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Everyone Loves a Wedding

Story Emits

Really, who doesn't love a wedding? Civilians near the Vowkeeper Hills, that's who. This is the spring - there's planting to be done, lambs to shear, all manner of work to be done. Yet on the orders of Prince Edain Valardin a group of ladies have interrupted all of that. Duchess Nicia Laurent, Lady Desiree Wyrmguard, Princess Sophie Valardin, Lady Lilia Telmar, and Countess Reigna Keaton have assembled a caravan of people, rounding up everyone they can find to come celebrate Edain's wedding in the City of Sanctum. They're not even listening to objections at this point, which goes over better in some cases than others. Where Desiree and Nicia talk to people, small towns are virtually denuded of people. The others - not so much, as stubborn farmers dig in their heels and refuse to leave for a month during the most important part of the season. They can talk as much as they want, but these farmers aren't moving. Not one inch. Not even for Prince Edain's wedding.
There are some strange reports in the Vowkeeper Hills from the villagers who refused to go to Sanctum and instead stayed in their homes. Apparently there were loud rumblings, and one of the well-known and larger caves in the area collapsed entirely. Oddly enough, there were no other earthquake reports in surrounding areas. "Must have been some unauthorized digging," said one farmer with a complete lack of curiosity. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get this field sowed."
Any news of the odd collapsing cave is completely eclipsed by news from the wedding of Prince Edain Valardin and Lady Caelis Malvici though. Apparently their wedding party was attacked by bandits! Fortunately, the Valardin are known for their sober and serious approach to life, and despite their fancy attire, none of the guests seemed to be unarmed. Rumors of assassins, poisoned blades, and two daring and nigh suicidal people riding an elk seem like exaggerations, but the stories of the wedding are both wholly unrealistic and good no-shit-there-I-was stories to tell at a tavern. If only the Oathlanders frequented them. Or drank something stronger than milk. Alas.