OOC: Welcome to Oban during the Festival of Feathers!
Come, enjoy the festivities—or find some trouble in the chaos..
Location: Oban, Eastern Quarter – The Docks
Oban was a riot of colour. A living, breathing tapestry woven with gold-threaded wealth and dirt-streaked desperation. Silken banners of blue and gold snapped in the sea breeze, draped across windows and rooftops, while feathers of every hue adorned the throngs of festival-goers—plumed hats, extravagant masks, entire cloaks stitched with shimmering quills. Even the lowest of beggars had some scrap of dyed down tucked behind an ear or pinned to a threadbare coat.
The Festival of Feathers was in full swing, and the streets teemed with life. Mylo had never seen anything like it.
To his left, a group of nobles moved like a flock of exotic birds, their bejewelled gowns and tailored coats glistening in the afternoon light. Gold filigree lined their masks, sculpted into gryphon beaks and sweeping wings. A woman in a deep crimson dress, the corset cinched so tight she looked liable to snap in half, chuckled behind a feathered fan as she watched a pair of duelists battle in a street-side competition.
To his right, gamblers crowded a dice table, coins clinking as bets were placed, a mix of laughter and cursing echoing between the tightly packed stalls. A performer in a dazzling feathered cape leapt onto a wooden crate, juggling flaming batons while singing in a voice so rich it cut through the chaos like a blade.
The air was thick with music and scents—grilled meats sizzling over open flames, spiced wines flowing from casks, the tang of sea salt carried in from the docks. The Eastern Quarter, with its towering ships and bustling trade, had been transformed into a festival ground. The entire city had.
And above it all, the gryphons of Oban ruled the skies.
Some perched atop flat-roofed buildings, their keen golden eyes watching the festivities below. Others bore riders in blue and gold uniforms and swooped low over the crowds, their wings casting fleeting shadows across the mosaic-paved streets. The gryphons were treated with a reverence that Mylo had rarely seen given to any living creature—untamed and free, yet bound by tradition and duty.
And then there were the contradictions.
For all its wealth and opulence, Oban carried invisible chains just as surely as it did its gold-laced silks. The nobility wove through the streets as if they owned them, their laughter ringing too easily, too carelessly. The merchants thrived, but only those born to the city. The poor, pushed to the edges, watched but did not partake. And the women—the women were always chaperoned. For all its colour and grandeur, there was an order to Oban, one that no feathered mask could disguise.
And yet, none of that was his problem at the moment, because right now, his horse was making a scene.
"Thistle, I swear to every God in Arethil, if you don’t move—" he complained, tugging insistently at the reins as he walked beside her. The mare stood firm in the middle of the thoroughfare, utterly unimpressed by the chaos around her. She had refused to take another step the moment they’d entered the busiest part of the docks, ears twitching at the music, the calls of the gamblers, the crack of duelling swords.
"Move your damn horse!" someone shouted behind him.
Mylo turned to see a merchant, red-faced and struggling with a cart of delicate glassware, glaring at him.
"I would love to," Mylo said dryly, giving the reins a sharp tug. Thistle did not budge.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of movement overhead. A gryphon and its rider descended, landing atop a nearby ledge with a graceful ease that made Mylo ache to capture the moment in charcoal. The beast’s feathers shimmered in the sunlight, its hooked beak curved in what almost seemed like amusement as its rider scanned the street below.
For a brief second, Mylo forgot all about Thistle. Then someone shoved at his shoulder. "I said, move the damn horse!"
"Alright, alright!" Mylo huffed. He dug into his satchel, pulling out a withered apple—the last of his rations. Holding it out, he gave Thistle a flat look. "Move now, and you get this. Otherwise, I’ll feed it to the gryphon, and you can live with that.."
Thistle snorted, flicked an ear, and—finally—moved. "Unbelievable," Mylo muttered, handing over the apple as she walked forward like she hadn’t just been staging a public protest.
Come, enjoy the festivities—or find some trouble in the chaos..
Location: Oban, Eastern Quarter – The Docks
Oban was a riot of colour. A living, breathing tapestry woven with gold-threaded wealth and dirt-streaked desperation. Silken banners of blue and gold snapped in the sea breeze, draped across windows and rooftops, while feathers of every hue adorned the throngs of festival-goers—plumed hats, extravagant masks, entire cloaks stitched with shimmering quills. Even the lowest of beggars had some scrap of dyed down tucked behind an ear or pinned to a threadbare coat.
The Festival of Feathers was in full swing, and the streets teemed with life. Mylo had never seen anything like it.
To his left, a group of nobles moved like a flock of exotic birds, their bejewelled gowns and tailored coats glistening in the afternoon light. Gold filigree lined their masks, sculpted into gryphon beaks and sweeping wings. A woman in a deep crimson dress, the corset cinched so tight she looked liable to snap in half, chuckled behind a feathered fan as she watched a pair of duelists battle in a street-side competition.
To his right, gamblers crowded a dice table, coins clinking as bets were placed, a mix of laughter and cursing echoing between the tightly packed stalls. A performer in a dazzling feathered cape leapt onto a wooden crate, juggling flaming batons while singing in a voice so rich it cut through the chaos like a blade.
The air was thick with music and scents—grilled meats sizzling over open flames, spiced wines flowing from casks, the tang of sea salt carried in from the docks. The Eastern Quarter, with its towering ships and bustling trade, had been transformed into a festival ground. The entire city had.
And above it all, the gryphons of Oban ruled the skies.
Some perched atop flat-roofed buildings, their keen golden eyes watching the festivities below. Others bore riders in blue and gold uniforms and swooped low over the crowds, their wings casting fleeting shadows across the mosaic-paved streets. The gryphons were treated with a reverence that Mylo had rarely seen given to any living creature—untamed and free, yet bound by tradition and duty.
And then there were the contradictions.
For all its wealth and opulence, Oban carried invisible chains just as surely as it did its gold-laced silks. The nobility wove through the streets as if they owned them, their laughter ringing too easily, too carelessly. The merchants thrived, but only those born to the city. The poor, pushed to the edges, watched but did not partake. And the women—the women were always chaperoned. For all its colour and grandeur, there was an order to Oban, one that no feathered mask could disguise.
And yet, none of that was his problem at the moment, because right now, his horse was making a scene.
"Thistle, I swear to every God in Arethil, if you don’t move—" he complained, tugging insistently at the reins as he walked beside her. The mare stood firm in the middle of the thoroughfare, utterly unimpressed by the chaos around her. She had refused to take another step the moment they’d entered the busiest part of the docks, ears twitching at the music, the calls of the gamblers, the crack of duelling swords.
"Move your damn horse!" someone shouted behind him.
Mylo turned to see a merchant, red-faced and struggling with a cart of delicate glassware, glaring at him.
"I would love to," Mylo said dryly, giving the reins a sharp tug. Thistle did not budge.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of movement overhead. A gryphon and its rider descended, landing atop a nearby ledge with a graceful ease that made Mylo ache to capture the moment in charcoal. The beast’s feathers shimmered in the sunlight, its hooked beak curved in what almost seemed like amusement as its rider scanned the street below.
For a brief second, Mylo forgot all about Thistle. Then someone shoved at his shoulder. "I said, move the damn horse!"
"Alright, alright!" Mylo huffed. He dug into his satchel, pulling out a withered apple—the last of his rations. Holding it out, he gave Thistle a flat look. "Move now, and you get this. Otherwise, I’ll feed it to the gryphon, and you can live with that.."
Thistle snorted, flicked an ear, and—finally—moved. "Unbelievable," Mylo muttered, handing over the apple as she walked forward like she hadn’t just been staging a public protest.
