In the wake of chaos, a hush has fallen over the war-scarred lands of Ariad. The Fae have vanished from its borders, their wrath now redirected toward the Dragon Empire. In Ariad, villages no longer burn. The screaming has stopped. For the first time in many months, silence means peace.
With the skies clearing and the land no longer under siege, families are leaving the crowded safety of Volaire and other strongholds. They return not to homes, but to ruins—to rebuild from ash and memory.
And yet, amid this fragile hope, something vibrant stirs.
A caravan arrives.
It winds its way into Volaire like a song on the wind—wagons adorned with jangling bobbits, sun-painted panels, and the scent of spices and road-dust. The Ramtovi have come.
Nomads, weavers of fate, and caretakers of stories, the Ramtovi waste no time. Fortune-tellers raise their tents, where whispers of destiny curl like incense. Crafters set up stations, offering skilled hands to mend torn cloaks and weary boots. Donation baskets overflow with garments for those left with nothing but soot.
There is laughter. There is color. There is hope.
As the Ramtovi prepare for festival, so too do the people of Volaire. The city begins to shake off its shadow. The festival is not just a celebration—it is a ritual of healing, a defiance of despair.
Festival is here. The Ramtovi are here. Come dance beneath the banners and remember what joy feels like.
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