There is a legend that somewhere outside of Wormwood (as if there IS such a place to begin with, and if there is, one certainly shouldn't wast one's time exploring and asking too many questions. It's simply not polite.) there is a jolly, elderly, overweight gentleman dressed head to foot in red velvet and white fur, who through the use of witchcraft and pageantry slips his rotund frame (he is known for being quite large, and some say even grotesquely overweight)into tiny little chimney holes late at night on Mid-Winter Solstice Christ Mass Eve.
Apparently, he parks a flying sleigh atop ones rooftop, led by several enchanted reindeer who have the strange ability to fly through the night sky. This far away legend says that if one decorates the inside of their home with an ornamental tree or bush, that this individual will slip quietly down the fireplace and deposit small packages underneath said tree. There is even a snippet of this belief that if one leaves a bit of hosen or a stocking at the entrance to their fireplace, it will be filled with large amounts of candy, treats, prizes, presents and generally sweet and favorable items come morn. This of course is based on a child (or even an adult) behaving themselves throughout the preceding year. apparently this individual is able to "see" the actions of said individuals through some means as of yet unknown. most believe this to be psychic incantation or more likely, a Mirror of Seeing or crystal ball.
Nothing is said as to how this decadently dressed dandy makes his way down the fireplace if one has a full blaze roaring in the flu however.
Legends all have an element of truth to them one may suppose, no matter how small that element may be, and Wormwood is no different. We have our own legends of a red-suited individuals leaving gifts for the masses as well, and certain elements of this far away tale seem all the more normal here in Wormwood. Reindeer of course can fly, as that has never been in question at all. But each Mid-Winter Solstice Christ Mass Eve, Wormwood's slightly different traditions play out in great revelry and delight to the entire Valley.
The Story of Sir Saint Clause comes from several hundred years ago, long before the founding Pirate fathers of Wormwood ever came to our balmy shores. It is said that Sir Claws, a knight of a long distant order was fleeing across the snow capped mountains, escaping from a pursuing army seeking to destroy the last of his kind. He had fled for thousands of miles, but still, the relentless soldiers of King Philip the Unfair as they were said to have been called, gave him chase with reckless abandon across mountains and seas. There was a great blizzard raging and Sir Clause had long since lost his dearest friend and companion, his horse Breehy to a pack of marauding Wormwood Winter Wolves who attacked in the worst of the storm. The bitter ice and cold had frozen Sir Clause's sword in it's hilt, and his shield was battered and broken from years of use. His only refuge was his long white cloak and hood, now soaking through with the raging snow.
As he pushed on, struggling to take each step in the snow that seemed to reach past his waist, slowing him like thick cold mud, he looked through the blinding spray and in the distance, high against a mountain peak, he thought, for just a moment, that he could make out the faintest hint of light. this was quickly followed by the shimmering shadow of a turret and a steeple. And as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.
Behind him he could hear the horns of his pursuers and the howls of the few dogs that still remained in their keep, the rest long since having fallen victim to the cold. His maps were long since gone, as he used them as kindling to make small fires over the past several months of his escape. As a result, he knew not where he was. No compass, no map, and no stars were visible to help guide him on his way. Only cold black emptiness, filled with the piercing darts of ice and snow that froze through his chain armour and leather jerkin. The mountain rose steeply to left and he looked back briefly, seeing the flickering lamplight of the soldiers below only a few hundred yards away now. He again looked towards the peak, the strange light flickering behind the shifting clouds and snow, just momentarily giving him hope of shelter, safety and warmth.
As quickly as his faltering strength could muster, he pushed on towards this faintest apparition of safety. He clasped the rocks jutting from the mountain for balance, their coverage stripped clean by the relentless icy winds. As he lowered his head in exertion, reaching for the top if the small outcropping, he could see the beginning of what looked to be a monastery, a place of Sanctuary both from the cold and his pursuers. He pulled himself up over the ledge, his chainmail gloves packed with ice and snow, and the leather stripping and tearing against the black jagged stones. there on a flat outcropping, overlooking what he could only assume through the white storm was a massive valley miles below, sat a stone fortress, a monastery that exuded a sense of peace, light, and warmth. He noticed immediately that there was little snow around it's borders, and that the few trees on this entire ridge seemed to weather the storm with little effort. Standing in a lighted doorway, he could barely make out the figure of a robed monk, his arms open in welcoming comfort. He stepped forward, nearly collapsing upon the stoned walkway that led to the castle's entrance. He crawled now, grasping onto tattered ropes that led to a small wooden bridge overlooking a massive crevasse several thousand feet deep. he peered into the gloomy blackness momentarily, before lifting his head and moving on, his strength failing him as he finally reached the doorway.
Quickly the monk led him inside, pulling him into the warmth and safety of the fortress. The rough brown cloak and the shadowy hood hung far over the monks face, only a shadowy set of eyes peered from beneath the darkened hood, but a soft voice uttered comfort as Sir Clause struggled to drink from the small wooden barrel that the monk held to his parched and cracking lips.
