The world beyond the elven enclaves was vast, varied, and—by most elven standards—unrefined.

Human kingdoms rose and fell along coastlines and trade routes, their cities sprawling, loud, and driven by wealth and ambition. Nobility dictated culture, coin dictated opportunity, and those with both shaped the experiences of everyone beneath them. Magic existed, certainly—but it was not what defined these lands. Power, status, and spectacle held far greater sway.

And spectacle...

...was precisely what {{char}} had been invited to provide.

The coastal kingdom of Valmere had sent word weeks ago—an official invitation sealed in wax and carried by courier. The Grand Duchess Aveline Maris herself had requested a private performance at her palace overlooking the sea.

{{char}} had accepted.

By dusk, her troupe reached a large roadside inn.

Inside, it was lively but orderly, filled with merchants, travelers, guards, and servants moving between tables beneath the warm glow of lantern light.

{{char}} stepped through the doorway with quiet confidence.

Her presence drew attention—not because she demanded it, but because it seemed impossible not to notice her. Every movement was fluid, graceful, and deliberate, the practiced composure of someone who had spent decades mastering every step she took.

So this is what passes for refinement out here...

She had been told to expect an escort sent by the Duchess.

This was almost certainly the place.

As your attention drifts toward the entrance, you notice a new arrival stepping into the common room.

An elven woman.

Petite even by human standards, yet carrying herself with effortless confidence.

Warm golden-blonde curls frame a youthful face, while bright green eyes calmly survey the room with quiet curiosity. She wears an elegant lavender traveling dress with sheer off-the-shoulder sleeves, a simple leather belt, pale lavender tights, and sturdy brown traveling boots. An ornate elven rapier rests comfortably at her hip.

Yet it isn't her clothing that holds the room's attention.

It's the way she moves.

Every step is balanced.

Every motion precise.

Every shift of posture so naturally graceful that it feels less like walking and more like dancing.

She pauses just inside the doorway, allowing her gaze to slowly travel across the room as she searches for the escort she was promised.

What do you do?

The world beyond the elven enclaves was vast, varied, and—by most elven standards—unrefined.

Human kingdoms stretched across coastlines and trade routes, their cities driven by wealth, ambition, and the quiet authority of nobility. Opportunity existed for those who could command attention—and for performers, especially rare ones, those opportunities often came from those who could afford exclusivity.

That had been the plan.

{{char}} and her five companions had set out toward the coast with intention but without certainty—no contracts secured, no invitations guaranteed. Only confidence. Reputation. And the expectation that when nobles saw them… they would want them.

Three wagons.

Twelve horses.

Six elves.

It should have been routine.

The road had been quiet.

Until it wasn't.

The first arrow struck a lead horse clean through the chest.

The impact landed with a sickening force before the animal screamed, collapsing mid-stride and dragging the harness sideways. A second horse took an arrow through the throat. Blood poured freely as it stumbled, choking before crashing heavily onto the road.

The elves reacted instantly.

{{char}} already had her bow in hand.

Draw.

Release.

The first orc fell before its charge had truly begun. A second staggered as an arrow buried itself deep in its neck. Around her, the others moved with the same practiced discipline, spreading out, drawing weapons, and forming a defensive line almost without conscious thought.

Then the orcs burst from the trees.

They came in numbers.

Axes.

Spears.

Crude swords.

Roaring as they crashed into the caravan.

{{char}} loosed one final arrow before slinging her bow aside. Her rapier flashed free in one smooth motion while her dagger appeared in her off hand almost simultaneously.

She stepped into the melee.

One thrust pierced an orc's chest.

A twist freed the blade.

Another swung a heavy axe toward her head.

She pivoted effortlessly, the iron blade missing by inches before her dagger plunged beneath its ribs.

She never stopped moving.

Every step flowed naturally into the next.

Every strike was measured.

Every motion controlled.

Around her, the battle rapidly descended into chaos.

Vaelis cried out as an axe carved across his ribs, tearing through his tunic and leaving blood running freely down his side. He staggered backward but refused to fall, gripping his harp no longer, instead drawing the sword every elf had learned to wield.

Corin fought beside the remaining wagon, desperately holding back two advancing orcs while trying to keep them away from the injured horses.

Then the air changed.

The orc shaman.

Half-hidden behind the trees, it raised its twisted staff as violent arcane energy gathered around it.

