It’s 30 minutes until midnight and the river’s delta is gleaming with bits of gold dust coming off the tips of the fires scattered about. Dragon-tailed lanterns illuminate the paths as multi-generational families recount raucous stories.
Overheard, a gravelly voice mixed with sincerity comes from an elderly kobold: “Do you remember that time when...”
Cut off, an innocent yet bright voice coming from a toddler yells, “We’ve already gone over this, ông nội! I wasn’t even born yet! You and grandma met ages ago...!”
A family of seven bursts out into loud laughter as they filter into the streets, seamlessly mixing in with the noises of carts carrying crafts and garments, silks and spices; from afar, melodies of wood, wind, and percussion firmly grace the air.
It’s the second day of the Festival of the Loss: Xa Hoi’s yearly celebration of the lives of the recently deceased, but also the ancestors that have been watching over the collective for centuries.
Bordering each side of the river, home cooks, restaurant chefs, and food stall owners squat, cooking fragrant foods on portable stoves and fires. Closer to the water are tables draped with lucky red fabric, used year after year, dishes placed carefully. The food is surrounded by burning incense that wafts up to the heavens:
· Pillowy, perfectly cooked rice next to crisped, barbecued game glazed with a translucent, sweet red sauce that reflects all the lanterns and lights.
· Bowls of fragrant broth, simmered for a full day prior to pull the flavor from livestock bones and aromatics into the perfect infusion, filled with tender noodles and garnished with fresh herbs.
· Beautiful golden pancakes still sizzling on the griddle, loaded with glowing leaves and minced meat, folded into half-moon parcels.
· Rice paper rolls stuffed to the brim with fresh vegetables, herbs, noodles, and steamed prawns caught and delivered just the morning prior, served next to a sweet, crunchy peanut sauce.
· A three-layered bean and jelly parfait drizzled with a viscous cream, multicolored glutinous rice dumplings in a ginger syrup, and big, round fried pastries covered with seeds, filled with a mixture of locally harvested sweet beans.
Yet, no one has approached the tablescape. Though outsiders might be curious why this mile-long spread adorning the riverside isn’t being touched, for the people of Xa Hoi, it’s because it’s tradition. You see, the dead always eat first.
Legends have been told of ancestors who moved to the afterlife and existed miserably because they were forgotten. Instead of joining those who've moved on peacefully to look over their family’s health and luck, these now-lost souls are cursed for eternity. Wondering why their families have forgotten them they manifest as bad luck, nightmares, or even come to our mortal plane themselves, seeking attention and respect.
This is why the dead always eat first. The meals are put out under the full moon of the Festival of the Loss to invite those who protect Xa Hoi to join in celebration, feast, and remembrance.
Illustration by Luis Salas Lastra
As the hour and minute hand of clocks join at midnight, there’s one more moment of silence. A single, unified prayer. One big breath inhaled together with hands pressed close to the hearts—families are sending final well-wishes to their loved ones. Then, as if on cue, the chaotic symphony of music and laughter and joyous conversation rises back to fill the streets along the river as families take turns making their plates and enjoying the delicious, jubilant dinner.
As some folks go back for seconds, many start making their way toward the center of the city of Ngon Hoa, where the rivers meet. Shining brighter than the lanterns that line the river, a stage next to the water is covered with vibrant tapestries lined with golden trim. Embroidered into the curtains are stitched portraits of dragons and warriors and empresses and flowers, seamlessly flowing into each other like scenes from a play, draping across the fabric.
Though performers have been rotating throughout the night, in and out of the larger festival grounds, with lighter crowds watching and cheering them on, now, people start to enter en masse, staking their place on the damp, grassy ground with blankets and stools to see the annual water puppetry show, Múa rối nước. On stage, the orchestra sets up gongs, wooden flutes, drums, chimes, and string instruments rarely seen outside of Xa Hoi. At the stage’s edge, closest to the water, lie ornate hand-carved wooden puppets, ranging from humans to dragons, merfolk, and nagaji, mirroring the crowd that has gathered around.
The spotlights bolt up and down, right to left, finally converging to shine over the river, and the water seems to slow down. The Sorcerer Storytellers rise enchantingly from below the surface and begin the show to roaring applause. They recount stories over the water to tell of this year’s troubles and successes, their magic manipulating not only the puppets from the stage, but shaping the water itself with swipes of their hands like a timeless dance that’s both familiar and not from this world. Their silken garments, meticulously crafted by masterful seamstresses, almost seem to enhance their dragon-blooded magic, each embroidered stitch exuding small glimmers of light as they perform. Dramatic scenes reenact wars with swelling, cacophonous music and powerful imagery, these darker moments interwoven with flashes of occasional victorious triumphs while plumes of water fly high to the sky in unison with the music.
As the show ends with a magnificent finale, swirls of iridescent water whipping around in a display of elegant magic, the festivities start to wane. At a glance across the river, the ornate and lavish outfits start to dwindle as workers change into their ordinary uniforms. The next day's tasks still must be done. The incense has burned down to the bottom, leaving small piles of gray ash at the base of ceramic bowls. Performers start packing up their instruments and tear down their festival stages. Carts that once held celebratory candies and toys are stowed away for household wares and common fabrics—the tables’ lucky red clothes are folded up and stored for next year’s celebration, too. Farmers head back toward their plots to tend to the crops and livestock. Store owners start opening shops for the last few hours before the sun starts to rise once more in Xa Hoi.
About the Author
Danny Quach (he/him) is a tabletop marketing professional by day and the internet’s emotional support himbo by night. He’s the author of Digital Thiccness, a substack dedicated to making information about marketing, social media trends, and building digital communities as accessible as possible, sprinkled with personal musings and projects and pop culture through a queer lens. When he’s not writing and collaborating on TTRPG projects, Danny can be found lifting heavy things, eating tasty things, watching scary movies, and listening to 2000s emo/screamo music. Follow him on Twitter, TikTok, and Instagram.
To bring this and other Tian Xia stories to life in your Pathfinder game, check out the Pathfinder Lost Omens Tian Xia World Guide (releasing in April) and the Pathfinder Lost Omens Tian Xia Character Guide (releasing in August), both available for preorder now—Customers who subscribe to the Lost Omens product line will receive both books and a complimentary PDF of each upon their respective release!