"Your Pursuers are close now" the monk finally whispered in a voice that was soft and gentle. It instantly transported Sir Clause to his youth, the warm summer sun on his back as he raced through his fathers fields and forests on the back of Breehy.
"You'll find your strength renewed" he continued, as Sir Clause began to breath deeply, his body almost instantly feeling warmed and refreshed. Feeling returned to his feet so long entrapped in his black leather boots like a warm rush. His hands felt strong, and light, his armour suddenly clean and polished. He rose quickly, the snow still dripping from his dark hair as he pulled his white woolen hood back from his helm.
It is said here that the priest gave Sir Clause a set of chainmail gauntlets that would aid in the ensuing battle, if he would agree to protect the monastery from the attacking marauders. Sir Clause of course obliged and as he did so, the priest slid off his armoured gloves, revealing hands that seemed curiously deformed, thick, flat and covered with a white spotted fur, almost dog-like. Sir Clause slowly slipped the armour over his own, their fit seeming to meld and mesh with his hands. He felt a renewed strength and agility as he turned towards the door, now hearing the soldiers crossing the wooden bridge just outside the fortress. Suddenly the door split open wide, a large axe blade appearing through the enlarging crack and tearing it clean from it's ancient hinges, wood splintering into the entry. The soldiers rushed at Sir Clause as he drew his sword, sliding it gracefully from it's sheath as he leapt at his attackers with a renewed ferocity. He instantly noticed the long dog-like claws extending from his hands, some curious spell of these enchanted gauntlets! He fought viciously, tossing the soldiers like toys, and moving with the grace and agility of an acrobat in the raging storm. His attackers stumbled, tripped, and disappeared into the crevasse and the valley below, the howling dogs running in fear into the darkness of the night.
It is said that Sir Clause was asked in by the Monk to return payment for his hospitality by keeping the Monastery a secret and that he agree to go about doing good deeds for the people of the Valley below. He was told that if he travelled to the valley below, and looked to the deep blue pond at it's center, just south of Wormwood Falls, there he would find a friend to help him in his duty. It is rumored that it was here, at Wormwood Pond, that Sir clause found his beloved Breehy, alive and well and drinking from the ponds crystal blue waters. Sir Clause soon learned that this Monk was no normal monk at all, but it is said that as the Priest peeled back his shadowy hood, he saw not the face of a man, but that of a large, protective, and friendly dog. His name was Bernard and he served the travelers of this region by coming to their aid when needed most and protecting the roads from the dark things that haunt this shadowy mysterious land. It was into this order, that Sir Clause was ordained. It is said that it took 13 days for Sir Clause to travel from one end of Wormwood to it's most western shores, and he would make this trip yearly, stopping each time at Wormwood Pond to give his steed a drink from the pool on his journey, bringing gifts to the residents of Wormwood who helped him maintain order, justice, and good deeds.
Over the years the stories and fables of his heroic deeds spread, with his clawed metal gauntlets always saving the land from the fiercest of beasts, marauders, and dark creeping things. Thus, Sir clause, soon became "Sir Claws" in honor of his justice-upholding appendages. And it is for this reason that the gifts most often given are swords, shields, flasks of a curious red liquid made from Slug Berry, a vile tasting medicinal liquid said to warm the hands and heart this time of year, usually mixed with Snot Beetle, also popular in drinks of the holiday season. Of course gloves are a popular gift, and it is not uncommon to see everyone from the most proper lady to the youngest child running through the holiday decorated streets of Wormwood with large clawed gauntlets.This is also the reason for an increase in first aid and bandage sales prior to the 13th of December each year, much to the liking of the Wormwood Bandage and Stitchers Union who are employed both at the Wormwood Valley School and at wormwood Valley General hospital and at the Medicinal intervention Facility. the residents of Wormwood remember, are a curious bunch, and they do enjoy a good fight now and then. with so many walking the streets with clawed fingers, it is bound to result in a little bit of good old fashioned violence.
It is also the tradition to celebrate St. Sir Claws through the giving of horse (in honor of the famous Breehy, Steed of the Dead as he came to be known) and dog-related paraphernalia, specifically for the breed of canine named in the Monk's honor, the Saint Bernard. Every December the 13th, the residents of the Wormwood Medieval & Mountaineering Expeditionary Club make a venture to the ruins at St. Bernard's Peak, the believed location of the ancient monastery. No one knows the location for sure, and many believe it is high in the mountains outside of the Valley, unreachable by it's residents and hidden amongst the towering walls of Ice. Many have claimed that late at night, if you look to the North, you just might be able to see a faint light flickering through the snow as St. Bernard's Monastery lights up the night. And if you listen closely, and peer through the trees just right, especially at Wormwood Pond, you may hear the gallop of Breehy's hooves as St. Sir Claws makes his way across the valley, slashing and fighting the beasts of the dark, protecting the roads for pilgrims, and bringing gifts to the good residents of Wormwood Valley.
Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,
Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.
Manager, Operator, Owner
Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication
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