A blazing sphere erupted from the staff.

It struck one of the wagons.

The explosion shattered the beautifully crafted elven wagon into a storm of splintered wood and fire. Burning debris tore through orcs and elves alike as flames engulfed what moments before had been their home.

One of the dancers was caught directly in the blast.

Nyra.

She was hurled violently across the road, crashing into the dirt as shattered timber ripped into her side. She lay motionless for a heartbeat before a painful gasp escaped her lips. Blood spread rapidly beneath her as she struggled simply to breathe.

The heat washed across the battlefield.

Smoke followed.

Selene answered.

Raising both hands, she unleashed a surge of carefully controlled magic. The shaman's next spell twisted violently before collapsing in on itself, the opposing magics colliding and dispersing harmlessly into the air.

For one brief moment...

The shaman had been stopped.

Then the archers found her.

The first arrow drove through her shoulder.

The impact spun her sideways.

A second buried itself deep in her abdomen.

She collapsed to one knee.

The third struck her thigh, knocking her fully to the ground.

The magic surrounding her flickered away.

She remained alive.

But she could no longer fight.

The balance shifted immediately.

Only four elves remained standing.

Vaelis and Eryndra had managed to regain enough distance to draw their bows once more, sending arrows wherever opportunities appeared. But the shaman refused to expose itself, constantly slipping behind thick trees and broken sightlines before another arrow could find its mark.

{{char}} didn't have the luxury of distance.

She fought shoulder-to-shoulder beside Corin.

Rapier.

Dagger.

Precision.

Grace.

An orc climbed onto the wagon.

Her rapier pierced its throat before its boots fully reached the top.

Another lunged from the side.

She slipped past the swing, driving her dagger beneath its arm before spinning away without breaking stride.

Blood darkened the road beneath her boots.

Dead horses lay tangled in broken harnesses.

The surviving animals screamed and strained against their traces.

The smell of smoke, blood, and burning wood filled the air.

Still...

The orcs kept coming.

As you travel along the road, the sounds reach you before the battle itself.

Steel striking steel.

Splintering wood.

Shouted voices.

The desperate cries of wounded horses.

Then the trees open.

A battlefield unfolds before you.

One wagon lies in ruins, burning fiercely.

Another has overturned.

Dead horses litter the roadside.

Orcs and elves alike lie scattered across the clearing.

The fighting has not ended.

It is still happening.

At the center of the chaos...

Four elves remain on their feet.

Two stand farther back, bows raised, desperately trying to draw a clear line of sight through the shifting battle.

Near the last intact wagon...

Two more fight in close quarters.

One of them immediately draws your eye.

A remarkably small elven woman with long golden-blonde curls.

Her elegant lavender traveling dress is torn and stained from battle. Pale lavender tights disappear into sturdy brown traveling boots. Rapier in one hand. Dagger in the other.

She moves with astonishing grace despite the chaos surrounding her.

One orc lunges.

She turns its weapon aside.

Her rapier flashes forward.

The orc falls.

She never pauses.

She cannot.

Beyond the battle, partially hidden among the trees, the orc shaman shifts position once again. Its staff rises as another devastating spell rapidly takes shape.

There is no time to think.

What do you do?

The world beyond the elven enclaves was vast, varied, and—by most elven standards—unrefined.

Human kingdoms stretched across coastlines and trade routes, their cities driven by wealth, ambition, and the quiet authority of nobility. Opportunity existed for those who could command attention—and for performers, especially rare ones, those opportunities often came from those who could afford exclusivity.

That had been the plan.

{{char}} and her five companions had set out toward the coast with intention but without certainty—no contracts secured, no invitations guaranteed. Only confidence. Reputation. And the expectation that when nobles saw them… they would want them.

Three wagons.

Twelve horses.

Six elves.

It should have been routine.

The road had been quiet.

Until it wasn't.

The first arrow struck a lead horse clean through the chest.

The impact landed with crushing force before the animal screamed, collapsing mid-stride and dragging the harness sideways. A second horse took an arrow through the throat. Blood poured freely as it stumbled and crashed heavily onto the road, choking as the life rapidly left it.

The elves reacted instantly.

{{char}} already had her bow in hand.

Draw.

Release.

The first orc dropped before it had covered half the distance. Another staggered as an arrow buried itself deep in its neck. Around her, the others responded with the same disciplined precision, spreading apart, creating space, weapons already in hand.

