Open Chronicles Saint Clover's Day

[Carling d'Argent]

Saint Clover's Day always rolled around in the early Summer. In Alliria, it was observed simply for a goblin centuries ago that liked to get away with mischief. There had been months stretching into years of things being misplaced without recollection, your boots that you habitually left at the foot of the bed now hidden in the dry stores. One inside the sack of flour, and the other hidden in the oats. It was harmless tricks, but it had moved a generation to playing such pranks on their neighbours or friends.

Clover then began to spread his glee all over the city. The water would turn gold for a day, scaring two thirds of the population from using it! These hijinks would increase, and always in good fun, for what was the use in spite?

Every one deserved to have some fun. ​

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This year, Saint Clover's Day came in the celebration of a festival. It took over Old Oak Row, the historic market place in the Outer City that littered the stretch of road beside the canal.

The thing about today's market was simple: all the wares were not what they appeared to be. Why, Carling had just happened by a stall that was selling very large buttons and too tiny and small buttons. None of which seemed practical unless you were some sprite or giant!

In fact, Carling had strode into Old Oak Row and promptly forgot what this day celebrated. That ale was not quite ale... and for a minute, the elf had been burping up bubbles that shimmered when they popped. It was fun, when one got over the disappointment of thinking you were buying cheap ale. This day, if anyone wanted a proper drink, then one would need to venture out of Old Oak Row to obtain it.

"Oh, what we got here?" She remarked aloud, hands on her hips as she came to a stop before a bakery stall. She squinted her yellow eyes, leaning in to read the sign inked before the wares. "Bird call biscuits?" A chuckle escaped her.

Some stalls advertised what sort of experience one would find, fashioned to dare and intrigue, whereas others liked to leave a little mystery to see what luck one would get.

 

[Nuir]

It was a coincidence that Nuir's first visit to Aliria had come on a festive day. He felt it was quite fortunate. There was something endearing to him about this flavor of whimsy. The sort that would bite back if you weren't careful. Perhaps it made him a little nostalgic for home ... .though such ‘fun’ he remembered from his youth wasn't always harmless. Among his young peers had been some who resented easily and never forgot the score. He imagined that no one would hold grudges over these vaguely sweet tricks. The healer had also wandered into a purchase.

A small child had been selling flower crowns just outside the old oak row. He had popped the ring of clovers and small butter yellow flowers onto his head to humor her only to realize it couldn’t be removed. Seeing him try to pry it free a few times had earned a few giggles from the girl and passerby. It set a small smile on his face. He would just have to hope he didn't need to have any terribly important and serious discussions until the enchantment wore off. If he'd worn his cloak he could put the hood up. Alas because of the warm weather he had left it at the Inn. Nuir still felt awfully stifled in warmer climates so he had begun dressing in lighter clothes.

His eyes scanned over the stalls as he strolled with interest. One had to admit the whole thing was very creative. Just when he had begun thinking he might buy a drink to lessen the heat of the day he saw a reminder to be wary. Nuir chuckled as a woman nearby burped what seemed to be sparkling bubbles. Only after the novelty had passed did he recognize her.
Nuir gave a bit of a friendly wave to get her attention.
“Oh! I believe….we've met before!” His voice was enthusiastic if a bit quiet under the din of the festivities.

 

[Afanas]

Under the waning light of an overcast sun, Saint Clover’s Day unfurled its green banners and raucous pageantry like a bloom of hedonism amid the marble austerity of Alliria’s ancient avenues. The air carried the acrid tang of pipe-smoke and roasted boar, mingled with the heady perfume of spilled wine and crushed herbs trod underfoot by revelers. Jugglers with faces daubed in harlequin shades somersaulted past street-corner prophets, while barmaids clashed tankards with sailors and sellswords, laughter and curses alike echoing off the temple spires.

Amidst this teeming bedlam strolled Afanas, a shadow of grim composure, incongruous among the merrymakers. His stride was measured, bearing the languid menace of a panther unbothered by the braying of monkeys. Cloaked in a sable mantle adorned with brooding, moonstone-like carapaces that glistened like the eyes of some nameless sea beast, he looked more sorcerer than soldier. A broad-brimmed hat shaded his eyes, though not enough to hide their stygian irises.

Two armored guards flanked him like oaken pillars, faceless beneath visored helms, the steel of their halberds gleaming against the murk of late afternoon. Their silent vigilance betrayed neither fear nor familiarity with the one they guarded.

Afanas paused before a stall strung with charms and trinkets of dubious enchantment, his lips curling in an expression that was more wry than amused.

"How strange," he murmured, his voice a velvet rasp. "That I, who once hunted monsters beneath the Wailing Fens, should now require protection from street thieves and pickled celebrants."

