[center][b]Fairgrounds just outside the city of Mirare[/b]
[i]Bel-Hel Festival[/i][/center]

Shadows flickered upon surfaces of rippling light, running along the wood of trees and encircling dull stars extending their warmth from the earth. Music of an active grimness hummed in the air, driven by the white-painted figures of many players, like the sounds of a gang of devils mischievously prowling the night. Hearty bellows of laughter and feminine wails permeated between the gaps of tents as the spirits of play, seemingly emanating from the impish grins that formed where the shadows met candlelight. Countless figures moved about the grounds, fleetingly or in a drunken stupor, arm in arm or crawling upon the ground in a frightening display of acrobatics and limber. Those spidery forms, dressed in black and painted with colors to convey their status as an actor of dead, moved hand-over-foot along the dirt, spooking small groups of women with short screams from the base of their flowing skirts. The lasses would jump and just as quickly cover their moment of fright with hands upon their mouths as they giggled and continued on their way.

Indeed it was the Bel-Hel Festival of Raphae, situated upon the gnarly fairgrounds of the Mirare province. Built along the grim forests known to most as the Bel-Hel Grove, it was the perfect spot to host such a macabre party. Themed after the dead, the spiritual, the incorporeal, its participants and purveyors dressed in dark colors and painted their faces with skeletal white patterns. Freaks of nature showed their faces here, astounding the people of Raphae with strangeness and a curious fear. Nonetheless, such a black event was far from going without the rambunctious nature of Raphae's people itself; food, drink, and dance were always the main attraction. Large swathes of bodies melded together in a field of burning pits, swinging about each other in a macabre dance under the night sky and the drum-heavy music that fell from it like sinewy bats.

While certainly not the largest of Raphae's traditions by far, it did well to impress. Few could truly engage in everything it had to offer; indeed one would be remiss to realize they had only a short time in the nights to partake in what was upfront and available. Those that dabbled too shortly in too many activities failed to fully enjoy but a few as well as others. Men and women alike skirmished with one another in a battle of the gut, their weapons a cold glass of ale. Connoisseurs of the grapevine cut at one another with blades of knowledge, identifying their drinks like a detective at the scene of a crime, with a leering eye and lips curled into pride.

But battle in its truest sense was also just as prominent. As was custom for the Bel-Hel Festival, knights of the Raphae might would dress themselves in terrifying, dilapidated armors reminiscent of that which a risen skeletal soldier might don themselves. Grinning skulls covered their already darkened faces, and they carried in their hands wooden swords as they prowled through the Bel Hel forest. In its center resided a fountain of coin, given to anyone who could reach its golden, metallic waters. Those brave enough to venture inside with their own acquired sword of wood would be met with these acting knights. Their comical stumbling and groans were reflective of how seriously they took their position. In the end, the knights often claimed they always attained more entertainment value than the stubborn citizens who desired sudden wealth.

The festival only halted when the participants could not move any further, too tired to continue, too drunk to stay conscious, or too occupied with the individuals they shared a bed with that night. All throughout the night, it perpetuated, fueled by that endless energy Raphae people exhibited. And as more and more entered the wall of tents and wooden booths late into the party, more and more were reinvigorated to continue. It was always a difficult gamble to discern when they would finally end their events.

Leaning upon the curled root of a large tree, two individuals stood watch over one of many groups of dancers, eyes glued to their enthralling movements, as if the simple sight of their unity and fervor brought out such a powerful desire of longing. A small girl, decorated in a checkered suit and red cape of golden embroidery, and a much larger man, donned in a ragged set of metal and chainmail armor, head cloaked by an equally tattered black cloth.

"My condolences to your... stature and stomach, Helen," the man spoke, arms crossed and mouth grinning with a sense of superiority. The small girl maintained her gaze upon the dancers, a metal chalice in hand. She sipped it lightly and responded with a dismissive tone.

"The effects of alcohol are of no matter when I put my mind to it. The colleges of Ornuel have more than once given me insight into the negation of livery harm," she stated. "I-" she paused to take a sip, "can drink," this time a gulp, "as much as I want." Archmage Helen finished with a several-second long swallow of the rest of her drink before gasping in satisfaction. Looking up to the armored man, she returned his jest with such a look of victory that the man could only roll his eyes in hard-pressed defeat. "And I don't plan on using the magic for now. I'm here to enjoy every nihilistic mistake I can."

"I fear for Carinna's mindset," he laughed.

"I fear for how it will be compounded by her mother's," Helen added. The two laughed together for a good while, until Helen promptly dropped to the dirt floor with a thud. The knight she spoke to paused for a moment in concern, then continued to laugh.