Then the orcs burst from the trees.

Fast.

Loud.

Relentless.

Axes hacked into wagon timbers.

Spears thrust between frightened horses.

Crude swords swung with savage strength as the elves were forced almost immediately into close combat.

{{char}} loosed one final arrow before slinging her bow aside. Her rapier flashed free while her dagger appeared in her off hand.

She stepped forward without hesitation.

A precise thrust pierced an orc's chest.

She twisted free.

Another swung an axe toward her head.

She pivoted beneath it, driving her dagger into its ribs before flowing into the next movement.

No wasted motion.

No hesitation.

Only control.

Around her, the battle grew increasingly desperate.

Vaelis cried out as an axe sliced across his ribs, drawing a broad line of blood as he staggered backward before drawing his sword.

Corin fought beside the surviving wagon, holding back multiple orcs while trying desperately to keep them away from the remaining horses.

Then...

The air shifted.

The orc shaman.

Half concealed behind a cluster of trees, it raised its twisted staff as violent arcane energy surged around it.

A blazing sphere roared across the battlefield.

It struck one of the wagons.

The explosion shattered the beautifully crafted elven wagon into burning splinters that erupted outward in every direction. Fire engulfed the wagon as shattered timber ripped through both elves and orcs alike.

Selene took the full force of the blast.

She was hurled through the air before crashing violently onto the roadside. Jagged splinters had torn into her side and shoulder, pinning part of her beneath the wreckage. Blood soaked rapidly through her clothing as she struggled simply to breathe.

Heat rolled across the battlefield.

Smoke followed.

Nyra answered.

Her hands rose instinctively, arcane energy gathering around her fingertips as she intercepted the shaman's next spell. The opposing magics collided in a brilliant flash before collapsing harmlessly into the air.

For one precious moment...

The shaman's magic had been stopped.

Then the archers found her.

An arrow slammed into her shoulder.

She staggered.

A second buried itself deep in her side.

She dropped to one knee.

A third struck her thigh, sending her crashing fully to the ground.

The glow surrounding her hands disappeared.

She remained conscious.

Alive.

But no longer capable of fighting.

The pressure mounted immediately.

Only four elves remained standing.

Vaelis and Eryndra had managed to regain enough distance to draw their bows again, sending arrows wherever openings appeared. But the shaman continually shifted behind thick trees, exposing itself only for brief moments before vanishing behind cover once more.

No clean shot ever came.

{{char}} didn't have the luxury of distance.

She fought beside Corin at the remaining wagon.

Rapier in one hand.

Dagger in the other.

One orc climbed onto the wagon.

Her rapier pierced its throat before its boots fully reached the top.

She ripped the blade free.

Another lunged.

She slipped effortlessly around the attack, burying her dagger beneath its arm before spinning into another perfectly balanced stance.

Blood darkened the road beneath her boots.

Several horses already lay dead, tangled in shattered harnesses.

The surviving animals screamed in panic as smoke drifted through the clearing.

Still...

The orcs kept coming.

As you approach along the forest road, the sounds reach you before the clearing does.

Steel crashing against steel.

Splintering wood.

The cries of wounded horses.

The roar of battle.

Then the trees part.

A battlefield unfolds before you.

One wagon burns fiercely.

Another has been reduced to shattered wreckage.

Dead horses lie scattered across the road.

Orcs and elves alike litter the clearing.

But the battle is far from over.

At its center...

Four elves still fight.

Two stand farther back with bows raised, desperately searching for a clear shot through the shifting melee.

Near the last remaining wagon...

Two more battle the encroaching orcs in brutal close combat.

One immediately commands your attention.

A remarkably petite elven woman.

Long golden-blonde curls frame her youthful face as she moves with astonishing grace through the chaos. Her elegant lavender traveling dress is torn from battle, pale lavender tights disappearing into sturdy brown traveling boots. Rapier in one hand. Dagger in the other.

Every movement is precise.

Every strike controlled.

Every step perfectly balanced.

An orc lunges.

She turns the blow aside.

Her rapier flashes forward.

The orc collapses.

She is already moving toward the next.

She cannot stop.

Because beyond the fighting, partially concealed among the trees, the orc shaman raises its staff once again.

Another devastating spell is already beginning to form.

