The morning mist had yet to fully lift when more carriages rolled through the mud and arrived in Newborn Town.
Unlike the grand display put on by the Seven Harbors Alliance yesterday, most of today's visitors were minor and middling lords from the nearby coast.
Their carriages were old, their crests faded, and the horses pulling them were a mismatched assortment.
The nobles who stepped out were still respectably dressed, but the wear at their cuffs and collars betrayed their strained finances.
Veylin stood at the main entrance as before, making no distinction based on his guests' status.
The celebration officially began at noon.
Dispensing with elaborate formalities, Veylin led everyone straight through the bustling square toward the saline-alkali fields east of town, coated in what looked like white frost.
Several lords conversed quietly among the crowd.
"Kane, old friend, do you see this? This land is exactly like my wasteland! I planted rye last year and lost every penny!"
"Who knows how good this potato thing really is? There are more and more oppressive taxes these days. If we don't find another way to make money, we'll barely be able to maintain our troops."
Their gazes were now fixed on the center of the field as they watched curiously.
At a signal from Veylin, several sturdy farmers who had been waiting there raised their tools, their torsos bare.
Iron forks slid easily into the hard, dry ground, turning up great slabs of soil.
Clatter, clatter-
As though a spring had welled up underground, round, golden sea-salt potatoes spilled from the clods, quickly forming a small mound along the ridge.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The minor lords stared fixedly at the potatoes, their breathing growing heavy.
A weighing tray and a large set of scales were brought over.
The