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.)