Open The Market The Festival of Sorrows, a Bully Harbor Holiday

[Perila Z. Mogul]

OOC:
Sad Merry 5th!
So this thread is all about celebrating the traditional Merry 5th holiday of the Festival of Sorrows, in which the grief and despair buried in the hearts of all Bully Harbor's citizens can be released without judgement for a day, a sort of shared communal mourning intended to be Therapeutic and Cheaper than sitting in an office jabbering to an expensive stranger. Also Cheaper than the Bully Harbor tradition of Going Postal, which the city's administration much prefer avoiding.
This thread doesn't have to be a particularly serious one, more just something fun and emotionally-charged for all our dear mentally-unwell animal people to let loose in.
Join in and join back out at will, do whatever you'd like while the city mourns for a day.
I hope to maybe have more threads like this for the various Imperial holidays, make them feel just a little more special.
Though this thread is listed as in the Marketplace, where the bulk of the despairers gather, you can theoretically have your characters wherever suits them.
No need to think too hard on timelines, if you want your character to participate, do so!
Enjoy! Despair!

BIC:
The sailors at port and a good number of soldiers at the Barracks, the dockworkers and warehouse workers, the clerks and secretaries, the trash sorters and Smelt newsies, nearly everyone got Merry 5th off; because though it wasn't technically a drinking holiday like nearly every other Bully Harbor tradition, beasts absolutely still drank, and every tavern from Pritchard's Pebble to the Blue Crab Saloon was packed... because nobody liked to deal with this day sober and the bartenders worked hard.
Porter and foot traffic slowed as Parades of Despair roamed the streets, made up of beasts of all creeds and classes weeping and wailing, some tearing out their fur, others flagellating themselves with traditional Therapeutic Flails, some donning strange frowning masks with tears painted spilling down their cheeks.
Bully Harbor had a lot to cry about, and the Festival of Sorrows was for doing just that... taking out all those bottled-up and grog-drowned emotions and dragging them up to the surface for a little while, giving them a little light, a little time.
Remember when your uncle exploded in that freak grog brewing accident and altered the course of your life forever?
How about all those generations of unprocessed familial trauma and grief from the wars that happened seemingly every decade like clockwork, taking a little more of your dwindling number of loves ones and the only home you ever knew each time?
Take to the streets, my mentally-unstable Bully Harborian friends and neighbors, let the whole city quake with your howls and sobs and the cheap paint-thinner grog flow.
There's a lot of grief to let out here, release it for a little while, maybe try some traditional Mourning Dove Toast at the food carts while you're at it (with Wet Turnip for those young and old with chewing difficulties) and wash it down with some Drowning Sailor Grog, specially priced and watered-down for the occasion at any place where booze is sold.
The Merry 5th Festival of Sorrows has come. Grieve a while, because once Merry 6th rolls around the Economy's cranking back up again and there'll be no more time for tears until next year.

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

Colonel Jere strode through the crowd in his usual full regalia, chestful of medals swinging and sabre at his side.
Many of the folks kicked up quiet a racket as they thrashed and moaned and boozed, shook their fists at the sky, cried "Why, world, WHY?" and got poorly-made tattoos of their lost loves at various sketchy tattoo tables.
The old fox both loved and hated this holiday. He appreciated it for its openness and honesty- it was rare beasts here did much with their emotions besides drink and punch things- but it also made him feel hollow.
He bore a lot of grief on the regular, let it out in the privacy of his office or his own home, thinking of his dear departed Thaddeus, or his father, or any one of his comrades lost in the half-dozen wars he'd been through for this city.
He stopped at a food cart ran by a rat with a wooden eye sniffling over the toast he was cooking over his portable woodstove, and purchased one of the Mourning Dove Toasts.
This version consisted of a chunk of wood pigeon cooked over a sunny side up Mystery Egg lain atop a somewhat burned slice of bread, and the Colonel nibbled gratefully at it as he wandered and people-watched, trying to rouse up enough of his deeply-held emotions to produce some tears.
He thought of Thaddeus' pale face, mouth hanging open and eyes staring blankly, and swallowed a lump in his throat before taking another bite of toast.
This 5 gilder chunk of burned toast is for you, you rogue.

