A column of dust rises out of dense, humid jungles far beyond the usual reach of the Cutter's patrols, contingents of guards and mercenaries walk the trade roads, and small towns are swamped by wagons and carts as night arrives, only for all to be gone again the next day well before dawn breaks.
The Floatilla has been sighted!
The Tradefair stirs!
Merchants from far and wide travel to the event, to the carefully managed throng that is Gromkesh in full trade season.
Packed and black-baked salted pitch streets surround what was once a lonely and grand castle, now caught in the bustle of height of season trade as a veritable 'city of the seas' makes port. Wagons by the hundred begin to queue for their turn at the docks, occupying the avenues with creaking wheels and baking canvas, stacked supplies, awaiting the arrival of goods, supplies, and fineries near unobtainable anywhere but Gromkesh Tradefair.
Certainly cross trading, carousing and many other goings-on are abuzz as the queue around the town lengthen by the hour, but any merchant worth more than the salt crushed beneath wagon wheel knows to keep their place, and usually to sleep with the wagon.
Once the expansive, rickety-looking rafted assemblage drifts into the harbor, gangways slapping down and secured, things truly get underway. Under the watchful gaze of militant orcs, who ensure the peace, and places are kept, each merchant gets audience with some of the Floatfolk, goods are discussed, unloaded, exchanged. Gold, spices, rices and rareties flow on and off the Floatilla as the many sea-citizens replenish their supplies for the months-long journies ahead, and offload exotics picked up from all corners of the world.
For some three tendays or so the ferver is so pitched, with ever the creak of wagons moving on in the queue, down to docks, through, around and gradually wending their way after to a place to stay and now trade well-begotten goods, or depart to distant deals awaiting profitable closure.
As things finally begin winding down those fewer citizens can begin to breath easier (though certainly, the pitch ridden roads to greatly reduce the dust of old which was near unbearable), as they begin tidying their town to return to its rather emptier form, hooded eyes do oft stare at one of any of those towers surrounding their once isolated, but independent town. With a resigned shrug or sigh said eyes turn away.
Some freedoms and independence it seems are worth passing up for an answer which enforces order and routine onto what was once a full mobbing, the height of chaos, as romping tromping interests, sects, consortiums, cabals and all manner of wealth and power trod over the town in their bid resupply and claim bounty from the rare docking of The Floatilla.
Early Sketch
Concept
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