The Kingdom of Stoicus wakes to the first rays of the sun, and the city readies itself for the festivities.
Pink banners hang over the streets. Workshops and shops open their doors. The first batches of bread and biscuits are set out on the counters, shedding a warm, sweet aroma that mingles with the sugary scent of the flower stalls. Wood and metal artisans sell little figurines of Saint Valentine, along with rustic jewelry for men looking for a gift to give their girlfriends, wives, or favorite lovers.
From the temple district comes the smell of incense, drifting through the air from early in the morning. A carriage carrying a three-meter-tall effigy of the holy hero Valentine, its feet wrapped in flowers, is hauled by mules through the various inner districts of the walls. Dozens of children scramble behind it, catching the candies and blessings tossed by the priestesses riding the carriage. The sick and the crippled—too poor to pay for treatment, or too sinful to pray in a temple—also chase the effigy in the hope of being healed. A pedestrian crossing nearby by sheer chance gasps in surprise, touching his lower back as he feels his lumbar pain vanish.
Based on the portraits painted by the jousting master's assistant, long linen posters are printed and plastered across different stretches of the main streets to promote the matches. Since most of the populace cannot read, the illustrations emphasize the fierce profiles of the participants to draw their attention. The artist took several creative liberties; Marcus was depicted with a squarer, far more pronounced jawline than he actually had.
The mage company The Seventh Seal was hired by the jousting master to handle the broadcast of the event. A mage of the Elemental School of Water (one of the sixteen branches of sorcery) positions himself in front of every fountain in every crowded square, raises his arms, casts a spell, and the water rises to form a sphere.
Meanwhile, at the jousting arena—where stands and viewing platforms have been built—a wooden watchtower has also been erected. Atop it sits a booth occupied by three mages: one from the School of Force, another from the School of Divination, and the last from the School of the Mind. The casual chatter they were sharing ceases when it is time to work.
The first mage levitates a series of crystal balls that float across the length and breadth of the lists. The second mage captures the image through the crystal balls and links them to the water spheres in the squares. The third mage does the same with the sound, which carries well through water. Dirt or ripples in the liquid distort the quality of the image, but among the commoners gathering to watch, there isn't a shred of complaint; it is a luxury, and it is free.
The crystal balls of The Seventh Seal aren't the only ones in the sky. There are also private mages, hired by nobles or wealthy commoners. These sorcerers send the images to wide mirrors placed in spacious halls, using telepathy to broadcast the sound within an area marked by a circle of beeswax (chalk is considered tacky among nobles and the rich). The butlers ensure the broadcast runs flawlessly for the future delight of their masters.
The jousts aren't the nobility's only entertainment. Hedonistic heirs gather at The Jade Palace, a mansion in the noble district easily recognized by the color of its walls. Secret invitations trade hands until they reach the right ones, while smugglers' crates, hidden among sacks of food, are brought into the estate to be opened and inspected by the servants. Inside the crates are golden animal masks, loose and light red togas, foreign liquors, and aphrodisiac salts. No food goes to waste; the cooks prepare a massive banquet to sustain the Bloferan Festivities, a local gathering whose name is an "innocent reference" to the daughter of the archdemon Helleborus. A three-day, three-night orgy where the nobles turn their most desperate fantasies into reality, accompanied by the most coveted courtesans, male and female alike, and even invited common folk.
In general, a common girl would see such an invitation as an opportunity—whether to taste the sweetness of wealth, or to spawn a bastard who might bring her a better quality of life (if the father happens to have a shred of conscience regarding his blood). But when the carriage carrying the invitation arrived at Lynel's house and his granddaughter read the letter, she turned into a raging dragon, spewing such filth from her mouth that the messengers feared for their lives and fled.
For a common man, being invited to the Bloferan Festivities is merely a casual encounter of pleasure—though rumors persist of strange romances born from it.
Carnal displays of love aren't born solely of secrecy. At the temple of Amore, the goddess of fertility, beautiful priestesses prepare themselves so that, on the third night of the Saint Valentine's festivities, an orgy known as The Night of Solace may take place. This is meant for men and women who remain single or feel lonely in life. The priestesses aren't usually very demanding—Amore is a goddess who demands love for all living beings—yet a basic standard of hygiene is required after the novices complained about certain men.
Soldiers stand guard at Amore's pink temple, among them Baldo, who can't take his eyes off the giggling priestesses winking at him and fluttering their thin tunics. The spearman sighs with longing, but he can't lower his guard. In past years, conservative groups attempted to burn down the pink temple, deeming it a house of adultery and heresy, shouting heavy accusations such as "Amore, the goddess pregnant by a thousand incubi!" or "More than priestesses, they're all whores!"