 

[Nycaria Blayre Lafrey]

Nycaria Blayre Lafrey, Chief Detective of the Crossroads Detective Agency, for her part, sat quietly outside at a cafe table near the packed streets and sniffled into her coffee, wiping her nose on a fishbone-themed kerchief. She missed her dad. Never got to spend more than a couple years with the fellow before he up and drowned in the Harbor, but she carried on his and his buddy Nichact's baby, the CDA, for him.
By all accounts, he'd been a special ferret. A rogue and ne'er-do-well from the Navy turned roof-climbing, steel-swinging, case-cracking detective, and a playwright and poet who submitted his works to the Smelt and Harbor bookstores to boot.
He died in what, his late thirties? They could've had a whole life together, and Fate decided to make him fishbait instead of a father.
And Nichact Reptilius, he vanished not long after. Whether he was involved in her dad's mysterious death or not, the monitor lizard was just one more part of her father's life that was stolen from her. They'd been the best of friends, her mother said.
Why did every damn beast in the Imperium have to grow up in a broken household?
No wonder Bully Harbor was rife with suffering. Everybeast's life was miserable!
The ferret lowered her head and began to sob softly into her coffee, chest wracked, bowler tipped over her brow and tears splattering the brown surface of her beverage.
"W-why..." she mumbled. "H-Hell's bells..."

 

[FinnianBrightfur]

Finn sat down at the base of Oliver's Lantern, and curled his tail around his waist. He leaned back against the cold stone base of the memorial, and watched the beasts going about in their misery.

This is such a stupid holiday.

Occasionally, another family from the Ambleside would come by to visit and share a hug, and shed a tear. But there were other graves to visit, other sorrows to lament, and they'd depart eventually. Finn, however, had no where else to go.

Old widow Babinshaw was always the hardest to deal with. Every year, she'd come up and lambast Oliver and the crew. The Festival of Sorrows was bad enough, but her adding to them was unbearable.

"Don't see why they built this demmed memorial. Honoring the dumb brutes. Wrecklessness, that's what it is. Wrecklessness. Leavin' the rest of us, for what?"

Fortunately, Finn hadn't seen her yet. His face screwed into a scowl at the mere thought of her. Maybe the old hag finally kicked the bucket.

"Just you this year, Finny?"

Finn about jumped a foot in the air as he heard Babbinshaw's frail old voice. The kit frowned at her, before forcing himself to relax his expression. He'd have been mortified if she knew what he'd just been thinking.

"She lost someone too, Finny."

"BUT SHE'S WRONG! They were try'na save those beasts!"

"Didn't say she was right. But she's old, Finny. She doesn't have anyone else."

Finn still didn't like it, but he shelved his anger with a huff. "...just me."

Old Widow Babinshaw was silent, and looked on at the memorial in a quiet reverence. Finn disregarded her for some time -- and when he looked back, she was gone.

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

Duchess Dusk Rainblade hated this holiday. She found the whole thing so performative, everyone wailing out their grief to the listening ears of no one around them. It was self-indulgent to the point of gauche, and if there was anything that rankled Dusk's fur, it was beasts who were uncouth. She could sit down with a beast fully intent on murdering her and, so long as they were polite and witty about it, have a lovely time; sit her down with a tactless fool, however, and she'd be clawing for the door within minutes. On this day, it seemed like the whole of the Harbor was home to tactless fools.

Still, she was a minister, and making an appearance was expected of beasts of her position. She dressed all in black, a mourner's veil over her face, and carried a bouquet of red roses she'd stained nearly black by introducing ink into their water several days past. It had the lovely effect of making the roses look like they were actually bleeding. She kept her chin high, the picture of dignified desolation, like a widow holding herself together for the family. She glanced over at the fox next to her- a military beast, one well known to her. Colonel Harvon Jere, formerly M.A.U.L., now a leader in military intelligence. Between the Ministries of Misanthropy and War, the beast was a legend for his accomplishments here and abroad both. He certainly looked somber, but wasn't wailing and gnashing his teeth like the beasts around them. There was something dignified about that - to carry suffering without drawing attention to it. Solidarity without the smothering.

