The Rearing Stallion
The celebrations were like nothing Seamus had ever seen before. The Stallion was packed to well over capacity, to the point where there were as many people inside the Tavern as there were spilling out onto the avenue. Ale was flowing like a fountain, and bottles of wine were being consumed by the hundreds. Aargon had stored up dozens upon dozens of ale casks for this night, preparing for the celebrations that would inevitably unfold, for it was the first day of the New Year, 505AV.
And a fine year it was turning out to be so far.
Seamus had never seen such extravagance in his life. His brothers had promised him a night he would never forget, and so far they had pulled through. He was overwhelmed by the celebrations, feeling as if he had stepped into a foreign world where everyone was constantly intoxicated and rowdy song was the common tongue.
All his senses were saturated with information, hundreds of new things being thrown at him at once. To start, the sound was earsplitting and never ceasing; Men and women were laughing, yelling and stomping feet. Flagons of ale were being knocked together in cheers for the new year. Music was being played by a group of drunken travelling bards, on the small stage against the wall. And above it all, the singing! There must have been twenty songs being sung all at once within the tavern, all over top of each other, vying to be the loudest and most heartfully sung.
The smells were layered and wonderful: roasting meat, sweet wine, and woodsmoke from the plentiful bonfires across the city.
And, oh, the things to see. All the colors of the world, worn on dresses and doublets and hats, and flown on banners and flags. Fireworks like explosive rainbows shot above the city from the domed castle. Sylirian Knights paraded through the streets, contrasting the spectrum of color in their crisp white uniforms and shining steel armor. There were dancing bears in the squares, and jesters doing cartwheels down the avenues. There were fire-breathers and sword-swallowers, and even, Seamus had seen, a Myrian ambassador riding an unimaginably huge and remarkably fine looking tiger.
This was Seamus' first New Year celebration at which his brothers had allowed him to join them at the Stallion. They considered him old enough now, and he was proud and excited to join them on one of their famed nights of mischief and mayhem.
Seamus had three brothers, all older. The eldest, Patrick, was named after their father. He stood six feet tall, and was an impressive, quiet man of twenty-five years. The youngest of the three was Arthur, fairer than the others, and handsome at the age of twenty. In between the two was the somewhat portly and always cheery Jack, or "Jax" as he was known amongst family and friends. They all shared the same dark eyes, and the fair skin inherited from their late Mother. And they all, all four, wore around their neck the silver crosses given to them by their father on his deathbed.
The crosses were roughly hewn from pure silver, and the marks from the smith's hammer could be seen upon the metal. The bars of the crosses were of equal length, and were just less than a centimeter wide each. They all hung from leather thongs tied around each brother's neck.