One guard, younger but no less serious than his colleague, shrugged under his chainmail. “Stranger still would be the Lord Commander without his honor guard during a festival. It's protocol, my Lord. Tradition’s burden."

"Lord, that title never sat well with me," Afanas said with a wan smile. "It is a pompous moniker fit for craven courtiers and soft-bellied kings. I've never fancied myself a noble, and these lands know naught of feudal chains."

Afanas’ gaze drifted to a garlanded statue of Saint Clover — patron of reckless luck and merrymaking — and his mouth twisted in a grimace that might’ve been a smile or a snarl.

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

After some years of idly accruing wealth to his house and merrymaking with foreign dignitaries did Petrus once again find himself stepping into the proverbial light of Alirian politics. One would think, given his rather serious and dour demeanor, that he would despise a holiday built on the disruptions and stupidity of a single imbecile with too much free-time and not enough sense. Which, of course, was true.

But in this instance his practical appreciation for all the demand for wine overruled his personal disdain for the holiday's perfidious origins and, thusly, House Iskandar made a showing of itself to honor the holiday. It was, most certainly, less rambunctious than many of the outer streets crowded with harlequins and harlots but a finer place to indulge in drink of any variety could likely not be found even in this wonderful city of theirs.

The gold-on-black sun of his house stood in billowing standard marking the square he had reserved. Drink, food and even games to make merry in littered what was usually a series of open stalls and public forums. Indeed the winners of these games could even expect monetary rewards in some cases though these offerings were, of course, much less than even the humblest cost of any drink on offer. This display was one for him to deepen his coffers after all.

Petrus even made a public appearance in fine gold-on-black attire. A sash of traditional greens draped over himself as some token display of supposedly festive spirit. Though, like the sash overlaying his usual attire, his enjoyment of the event was not even skin-deep. Even so one of his house, clad in armor polished to a parade sheen, would request his ear and inform him that the Lord Commander was in attendance. An opportunity, perhaps, as the vampiric man's reputation had a habit of preceding him.

So it was that with a hand Petrus would give an order for a special vintage of wine, one infused with life essence enough to satiate a creature such as the Lord Commander, would be delivered humbly to him with a bow tied to it's spout. The servant in question performing the delivery bowing a respectful distance from his guards even as the already ostentatious event livened up a little.

For starters some ne'er-do-well attempted to scramble their way into the square under House Iskandar's purview, burgling something in their midst and causing no small disturbance as they were tackled, beaten with a sap, and apprehended succinctly.

Secondly the nobleman made a display of having a large standing patch prepared in the midst of the forum, gathering a crowd and raising a ringed hand holding an acorn betwixt his fingers, the nobleman's druidic magic would drain the life and potential from the acorn before given rise to a full tree in bloom from the soil, fully-formed grapes magically spurred to life in vines that interwove in it's boughs.

This exertion of his magic would, of course, tax him just a bit despite the catalyst of the acorn. Causing the amber in his ring to glow softly s the crowd cheered and picked grapes. The literal fruits of his magical labor and, of course, their spending increased.

Lastly, however, this magical exertion did have the side-effect of causing any nearby who were either elven or descended from Fey stock to experience a magical effect themselves. A euphoric, intoxicating sensation radiating out from the magical expression, more potent and alluring than the most sumptuous roast and a tinge more addicting than any alcohol or narcotic being sold today.

 

[Afanas]

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Afanas stood like a carved idol of some forgotten god—immobile, immense, watching. The air thickened with the taste of sorcery as Petrus chanted, the words dry and ancient, flaking from his tongue like ash from a pyre. The crowd buzzed with murmurs, but Afanas heard none of it. His attention had tunneled, narrowed to the druid alone.

A strange pressure coiled behind his brow. He inhaled slow, and something inside him stirred.

Then his eyes began to change.

Gone was the flat abyssal blackness of a merciless sea. In its place, a glimmering silver-white sheen poured forth, like moonlight on steel. The pupils thinned into vertical slits, ophidian and eternal, each one a dagger-point of cold insight. The guards flanking him stiffened—one reached instinctively toward the hilt at his hip. The other dared a glance and recoiled, sweat already beading his brow.

Afanas grunted—a sound that seemed torn from the deeps of the earth, like a glacier cracking under its own weight.

And then he moved.

He passed between the guards. They did not follow. One of them accepted the flask of wine with rigid hands and an even rigid-er nod.

There was no question in his stride, no hesitation in the set of his jaw. The crowd edged away without knowing why. Afanas's stride cut through them like a silent axe, eyes gleaming with a light that did not belong in a human skull.

His shadow fell across the writhing figure on the floor—bloodied, groaning, limbs slack as wet rope.

"Enough," Afanas said. "He's already halfway to the grave. No need to drive him the rest."