"It is all so much, isn't it?" Dusk commented, glancing at the officer. "All these beasts, wailing and begging for anyone to listen to their private woes. A city of mouths, and very few ears. Perhaps what we really need are booths on the streets where these beasts can confess their travails to a sympathetic ear, to unburden their souls." There was something to that idea; station M.A.U.L. agents at random throughout the listeners, and the Ministry would be certain to pick up on some kind of valuable intelligence, or at least some juicy secrets that could be exploited. Tie it in with some blackmail, and the holiday might very well pay for itself.

 

[Pomodu lu Modokunomulo]

A voice from Finn's other side spoke up, a strangely musical voice, albeit one distressed. "Why yu ah cryin'g?" The way she said crying was strange - it sounded like she was about to peel off the g and start another syllable with it, but instead it went nowhere. As strange as the accent was, the beast herself was even stranger. She seemed to be a massive ball of reddish-orange fur shoved into a seafoam green pantsuit atop a corset tied together with yellow ribbon. If there was a fashion she was trying to emulate, or even several, it was unclear what those might be; all of the design was ostensibly Vulpinsulan, but in combination, they were unrecognizable. The white patches on her snout, cheeks, and around her eyes seemed to make her facial expressions more exaggerated, like she were wearing clown makeup. Her pointed ears, tipped with black and barely sticking up above a thick mane of fur grown long around her head, twitched uncomfortably at the sounds of wailing around the street. In her paws, clutched and folded back and forth nervously, was a dog-eared copy of The Beginner's (Yes, YOU!) Guide to the Vulpine Imperium, penned by disgraced and deceased Mayor Anithias Freedom in his early career, which the beast was worrying between her paws. It almost seemed she might be lost, or have wandered into the crowd by mistake; she certainly seemed too fluffy to be at such an event. Most beasts covered themselves with ashes in order to seem appropriately desolate, or, if ashes were in short supply (indeed, the chimneysweep's guild made a point of collecting ashes throughout the year to sell at the solid markup of a gilder per cup during the festival), mud or filth would do in a pinch. This beast was, the normal contamination that came with existing in Bully Harbor aside, quite clean.

The beast hovered for a second, then looked at the monument, her lips moving as she sounded out the inscription. "In' memory of' di cruu of' di A-m'-b'-lu-sai-de..." she sounded out slowly, then her eyes lit up. "Di Amabulusaide!" She pointed eagerly up at the lantern, and she sang a snatch of song that, for the distortion of its melody into something with a far different beat than the original, was barely recognizable as The Wreck of the Ambleside. "Fo di Amabulusaide, shii wasu camingu! Fo di Amabulusaide, shii wasu camingu!" She smiled in clear joy at the monument, then, looking down at the young todd, she frowned. When she sat herself down next to him, there was a small whumpf, as if someone had dropped a large sack of flour from a great height. "Why cry?" she inquired of Finn. "Dey ah g'rii't heroes'. Immohta'l dey lii'f."

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade
The old fox shifted his eyes to the Minister of Misanthropy, and the ends of his long muzzle curved into a small smile. "You are ever the endless trove of schemes, Minister Rainblade." He said, his low, gruff voice rising somewhat to be heard over the ruckus of the people surrounding them.
He picked at the last of the toast on the cheap, disposable paper plate in his paw.
"Though I remain dubious on the value of knowing most of these whimperers' tales of woe, given how easily they let loose them today."
It was always an interesting time, sharing the company of Dusk Rainblade.
There was a time the splotchy-furred fox would have looked upon her with brooding envy, the cold heart in his chest with the M.A.U.L. emblem carved upon it beating eagerly for the position of Minister of Misanthropy.
Then the Winter War happened, and after years spent in his old homeland far away from Bully's smouldering, blood-soaked ruins so many of his comrades in M.A.U.L. and countless others died for, he returned with military aspirations on his mind. The rest was history.
For all his past ambitions, he'd be the first to admit the vixen made an excellent Minister of Misanthropy. She oozed disdain and was ever the fertile garden for amusing schemes, dark plots and dastardly operations.
The Colonel enjoyed talking to her, the times he had the opportunity to. He was glad for her company now; her disapproval of the waterworks around them helped make him feel less cold-blooded and hollow.
"Hey," the Colonel said, as they stopped near an old rowhouse adorned with tearful-eyed banners and he held the plate of half-eaten toast, egg and fried pigeon to the Duchess with a teasing, toothy grin. "Care to have the rest of this? Save yourself the crushing anguish of the high pricing here."
It was rare he joked. For some reason, the fox enjoyed doing it with her, though he plainly wasn't very good at it.

