By The Moon's Blade

5. The Festival of the Clouds, Two Years Ago

"Thank you, thank you! Without further adieu, I'm excited to bring to the stage, Maester Olahorn, the head of our esteemed Cirrus Council. Everyone keep those hands up!" yells Eudora over the sound of the crowd's shouts and cheers.

As Eudora barks the Maester's name, we see a taller Silvaren make his way slowly up the stage, one step at a time. He is sporting a long, silky emerald cloak and a wreath made of hollybark, dotted with dozens of small yellow blooms. His pale skin glows with an incredible luster, but the sagging of skin still highlights his old age.

This is Maester Olahorn, the last surviving member of the original Cloudridge formation committee, which made him an easy choice as head of the Cirrus Council. At least 150-years-old, if not more, he's a tough cookie. Silvaren live to at least 200-years-old, so there's plenty of life in him yet.

But, as he shuffles his way up the stairs and across the stage to the awaiting podium, it's hard to see the same lively leader that Olahorn used to be. His voice used to command a crowd of thousands and unfortunately, that voice is fading. His strong, magnetic presence has dimmed to match his years of experience and hardship.

"Welcome one, welcome all! I'm excited to be here to introduce this year's special performance, but first... who wants to hear a little something about the history of Cloudridge?" he says in his loudest, yet strained, voice.

The crowd lets out a half-hearted hurrah and groans come from everywhere. Each year, during the Festival of the Clouds, Olahorn tells the same story about the history of our fair city, including a detailed synopsis on how every village got its name. Is it interesting? Yes. Is it important? Yes. Is it fun to hear twenty years in a row? No.

"I thought so! Well, let's see... it all started about a hundred years ago, as the Tadral Conflict *raged* throughout the Four Kingdoms."

I looked around the crowd and noticed everyone mouthing the words to each other and giggling, filling my heart with an unreasonable amount of joy. At this point, I think that Olahorn could recite this speech in his sleep. In fact, I'm sure he does.

"With the Four Kingdoms in conflict, many small villages across the region lost their homes, families, and friends trying to defend themselves from the overwhelming powers imposing their own martial law across the land. But instead of backing down, a few brave souls decided to forge their own path and escape the brutal existence forced upon them."

Through the next half hour, Olahorn empassionately recites his speech, and small children gaze on in amazement as they sit atop the shoulders of their parents. I look at each of their faces and remember how important that childlike wonder is, and how much this speech meant to me at that age. And though we know the story inside and out, the feeling of camaraderie and pride is strong enough to swell in the guts of every single resident in the crowd.

Olahorn wraps his lecture with a couple of swift bows before trailing off of the stage, cheers and whistles echoing even after he's left. The story may be repetitive, but Olahorn really knows how to sell it.

"Thanks for entertaining an old man's tales, but I know you've all been waiting for the main event! So please, if you would, give a warm welcome to Cloudridge's finest performers — ___."

The crowd cheers and everyone spends the next hour watching a variety of performances on the stage. Curtains are pulled back to reveal intricate wooden backdrops of swirling leaves, no doubt constructed by the craftsmen of Kalenore. First, the stage is filled with a group of about ten Lunari performing a traditional moon dance with gentle strings plucking from backstage, setting the stage for a troupe of Humans, Dwarves, and Bellarians with an assembly of loud instruments. The sound of drums thumps in a deep rhythm and thunderous brass horns echo, bouncing off of the sides of the mountain.