The latest issue of the Gray Marsh Weekly sold out almost as soon as it went on sale.
Count of the White Tower was printed in bold in the most prominent spot on the front page, beside a woodcut portrait of Weilin Klein. The young man in the picture held a scepter, with the towering city of Minas Tirith behind him.
Other villages and towns far from Miport learned the heartening news through the weekly before the merchants had even spread word!
There were no compulsory festivities, no mandatory contributions. But as night fell, every settlement throughout the territory spontaneously erupted into a celebration more exuberant than any festival.
Newborn Town.
The Brothers, Boar, and Ale tavern rang with voices. Dozens of new glass lanterns lit the place as brightly as day, their panes clean and their light steady, with almost none of the irritating smell of burning oil.
The tavern was packed tight, and a carpenter proudly showed off his handiwork to the people around him.
He picked up an object the size of a wooden crate from beside the wall. With a few deft movements, he unfolded it into a folding seat sturdy enough for two adults, drawing a chorus of amazement. "Hey! More room!" He wedged it into the gap between two tables, and people immediately sat down. That little invention had already earned him thirty merit points.
"Boss! Another tankard! From that 'not sour' barrel!" a regular shouted.
"Coming right up!" Tumo's shirt hung open, and his dark face was flushed.
Behind the bar, he deftly worked a new contraption-several enormous new oak barrels connected in parallel, with copper pipes leading to a dispensing tap. With a gentle pull, amber ale poured into the wooden tankard, topped with rich foam.
The specially treated interiors of these