 

[Kaii Nashirou]

Kaii was at his lowest point once The Merry 5th came.

To him there was no difference between this day and any other recently. He woke once again among the rubble, looking like the lowest of the low. His pearly white fur was brown from grime and his clothing was in scraps. But he couldn't care less. Getting up with a rumble in his sunken belly from yet another day of forgoing food was his norm. But today there was audible sobbing that didn't come from him.

That was the only reason he remembered about it. The day of Sorrows. He laughed like a madman at the notion. He already lived a life filled with it.

But after a while instincts took over. And a small thread of will formed to at least join the rest of the city. Kaii couldn't exactly tell why. In his mind, it didn't matter where or how you suffer. It was all the same... Yet a small tug deep inside took him onto his paws and away from the ruins of his home he fought so hard for.

Not too long after he ended up among the other beasts, each of them mourning in their own way. He padded like a zombie through populated streets, looking around with gaze so cold and detached it could freeze someone on the spot.

Why do I even bother... Wasting energy on walking will only make me hungrier.

His mind gave him all logical reasons to stop right now and just give up. But if there was one thing Kaii had more than self-loathe and pain, it was his stubborn will to live and do something. So he just walked and walked, not caring at all about the others but acutely looking at the way they've coped with pain at this day.

Finally he stopped. Both from lack of energy but also from noticing something that got his attention. He stood in a small square where there was a small statue placed in the very center of it. There were few beasts around but not enough to crowd the space.

Kaii took a look at the statue and the old gears in his mind turned despite the rust. He started to remember this item. It was once at his home, sold to the city by his parents to cover his early education.

Staring at the small statue, for the first time in weeks he felt something. And it was anger.

A reminder of my uselessness. This money could've secure basic education for many. Instead I was the one to get it only to end up with nothing.

The longer he stared the more annoyed he was with this thing. There was only hatred in his soul, especially as his mind continued to bring random memories back. He knew what alloy this statue was made from. Knew who made it, who designed it or even what furnace smelted materials for it... it was made after all at one of the workshops of his family.

But that was exactly infuriating. He couldn't be bothered about any harm or pain. He didn't feel anything but hollow since he came back here. And yet his mind still reminded him of every single fact and piece of information it held.

In an act of desperation born in grief, he threw himself weakly, head first at the statue. An audible thud echoed around the square as he collapsed at the ground.

At least now I can mourn at peace... That was his last thought before he lost consciousness.

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

@Colonel Harvon M. Jere

Dusk couldn't stop her lips from curling into a smile that was very unsuitable for the holiday. There was something delightful about having someone to share in one's disdain. That was what, long ago, had drawn her and Talinn together. Their shared sense of superiority, rather than leading to conflict, had actually formed a harmonious bond between them, one that had resulted in five (four, she reminded herself; even thinking of Mina Rose was dangerous) kits and a marriage of nearly thirty years. And then... Well. There was a reason she was here alone tonight.

She glanced at the Colonel from the corner of her eye, assessing him from head to toe. He certainly was a handsome beast, she had to admit, and clever to wit. When they were younger, their paths had never crossed; they'd each been in M.A.U.L. at slightly different times, and the better that was for her, too, since he would almost certainly have been a rival for the minister position. Now, though, since they'd both returned to Bully Harbor, they'd met in passing a few dozen times, and each time had been like two graceful ships passing in the night, each one admiring the other as they sailed on by. He was a beast who understood the value of action and perception alike, who listened well and spoke deliberately and with a quiet, understated confidence that, for some reason, Dusk found to be highly alluring. If Talinn could see me now... Somehow, the image of his jealous face in her mind sent a shiver of pleasure right down to the tip of her tail. It'd be no more than he deserves.

