.
