The first yellow rays of the sun cast across the orange sky over a small hamlet. It's natives stirring to start their day, it's early birds already hard at work preparing nets for the morning catch.
The people of Owlit, the sole fishing community off the great turtle lake, enjoy their simple life. They as the officially recognized guild of fishermen dubbed the Swift Bears, a name in method comes from it's allies, maintain exclusive rights to the vast lake which in turn make them one of the greatest suppliers of fresh water fish in the Kingdom of Britannia. The town was established since time memorial but elevated several years ago during the last war as a sort of diplomatic effort between the the northern tribes and the woodspeakers.
Some of the locals are a little unhappy with the recent occupation, if not for the men-in-arms then certainly for the sudden population growth. Others, certainly merchants with wares to sell, can find no end to their delights. Still, it is a long trek and many that come this way are simply using it as a way station to cross borders into new territories.
The old man on the docks fishing with his simple line cleared those pesky thoughts from his mind. The lower end of his left leg had an ache that wouldn't go away. The first major storm of spring was coming, tonight, there would be feasts and celebrations after the catch tomorrow. Men younger than him were scurrying about preparing, undoubtedly told what was forth coming by an older more experienced man. Rolling up the string attached to his walking stick he put away his makeshift pole. Perhaps if he could see he would have realized the futility of trying to catch fish out of the flooded boat next to the dock.
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