Tents, booths, and wagons.
The residents of Drachenberg were all to familiar with the recent influx of traffic to the small Dragenthal barony. It was that time of the year again. A time when the elders recalled tales of their own youth, and of much merriment. Yes, the barony was filled with anticipation for what was to come. And today was the day everyone had been waiting for.
The small square in the village was packed with vendors and merchants, but at this hour, nobody was selling there wares. Rather, a flock of the masses had gathered around a wooden platform in the middle of town. Everyone was waiting for this to occur, and were conversing with themselves.
Finally, a young boy noticed the small gate near the edge of the town open, and as the entourage departed, he cheered with glee in his native Alt-Regalian, "They're coming, their coming, look look!" And sure enough, shouts could be heard coming down to the city square. "All make way. Quickly now, the moment is upon us. Make way for the family." And before long, an open wagon, flanked on each side by two retainers in silver and green, would come to the square. After stopping, what appeared to be the captain of the guard dismounted and made his way to the carriage with a wooden platform. The coachman would leave his seat, and came to the side of the carriage, where he helped one of the seated figures to the step.
A wrinkled hand would grasp the side of the carriage, and it's partner would follow next, grasping a magnificent oaken cane. After some struggle, the figure would finally regain his balance as he stepped onto the ground. Despite his weathered looks and his seemingly frail movement, the gentleman conveyed an aura of revere among those nearby. He strode over to the next steps, where he would hobble up to the center of the platform, eyeing the crowd.
Finally, Erlabald Drache began his speech in the same Alt-Regalian tongue of old:
"Kinsman, citizens, and visitors from afar. Today, we stand here in this square as we do every year, to celebrate the one thing that unties our village as one. For it was 2 centuries and a decade ago, that our ancestral leader Edmund von Drachenberg created this festival. Not to gloat or to demonstrate his influence, but to bring all of us together, from the lowliest peasant to our gracious duke. For without planters, we cannot plant. Without farmers, we cannot farm. Without harvesters, we cannot harvest. Without brewers, we cannot brew. And without drinkers. Well, Aloria sure would be a heck of a lot more boring than it is already."
The 80 year old had to laugh at his own joke, but then resumed his speech:
"Anyways, my sailor's humor aside, today, we share in a tradition that our grandfathers' grandfathers participated in, to celebrate our Alt-Regalian heritage, by one of the few luxuries we hold dear to us here.
And now, without further droning on from myself, by the will of his Grace, the Duke of Hurst, I, Erlabald Bismark Drache, Baron-Regent of Drachenberg, hereby announce the official start of the Two Hundred and Tenth Drachenberg Beer Festival!"
And upon conclusion, two men brought forth a barrel onto the stage, and after tapping off a pint would hand the aged nobleman the first drink of the festival. Raising the mug ever so militantly in the air, he would shout the all too familiar phrase to his kinsman:
"Drink to the Glory of the Empire!"
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