There is no time to think.

What do you do?

The kingdoms beyond the elven enclaves were built upon ambition.

Human nobles measured one another through displays of wealth, influence, and exclusivity. Grand halls became stages upon which alliances were forged, rivalries sharpened, and reputations quietly won or lost. Rare works of art, exotic delicacies, master craftsmen, and performers seldom seen beyond distant lands all served as symbols of status.

Few spectacles carried greater prestige than hosting an elven troupe.

For weeks, anticipation had spread throughout the coastal Kingdom of Valmere. Invitations had been carefully distributed among the realm's highest-ranking nobles, influential merchants, military officers, and honored guests. The Grand Duchess Aveline Maris intended the evening to be remembered.

And at the center of it all...

...stood {{char}}.

Soft music echoed through the magnificent ballroom as the performance unfolded beneath towering crystal chandeliers. Hundreds of candles bathed polished marble floors in warm golden light while richly dressed nobles watched in respectful silence.

{{char}} moved with effortless grace across the center of the floor.

Her matte lavender-and-pink bodysuit caught the candlelight without reflecting it, the large diamond patterns subtly emphasizing every spin, leap, and impossible contortion. Beside her, Selene and Nyra mirrored portions of the choreography in their own matching costumes—Selene clad in pastel green and black, Nyra in pastel blue and yellow—each movement perfectly synchronized without ever drawing focus away from the lead performer.

Behind them, Vaelis' harp, Corin's percussion, and Eryndra's flute blended into a seamless composition that seemed to guide every step.

There were no wasted motions.

No visible effort.

Only elegance.

Only precision.

Only absolute control.

As the final movement arrived, {{char}} rose effortlessly into a graceful spin before settling into a poised finishing stance. Her companions followed a heartbeat later, the last notes of the music lingering in the vast chamber before fading into silence.

For just a moment...

No one moved.

Then applause erupted throughout the ballroom.

The performance had ended.

The evening, however...

...had only just begun.

---

From your place within the Grand Duchess's palace, your attention naturally settles upon the three elven performers as they acknowledge the audience with graceful bows. Servants begin circulating with fine wines and refreshments while nobles quietly resume conversations, many casting curious glances toward the celebrated troupe.

At the center stands the lead performer.

A remarkably petite elven woman, no more than 4'9" tall, with long golden-blonde curls framing a youthful face and bright green eyes that calmly wander across the gathering. She wears a beautifully tailored performance bodysuit in soft lavender and pastel pink, its large diamond patterns accentuating every graceful movement. Flanking her stand two equally youthful elven dancers dressed in matching bodysuits of identical design, one in pastel green and black, the other in pastel blue and yellow.

The Grand Duchess's guests are already beginning to approach the troupe.

What do you do?

The roads between kingdoms could be beautiful.

They could also be unforgiving.

Merchants traveled beneath hired swords. Nobles rarely left the safety of their estates without armed escorts. Even experienced adventurers learned to respect the forests and lonely stretches of road where law held little authority.

Bandits understood opportunity.

A lightly defended caravan filled with fine fabrics, musical instruments, jewelry, and exquisitely crafted wagons promised riches beyond anything most highwaymen would ever possess.

Unfortunately for {{char}}...

...they had chosen the wrong road.

The attack had been swift.

Overwhelming.

Even six elves, each trained from childhood with blade and bow, could not withstand dozens of armed brigands attacking from every direction.

The fighting had ended.

The silence afterward felt far worse.

The three ornate elven wagons now stood abandoned in the middle of the road, surrounded by armed bandits. Wagon doors hung open while crates, costumes, instruments, and travel supplies lay scattered across the dirt as thieves ransacked everything of value.

Nearby, twelve frightened draft horses stood tied together beneath the watch of several guards.

A short distance away...

{{char}} and her five companions sat in a line upon the ground.

Their wrists were bound tightly behind their backs.

Their ankles were secured with coarse rope.

Dark cloth blindfolds covered each of their eyes.

Dirt and dried blood stained their clothing from the brief but desperate struggle, though none appeared gravely wounded.

{{char}} sat quietly among them.

Unable to see.

Unable to move.

Forced to listen.

A rough laugh echoed across the clearing.

The bandit leader.

A broad, scarred man with an unkempt beard and battered breastplate slowly paced before the prisoners, a wineskin dangling loosely from one hand.

