It is a beautiful day in Kenabres. It is a day of festival, and the people of Kenabres know how to party like there is no tomorrow, because here, near the edge of the worldwound, there might not be.

Music spirals through the streets as a gnomish minstrel coaxes a bright, whirling tune from a twisting flute-like contraption that belches bubbles and sparks with every eager note. Nearby, a caster in flowing crimson robes bends roaring fire into a burning pageant, dragons and lions and knights and hags prance and bow and sing in a blazing procession that draws cheers from an adoring crowd. At the edge of the square, an old, round priest of Abadar presides over a different spectacle, using a jar of crystallized honey candies to explain economics to a clutch of wide-eyed children, their rapt attention secured by the promise of something sweet.

The air is thick with laughter and song, with the rich scents of fine food and spiced drink. People dance in the streets, hands linked, faces lifted. And for today, for this one beautiful day, the people of Kenabres allow themselves to live and laugh and love, and to not worry quite so much about the things that crawl and whisper in the dark.

It is a beautiful day in Kenabres.