There’s a palpable excitement threading its way through the cities of Southfell- so strong that even the sternest Justicars betray a tremor of anticipation ,as I watch them move about the streets. Earthsong is but a few days away, and all across the continent, the final submissions are having their casks and barrels quality checked in preparation for the Festival of Earthsong.
It’s a season of harvest and gratitude, and for the three days surrounding Earthsong, the Harvest Season will pulse through public squares, taverns, markets and private homes alike. Holders of Festival Licenses are readying their sacramental ales, meads and wines, confident that both regular and new customers alike will flock to their doors. Shops and markets are stocking honey-oatcakes, early-press ciders and barley wafers in honour of the harvest.
Out in the official districts, among the uniformed government buildings, the gilded floats that will bear the First Sheaf stand silently, the ribbons and banners swaying gently; ready to make their procession that will take them from city granary to the heart of the city square.
When morning comes, city leaders will swear a vow to uphold the city’s welfare in exchange for the land’s bounty. In that moment, the First Sheaf will be sacrificed, as well as a libation of the season’s first ale, poured into the brazen bowl before being set alight as an offering to the Father God and recognition of the Earthmother’s ancient gift of grain.
Even describing the events feel controlled and uniformed; I know all too well that this feeling of gratitude is a far cry from the wilder, freer rites that were once common across the continent. Some rural communities still quietly honour the old ways, singing to the land to coax the crops to grow and giving libations directly to the earth in thanks. But under Vitrean law, these celebrations are dangerous and heretical, and have been tamed into a disciplined observance that brings both purpose and order to the cities I now walk through.
On the morning of Earthsong, the stage will be set, and the floats will make their way from the granaries, accompanied by Justicars, down paved streets to the city squares- where the First Sheaf’s ceremonial offering will mark the beginning of the commercialised celebration. A communal feast follows, to be washed down with ale, mead, wine or juice at a reduced 5% Harvest Tithe. For three days, even the most humble of farmers can afford the cost and partake in sacramental ale, mead and wine alongside city dignitaries.
Of course, these observances start before the rise of Solthar for the farmers. Beyond the city limits, they shoulder their own solemn duty. A portion of their first harvest yield is surrendered to the Vitrean officials within their own city-no matter how many miles may be between their field and Vitrum itself. As the sun rises, they make an offering to the state to ensure the land’s continued fertility and then renew their oath of labour and loyalty to the state, binding their future work to the promise of another bountiful year.
Yes, it’s a solemn festival masked by smiles that are watched and monitored by Justicars and government alike. It’s a simple celebration in comparison. I wonder; if they knew of the wilder, more decadent celebrations that happen across the Ardu Channel in waters too dangerous to cross, would they be repulsed- or would they be intrigued? Would the people of Lucerra, or Bravona recoil in horror? Would the Justicars lean into the edges of something so wild?
~Nerien.