And so they came
And so we went
On a dull day
I shall never forget
With cracking hulls
And tattered sail
They split the sea
With a demon tail
To the murky isle
Of empty shambles
A Ruin they say
Worth the gamble
At the gates now
Scrawled in ash
A final parting
Gifted at last
“This is not a Place of Honor.”
- - Rhyme of the Merlyn Mariner
A Reed of Metal carved with Runes
A Feast! A Feast for all who await the great alignment! Be it celestial or the threads of fate that flow and bind through all! Your place of honor is reserved in the depths of Caler Myrfddin and a prize to those who succeed in the sport to follow! The Great Merlyn Zan Cuddlu awaits your response.
One face on many heads lurked in the rivers, coasts, bogs, and murky fens of distant Brenn-Tyr. Softly twinkling eyes waiting in the dark for the answer they sought. Some vanished. Others fled. Many sailed from river to sea and rejoined their distant host. Small buoys and dinghies merely scraped together and ferried guests from the heartland to a hulking vessel unlike anything seen in years on Brenn-Tyr. A knorr of veteran spirit, its hull was stitched together with a protective layer of ruined vessels smashed upon its side and fastened aboard. A hull large enough to comfortably fit those gathered together from disparate parts, with lavish treasures on display gathered before and along the way. Where sensible captains balk and turn from high waves, rough weather, and the tempestuous sea the scarred Shipking Merlyn slices through compelled by the force of a rippling sail that doubled as a banner depicting a blood-red skulled horn with swords crossed. The ship emerged from the chilling sea mist, a knife piercing the skin, and basked in the warm glow of red sand at their destination. Ruin. Drifting around to a port, the shadow of Caler Myrfddin is immediately present upon docking, as its dizzying heights seemingly defy gravity and its crumbling rafters taunt the clouds. A small port village lives near this shadow, sparsely populated, and disinterested in the sudden coming and going of distant peoples.
By torch fire, the hooded liaisons guided to the shattered gates of Caler Myrfddin. A yawning portal of strange stillness, the air abuzz with emptiness, and the wind a murmuring memory. Rivulets of fluid and debris seemed to flow into (Or out of?) the fractured structure's surface and the red sand of the disaffected earth. A fractured double staircase leading up to darkness and the faint twinkling of wytchstars encircles a massive chasm that burrows deep at a slope. The guides ignore the stairs and descend the bowels of the ruin, twisting through several branching paths, and stopping upon a rusty door with a strange circular handle. Heaving the door open eradicates the faint light their torches provide as the guests are bathed in the incandescent rays of a raging bonfire in the center of a grand banquet hall. A long table rests at the end of the hall, where a single Merlyn sits. The room is awash with laughter, song, dance, and a kaleidoscope of colors. Banners and flags, totems and statues of a myriad form festoon the walls and ceiling of this warm chamber. Above in the smoke of the flame, a strange hole seems to quell and direct the fumes, and a few armored Merlyn continue to throw fuel in with rapturous laughter.
Food is arrayed on the banquet table of every sumptuous sin and tantalizing taste. The curried meats of unseen beasts, plucked plump fruits, and strange breaded treats lay in an only mildly disarrayed state of sampling as the sole crowned Merlyn takes bites and offers seats.
"Come come! I entreat you, oh distant wonders, to the Feast of Horns!"