The Miracle of the Guided Wanderers

A Mos Numena feast day, celebrated on September 11th each fall in Asineau. It commemorates the founding of a small village in the Barony of Brumecliff, the inhabitants of which resettled in Asineau after the hobgoblin wars.

The story as told by Eleanor is:

At the end of the Great War, cataclysms shook the land as the mountains themselves collapsed and dust and ash blew far and wide. Our ancestors lived in the west, in the shadow of the Sentinel Range, and as the mountains themselves shook and trembled, they fled east. Three times they tried to settle, to build new homes, and three times they met disaster. The first time, they settled along a brook on the eaves of a wood, and were attacked by a centipede twice the size of a horse, and many died. They fled east. The second time, they settled on a hillock above a plain, and the very ground beneath their feet opened up and the hill itself collapsed, and many died. They fled east. The third time, they settled in a valley along a small river, and before long the river flooded, and the floodwaters brought snakes the size of a person, and many died. They fled east in despair, believing themselves cursed by the world, and doomed to never find a new home. The whole village prayed to each of the gods in turn, begging for help, for guidance, for a new home.

The next morning, a young boy, infamous for his betting, stood up, pointed to the south, and said: “Let’s try this way, I felt I must bet with my sister it would be best”. At the end of the day, the exhausted village found an old apple tree, unexpectedly full of out-of-season fruit. The next morning, an old woman, a notorious dicer, said: “Let’s try southwest, the dice speak of good tidings that way.” At the end of the day, the exhausted village found a pond so full of trout they could be plucked out of the water with bare hands. And this continued for three weeks, each morning, a dicer, a poet, a gambler, a transman, the village outcast, a old man plagued by hallucinations and voices in his head, and so on picked the way, feeling called in a direction, and each evening the exhausted village saw a sign of hope.

At the end of the third week, the villagers came upon a pleasant brook, running out of the Mostreve Hills, with many trout, and a wide flat plain good for crops, and rising land to the south, dotted with trees, and everyone awoke the next morning having had the same dream: of settling here, a village rising along the brook. And so they did, giving thanks to the Wyrdling for leading them to this place.