Her smile curled into one of amusement at the offer of his leftover street food. "You know," she commented, "in some cultures, the sharing of food is considered a deeply intimate act." She took the food from his paw and, raising it beneath the edge of her veil, she slid the remaining Mourning Dove Toast into her mouth. She closed her lips around the meat, egg, and toast, raising the bouquet of roses to her nose to delicately obscure the motions of her chewing, then swallowed, letting out a satisfied sigh. "Delicious," she remarked, giving him a sidelong smile.

As they walked, she considered briefly before remarking, "For all of the cloying pageantry of the occasion, a day of mourning is hardly the most undesirable event. I suppose it is a function of experience that, over the years, my appreciation of the concept has grown... though not, it would seem, of the execution."

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade
The Colonel's green eyes studied her closely, brow raising as the vixen remarked on intimate foreign customs, downed his leftovers, and gave him a smile that sent a shiver down his spine and put a lump in his throat the like he hadn't felt in a long time.
Thoughts of lost loves only faded further from his mind, the warmth of the Minister's presence in that sea of shared anguish replacing it.
Jere turned and coughed so it'd be harder for his companion to catch the blush under his black, white and orange fur. "I am delighted my humble leftovers pleased you, Minister. I have heard that said about the sharing of food. Other things, too."
The todd continued his leisurely pace with her, breaking it only briefly to shove a drunk rat out of the vixen's path. His tail wagged happily behind him, and he gave a nod at her words as he cast a glance over the Market streets. They were approaching a monument in the Square he recognized as dedicated to the sloop Ambleside, not far from an elegant white stone obelisk dedicated to the fallen heroes of the various Alkamarian Wars, the Winter War included. He felt a pang in his heart, and took the bicorne from his head a moment as they walked.
"Indeed. A day of shared sorrows could certainly serve to have more class, but Bully does as She does. It is healthy," he released a sigh, "to grieve. I am well-acquainted with the process."
The tall dogfox paused in his step and turned to gaze at Dusk a moment, before holding out his arm with a secretive smile, the various medals on his jacket front clinking gently. "Given we have already been navigating through this rabble together," he said, swishing his brush, "I hope you do not find it untoward of me to ask that I escort my Minister by the arm? I have noticed you rarely treated as such, and for a lady of your grace, stature and power, ..." his voice lowered to a husky rumble. "Well, that is a shame."

 

[SwifttailTheFox]

Swifttail lounged miserably in the small booth seat he had wandered into at the Bilge. Why had he even decided to come in here? There was no lesser reprieve from the moaning and sobs from the vermin inside as there was out. He didn't even like drinking!

He glanced over at two weasels, doubled over each other, sobbing tears at a rate he didn't think was possible. Their tears had already soaked through an entire napkin dispenser. Metal and all!

The remnants of a desiccated sandwich lay in front of him, two and a half bites taken out of it before becoming forgotten. A fly crawled atop of it. His attention drawing back to the table in front of him, he signed and waved away the fly. It lazily buzzed off, but lingered close by, waiting for Swift to inevitably forget about the food again.

Its been five years since I first set paw on these shores. He realized, shaking his head.

When his life boat carried him into Bully harbour with the three other survivors of The Reapers Howl, mere days later was his first Merry 5th experience. It had come as such a shock to the poor emaciated Todd that it had led him into thinking he was about the be reclaimed by an angry spirit, keen on stealing him back to the depths where he, by all accounts, should have ended up.

Why was I the one to survive? Why did everyone else have to leave me and the fates let me stay? Surely they were mistaken...

On any other day, he'd be able to push down these thoughts. Bear the guilt of survival by promising to remember and fight each day to survive. But on these days when the spirits were after him, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd let them win.

That's why he chose to hide in a place he oft not tread. It was harder for the thoughts to win there. Maybe the spirits couldn't find him there. He just had to lay low and wait for the agony to subside. If he made it to tomorrow, he'd make it at least another year.

Grabbing a cup of murky grogg with a notable oil slick sheen, he downed it and winced painfully. Bloomin' stoats the taste was bad, and the burn was sharp and unpleasant. Keeping up the act wasn't without it's pains.