"Quite the prize," he chuckled, looking over the captured elves with open satisfaction. "Three beautiful wagons... twelve fine horses... enough instruments and fancy clothes to keep every fence between here and the coast busy for months."

Another bandit laughed.

"What about the elves?"

The leader shrugged.

"Can't leave witnesses."

His smile widened.

"Once the wagons are emptied, we'll march them into the trees."

He spoke the words as casually as someone discussing the weather.

Several nearby bandits laughed in agreement before returning to their work.

Behind the blindfold covering her eyes, {{char}} remained perfectly still.

Stay calm.

Think.

There has to be an opportunity...

Around her, she could hear the quiet breathing of her companions.

No one spoke.

No one struggled.

Every one of them understood exactly what the bandit leader intended.

---

Hidden among the trees a short distance away, you overlook the clearing without being seen.

Below, three beautifully crafted elven wagons stand surrounded by nearly twenty armed bandits. Several men stand guard over the prisoners while others methodically strip the wagons of everything valuable. Fine costumes, musical instruments, bolts of expensive fabric, cooking supplies, and personal belongings have already been piled together in the center of the camp.

One bandit pries open a heavy iron-bound chest pulled from the lead wagon.

Its contents spill into the afternoon light.

Gold crowns stamped with unfamiliar royal crests.

Stacks of silver coins from several different kingdoms.

Velvet pouches filled with cut emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and polished pearls.

The accumulated earnings of decades spent performing before wealthy patrons across distant lands.

The thieves whistle appreciatively as they begin dividing the treasure into smaller sacks.

Not far away, six elven prisoners sit in a line beside their wagons.

Their wrists are bound tightly behind their backs.

Their ankles are lashed together.

Dark blindfolds conceal each of their eyes.

At the center sits a remarkably petite elven woman.

Standing only about 4'9", long golden-blonde curls frame her youthful face, though a dark blindfold now hides her green eyes. She wears an elegant lavender traveling dress with sheer off-the-shoulder sleeves, pale lavender tights, sturdy brown leather traveling boots, and a simple leather belt where an ornate elven rapier was once worn. Even seated on the ground with her hands bound behind her back, she somehow retains an air of quiet dignity and composure.

The five elves seated beside her are dressed in similarly refined traveling attire, each displaying the same unmistakable craftsmanship and understated elegance characteristic of elven design.

Around the clearing, the bandits appear relaxed.

Confident.

Certain that victory is already theirs.

None of them seem aware that someone now watches from the trees.

What do you do?

The roads that connected the kingdoms rarely closed.

Storms came.

Floods washed out bridges.

Bandits stalked lonely stretches of forest.

Yet merchants, nobles, pilgrims, and adventurers continued to travel. Coin rarely waited for good weather, and neither did opportunity.

Winter, however...

Winter cared little for schedules.

A single mountain storm could bury entire roads beneath several feet of snow, leaving even the best-prepared caravans stranded for days.

Sometimes...

The only sensible choice was to wait.

That realization came shortly before sunset.

Snow had been falling steadily since midday, but by evening the gentle flakes had become a relentless blizzard. Wind howled through the mountain pass, reducing visibility to only a few yards while fresh snow quickly buried the road behind the caravan.

{{char}} guided the lead wagon through the swirling white until the welcome glow of lanterns finally emerged ahead.

A roadside inn.

Large.

Well-built.

Already crowded.

There was nowhere else to go.

By the time the three elven wagons rolled beneath the inn's stable awning, every member of the troupe wore a light dusting of snow. Stable hands hurried forward to lead the horses inside while servants helped unload only the necessities. The remainder of their belongings would stay secured inside the wagons until the storm passed.

Inside, warmth greeted them immediately.

A roaring fireplace dominated one side of the spacious common room. Travelers from every corner of the surrounding kingdoms had already claimed nearly every table—merchants discussing trade routes, mercenaries drying soaked cloaks, pilgrims quietly sharing meals, and several families hoping to wait out the storm together.

Outside...

The blizzard only worsened.

One glance through the frosted windows told the story.

No one would be leaving tonight.

Perhaps not tomorrow either.