"I think I'll take my break," Baldo says to a fellow soldier, who immediately scowls, assuming the spearman wants to slack off. "Nothing like that, man! I've got a gift to drop off for a buddy at the castle."
…
The sun at its zenith marks midday. Two hours remain until the jousts.
Marcus sits on his bed in the barracks, clad in his leafy green armor, holding his wooden helm between his hands. He keeps his head down, his brow furrowed in concentration, repeating over and over in his mind that he cannot afford to lose.
Pit and Baldo arrive and greet him. Marcus lifts his face and allows himself to smile.
"You look like a walking bush in that weird armor!" Baldo says. "Hope it's good for taking a beating, at least."
"We tried to bring Harris, but we don't know where he ran off to," Pit says.
"Probably out walking hand in hand with that mysterious girl of his! Boy's lovesick, I swear. Poor bastard's making a mistake—instead of throwing his youth away getting tied down, he should be hopping from flower to flower," Baldo says.
Both soldiers bring gifts. Pit hands him an elongated object wrapped in linen cloth, which reveals itself to be a longsword in a wooden scabbard with a metal tip and throat. Marcus stands up and draws it, giving a thrust into the air. Good weight, good balance, double-edged, with a crossguard. The young soldier also notices a certain warmth radiating from the weapon.
"Heard that Wolfen guy is famous for breaking his enemies' weapons, so I took the sword to a temple and paid a priest to imbue it with [Body Temple]. It's got three charges," Pit says.
Skill: Body Temple.
Description: For 60 seconds, the user's body gains heroic toughness. The degree of resistance varies and depends on the user's mental fortitude.
[Body Temple] stems from The Arduous Temperance, a fighting school shared by the soldiers of Stoicus, known for being easy to learn but difficult to master. [Sacred Slash] does not belong to that martial school; it was brought over by Hilda, and Marcus was one of the few who managed to master it.
"I appreciate it, friend," Marcus says, sharing a hug with the big guy.
"Hold on, don't waste all your gratitude on Pit! You haven't seen my gift yet!" Baldo says, handing over a wrapped object that reveals itself to be a shield.
Wood reinforced with leather, plated with a metal cross, and lined with thick steel edges. Marcus adjusts the straps to his arm and moves it; it feels solid, yet versatile enough. The young soldier is about to thank him, but the intense perfume soaking the shield makes him turn his face away and cough.
Baldo nods, smiling smugly.
"I don't need priests to work my magic," Baldo says, pointing a thumb at his chest. "I heard Wolfen is a real womanizer, so I asked Red and her friends to bless the shield their own way. That way, every swing from that third-rate adventurer will head straight for the center! The perfume's just to cover up the smell."
"Cover up the smell...?"
Marcus isn't sure he wants to know what kind of blessing Baldo is talking about.
The creak of the barracks door echoes. The soldiers look over, expecting to find any of their comrades, but the second they recognize the visitor, they grab their weapons and brace for the worst.
Wolfen the Gale.
The tanned adventurer raises both hands in front of him, asking for calm.
"I'm just here to talk."
"Don't listen to him, Marcus. It's gotta be a trap," Baldo says.
The adventurer flashes a half-smile and rests his hands on his hips.
"I don't need cheap tricks like that to deal with you tin-can soldiers. I'm actually here at my slave's request. She won't stop begging me to go easy on you, and she's becoming insufferable."
Marcus remembers the young archer with her hair swept to one side, and the steel choker marking her as someone's property. The young soldier tightens both hands around the hilt of his sword.
Wolfen keeps talking.
"It's very simple. If you apologize to me, I'll forget about you and your sister, and you won't have to throw your life away in the arena."
…
Hilda makes sure everything is in order. She wears her usual gray steel armor with a black cloak and surcoat. These are days of celebration, but duty never rests. She circles the lists several times, ensuring the soldiers maintain constant patrols. She cannot allow anything to go wrong when they are right next to the castle.
She speaks with the group of priests in charge of supervising the matches and healing the wounded. Ideally, deaths should be avoided, though there have been cases of decapitations and hearts pierced during jousts—executions that prevent resurrection. Luckily, sinister tragedies like those have never stained the jousts held in Stoicus.
"Lady Hilda, for you," a timid voice speaks behind her.
The inquisitor turns and raises an eyebrow. One of the castle maids holds out an object to her.
"It's a gift from a secret admirer," the maid says.
The captain's single eye widens in surprise. She takes a deep breath, exhales, and, far calmer now, accepts the small pink wooden chest.