All he had to do was wait out the clock, and hide in terrified misery as he waited for midnight to toll on the clocktower. The spirits will be gone again after midnight...

 

[FinnianBrightfur]

Finn's ears flicked in annoyance. The last visitor had used up his last bit of goodwill on this wetched day, and he pulled at his headfur in frustration.

"I'm not crying!" he said firmly. It was the truth, though denying it never seemed to help. The foxkit turned to leer at the intruder, but was stunned to find... well. Pomodu. His jaw dropped in shock as he scrambled to find words. Having never seen a red panda before, Finn had absolutely nothing to compare her to. Pomodu was perhaps the largest beast he'd ever seen. Was she a very fat fox? Or a vulpine hybrid with a mustelid? Her paws were massive like a bear's, but her tail was ringed like a rahkhuun. (Rahkoohn?)

The kit opened his mouth to answer her question -- but before he could, she was leaning over the inscription at the memorial, and struggling to pronounce it. Again, Finn opened his mouth to correct her pronounciation, but was cut off by her singing. The kit had a small affection for Gordon Lightpaw (and singing in general) -- and yet even he found her rendition tough to endure.

As the... generous... woman came to sit by him, Finn leaned away to avoid being sat on. (As previously mentioned, there were already enough sorrows for today.) As an orphan, his general order-of-operations would normally be to figure out how to ply generosity from his marks, but today was his day off. As a self employed beast, Finn had given himself the holiday.

"Im-MOH-ta'l? ...you mean, immortal?" he said, struggling through her thick accent. "...oh. Yeah. Heroes never die," he said sullenly. Seemingly, it wasn't the first time he'd heard the line.

His mind wandered back to the bitter old widow. As much as her words stung, Finn didn't know how to refute her argument. All he could do was plug his ears, and refuse to think about it. Normally, Finn found it easy to write Babinshaw off, but now, here was some stranger calling his father a hero. Paradoxically, he wanted to parrot the widow's argument -- just to spite the kindness she was showing him. The fox kit was miserable, and would enjoy his misery.

Finn looked defiantly at the red panda and opened his mouth to speak, but his words caught in his throat. He didn't have it in him to disparage the memory. Dejectedly, he looked off to the ground, and idly picked at a pebble stuck in the cobblestone mortar.

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk felt a small thrill course through her at the Colonel's chivalrous offer. She could feel an ache forming in her gut, and she briefly wondered how long it had been. Her mind supplied the answer immediately; she could even pinpoint it down to the day if she'd so cared, but the number of years was sufficient to make the point. To her surprise, a small part of her felt guilt as she pondered whether or not this would count as infidelity to Talinn.

He made his choice, a savage, self-righteous voice within her declared. He has his fun; you deserve yours. That didn't quite sooth the unease, but it did quiet it a bit. Dusk slipped her arm through the Colonel's adjusting her gait to match pace with his. "You honor me, Colonel," she flattered him, turning a sly smile his way from beneath her veil. "It remains surprising to find such an eligible todd of public esteem and accolade unaccompanied by a femme already. I do home that, should you be one of those soldiers married to their country, the Bella Vulpinsula will not take offense should I take some of her husband's time."

~ ~ ~

Pomodu's fallen face and wide eyes were the very picture of perplexed as she tried to sort through the difference between his words and his tone. "Yesu," she confirmed, "dey die, de'n dey co'me ba'ck. Da't is how de Valupinusula i's, yesu?" Her expression turned quizzical as she looked up at the lantern. "Dey no co'me ba'ck now?"

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle adored this festival.

Oh, not for the grief! Goodness, no. The grief was palpable, thick in the air like incense and stewed onions. It clung to cloaks, to whiskers, to paw-pads. But grief had a curious side effect, one that the hedgehog practically thrived upon: it loosened the soul.

He stood beaming at the center of the throng, his cart nearly overstuffed with sparkling vials of Brightmirth Brew, the labels glinting in the greylight like stained glass. Sky blue. Coral pink. Honey gold. Each stoppered flask gave a soft fizz if jostled, like laughter trying to escape.