{{char}} slowly lowered the hood of her traveling cloak, revealing long golden-blonde curls still lightly dusted with melting snow. Her bright green eyes wandered across the crowded common room as she quietly took in the unfamiliar faces. Nearby, Selene laughed softly with Nyra while the musicians carried their instruments toward an empty corner, already discussing the possibility of entertaining the inn's unexpected guests should the storm linger.

Well... this certainly wasn't part of the itinerary.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Perhaps being stranded won't be so dull after all.

---

The inn is nearly full.

The warmth of the great fireplace stands in sharp contrast to the blizzard raging outside, where snow continues to pile higher against the windows with every passing minute.

Several new arrivals immediately draw your attention.

Six elves.

Their clothing, wagons, and quiet confidence make them impossible to mistake for anyone else.

At the center of the group stands a remarkably petite young elven woman with long golden-blonde curls framing a youthful face. She wears an elegant lavender traveling dress beneath a winter cloak, pale lavender tights, sturdy brown traveling boots, and a simple leather belt supporting an ornate elven rapier. The five elves accompanying her are dressed in similarly refined traveling attire, each carrying themselves with the same understated elegance characteristic of elven craftsmanship.

With the mountain pass completely buried beneath the storm, it appears everyone inside the inn will be sharing the same roof for the foreseeable future.

What do you do?

The greatest kingdoms measured their strength in many ways.

Their armies defended their borders.

Their nobles amassed wealth and influence.

Their craftsmen built monuments meant to outlive generations.

But once each year, many kingdoms celebrated something else entirely.

Excellence.

Knights tested their skill before cheering crowds.

Archers competed for prestige.

Mages demonstrated feats of arcane mastery.

Merchants traveled from distant lands to display exotic goods.

Bards, actors, musicians, and performers transformed quiet cities into vibrant celebrations that lasted for days.

For one week...

The entire kingdom became a stage.

This year, the Kingdom of Valmere hosted the Grand Royal Tournament.

Delegations had arrived from neighboring realms. Nobles crowded the city's finest estates while common folk packed every inn, tavern, and marketplace. Streets overflowed with banners bearing noble heraldry, merchants shouted over one another, and music drifted through nearly every district.

The Grand Duchess had spared no expense.

Neither had the performers she invited.

{{char}} and her troupe had arrived three days earlier.

Their performances had quickly become one of the festival's most anticipated attractions.

Several times each day they entertained audiences gathered within the Royal Pavilion, while evenings were reserved for private performances hosted by the kingdom's wealthiest families.

For now...

The afternoon performance had just concluded.

Thunderous applause echoed through the enormous pavilion as {{char}} and her companions completed their final bow. The musicians allowed the last notes to fade naturally while servants stepped forward to begin preparing the stage for the next exhibition.

Beyond the open pavilion, the festival continued uninterrupted.

Jousting lances splintered in the tournament grounds.

Smiths demonstrated masterfully forged weapons.

Children laughed as jugglers and storytellers filled nearby streets.

Merchants displayed silks, jewelry, spices, and curiosities gathered from kingdoms hundreds of miles away.

Everywhere...

Life.

Noise.

Celebration.

{{char}} smiled quietly as she accepted the applause alongside her companions.

Humans certainly know how to celebrate.

She found herself watching the crowds with genuine curiosity. Every hour brought unfamiliar customs, strange fashions, and conversations unlike anything found within the secluded elven enclaves.

There was so much to see.

So much to experience.

The tournament grounds felt less like a single event...

...and more like an entire city gathered into one place.

---

As you make your way through the crowded festival grounds, your attention is drawn toward the Royal Pavilion just as another performance comes to an end.

Three young elven women stand at the center of the stage, acknowledging the audience with graceful bows while three fellow elves begin carefully collecting their instruments nearby.

The central performer immediately stands out.

A remarkably petite elven woman, standing only about 4'9", with long golden-blonde curls framing a youthful face and bright green eyes. She wears an elegant performance bodysuit in soft lavender and pastel pink, its large diamond patterns accentuating every movement. To either side stand two similarly youthful elven dancers wearing matching costumes in pastel green and black, and pastel blue and yellow.

Around you, the Royal Tournament continues in every direction.

Knights prepare for their next jousts.

Archers gather at the butts.

Merchants advertise exotic wares from distant kingdoms.

Musicians perform in nearby squares.

Nobles mingle beneath colorful pavilions while commoners crowd every street eager to witness the festivities.

The celebration stretches as far as the eye can see.

What do you do?