"Single vial for half a rock," he chimed musically, raising one paw high. "Two for a gilder, three for more! Come now, friends, you look miserable! Let's fix that!"

And oh, how they came.

The crowd pressed close, silver coins held aloft like offerings at an altar. One poor stoat was weeping into her kerchief and bought twelve bottles on the spot. Another bought a full tray, muttering something about “three funerals and one divorce.” There was an argument near the back when a short-fused noble weasel tried to cut the line, only to be bludgeoned with a walking stick by a furious elder stoat who, despite her hunched posture, wielded it like a halberd.

The gilders poured in. And so did the chaos.

"Porter! More honey gold!" Thistle called, snapping his claws.

The Porter, that bent, muttering shadow with too-long fingers and eyes like black beads, dashed back toward the supply stack, limbs splaying like a spider in a hurry. Crate after crate he hauled, groaning under the weight, only to be intercepted mid-run by a tear-streaked fox kit, whose mournful eyes and erratic zig-zagging were a danger to paw-traffic alike.

The Porter yelped. Crate tilted. A bottle tumbled.

Thistle's paw flashed out and snatched it mid-air with practiced ease.

"My stars, Porter, watch the goods! We’re selling joy, not drama." His tone was half-chide, half-chuckle, already forgotten by the time he spun back to the masses.

A raccoon thrust a pouch of coin at him.

"How many can I get for a gold note?"

"How unhappy are you, darling?"

The raccoon blinked. "...Moderately?"

Thistle handed her six bottles. "Then this should make you dangerous."

He giggled to himself and pocketed the gilders, which were now overflowing from a little lockbox behind the cart’s wheel. Somewhere nearby, a dirge played on a single fiddle. A mourner wailed. The vials sparkled.

Thistle leaned against his cart with a contented sigh.

"Bless this glorious gloom," he murmured. "They never want healing more than when they think they’re broken."

 

[FinnianBrightfur]

Finn stared in disbelief at Pomodu. He'd just been starting to wonder if she wasn't from around these parts -- but now he was concerned she'd arrived from another dimension.

Perhaps she was punishment from the universe for how poorly he'd thought of old widow Babinshaw. Goodness, he wouldn't mind her company now. The panda's questions were perhaps even more painful to answer.

"...no, they don't come back..." he mumbled. Finn drew his knees to his chest, and rested his chin there. "Y'ain't never lost anyone?"

 

[Pomodu lu Modokunomulo]

Pomodu stared up at the lantern before looking back down to Finn, something in her expression reflecting an inner struggle to process what she'd been told. "My papa," she admitted. "He die'd. Our peopuh, we no retur'n foh hu'n'du're'du year'su. Bu't I ti'n'ke'du i'nu Valupinusula, dey retur'n very fa's'tu. So, I come he're. I ho'pe maybe, i'fu I a'me he're, maybe he..."

She started to cry. It was the most disconcerting sound one could imagine; her massive body shaking as she made tiny, chirping little sobs. She leaned over and picked Finny up and, like a kit with a teddy badger, she wept as she hugged Finn to her. It was, at least, an incredible hug. She must have had a truly incredible amount of fur under that tacky pantsuit, because it was the plushest hug perhaps in Vulpinsulan history.

 

[Callix Noxi]

The unnerving stare of Squad Captain Noxi roved across the market and occasionally the members of her squad who loitered about, some blubbering, some cold, some well enough to attention. Had Callix the mind for spycraft, this would surely be an opportunity to fish for secrets and weaknesses. As it was, her interest remained solely in keeping the peace. The Festival of Sorrows was not without its violence, whether due to miscreants preying on others or prejudices cropping up where pain had been reminded.

She shed no tears while on duty, if she would even do so alone, but as she did every year, the monitor mourned the loss of her first Fogey partner. It was foolish, for she had long since learnt how inefficient and unloved the repulsive stoat had been, but he had been someone who had accepted her without qualm. Her heart ached for all the comrades she had lost over the years since her arrival on this island, and even for Mayor Freedom whom she had respected yet not truly known.

Recognising her focus slipping, Callix straightened up and narrowed her eyes at the peddling hedgehog, suspicious as to where trouble might erupt.