MoTE 0116

[ruberiot]

My form for MoTE #0116 - Clovers
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There are many ways to describe Clover-- not all of them flattering. Some say the word eccentric was coined just for him. But call it what you want; eccentric, outlandish, unorthodox; Clover is every synonym, and more. Certainly words will be invented in the future just because of him.

Lots of creatures find themselves intrigued, if a bit unsettled, by the wandering prophet who can only foretell silly things. He often arrives by the light of the full moon, enshrouded in mystery and a crushed red velvet cloak that has most definitely seen better days. It’s full of holes, and has been more-than-slightly chewed by moths. He takes silver and gold coins (sometimes copper if he’s feeling generous), but mostly he accepts food in exchange for your fortune. Sweets, pastries, breads, soups– if you bring it, most likely Clover will take it, some things with more vigor than others. Except for, of course, peanut and peanut products. Produce one of those, and you will be surprised at just how enraged such a small Myth can become.

Once your payment is in hand, he will get to work. Most individuals describe experiencing the scent of mint clinging faintly to the air all around, and are often left curious as to its source. Some say it’s Clover himself, but who’s to really know for sure? Most don’t hang around long.

Even Clover is not quite sure how his abilities work– he just… has them. With his eyes half-lidded, he can peak into your future like it’s a pane of glass. And there, he finds what fate has waiting for you. Only it’s never anything major. Mostly he sees things like: What will be had for dinner? Which tomatoes will ripen first? Which apples at the market hold bruises deep inside, where you can’t see them?

More than a couple of times, Clover has found himself somberly murmuring, “I would avoid eating that last piece of camembert if I were you.”

Occasionally, he can see glimpses of other things, things a bit more important. No, you won’t get that promotion you’ve been dreaming of; be careful when you go down the stairs next time, lest you take a terrible spill; a mouse has made a feast of your stores. Things like that. Although Clover always cringes a little when the fortune is less-than-ideal, he doesn’t lie. He is deeply honest, and pure of heart, though the rumors that precede him sometimes say otherwise.

The little Myth has found that playing into the character others have created for him actually draws interest, rather than dissuades it. And so, goofy and charismatic as he may be, he amps it up a notch when with his clients. He has a tendency to speak in riddles (something he doesn’t actually do in day-to-day life) and tries to use a strange, lilting tone when he talks. The real Clover, not the one he plays as his persona, is still silly and enthusiastic, and seems to be a favorite of small creatures. Spiders, millipedes, caterpillars, and other bugs and insects follow him almost constantly. He finds it endearing, and can often be found picking them up and transporting them away from danger.


(Moodboard made using Canva and Unsplash!)

[ruberiot]

Clover's Origins
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The night Clover was born was a night like any other– well, of course, except for the fact that the land was caught within the throes of the worst drought there had been in years. Maybe even centuries. You see, the little village that Clover was born into was not the greatest at recordkeeping; but what they were good at was prophecy-telling.

The prophecy circulating at the time of his birth went like this:

Desert bone and thirsty earth
Shall give way to new rebirth
When he sets foot upon the land
Cloaked in Mother Nature’s hand

It didn’t make a lot of sense, but that didn’t matter to the little village. It gave them something to believe in where there wasn’t much left, and hope where previously there was none. Little by little, they had watched their crops wither away into dust and decay, and had watched as their previously impressive food stores dwindled into emptiness. Soon even the riverbeds ran dry. Still, they hoped, with weakening enthusiasm, that the one who would end the land’s suffering would arrive.

He entered the world when the moon was full, and no sooner had Clover drawn his first breath than there set upon the roof of the small thatch hut the thunderous roar of a downpour. Great white forks of lightning stabbed down from the sky and connected with the earth, sending the sky splitting in two. Rain fell in thick, slanting sheets, colliding with such force that it shredded limbs from the dry, sun-baked trees and began to create mudslides in the mountains. It rained so hard for so long that actually the opposite problem happened: the land began to drown.

And so it was that when inevitably “The Downpour of 1,000 Years” finally reached its end, little Clover had already earned the reputation that he would carry for many years after, and probably for the rest of his life: He was cursed. No good. Some said he was actually the cosmic punishment of the village, sent as punishment for their sins.

His mother loved him– she really did. But how long could you fight back against the other Myths before you, too, would grow tired of it? Eventually she defended her son no longer. He was a scrawny little thing, with great, droopy ears that at first he tripped on and stumbled over. He was unlike any other Myth born in the village before. The others pretended not to see the clover patterns that marched up and down his hide– marked as he was with the sign of Mother Nature, exactly like the prophecy foretold, the others denied the correlation and called him a fluke. One of them, a towering, pale white Myth with eyes that glowed like scorching hot embers, had even once called him a demon. It would have been quite comical had it not been so cruel: this tiny, trembling creature, who tripped over his own ears and couldn’t quite see past them most of the time, being scolded and called a demon by a Myth more than four times his size.

When it was discovered he had psychic powers– real, actual powers, powers other than writing fancy poems after eating too much cheese– it offered him no protection against the belief that he was evil.

At first, before he could control them, sometimes the premonitions came to him in dreams, and sometimes they came to him in the daylight. It was a strange, peculiar feeling. He would simply glance in someone else’s direction and be struck with the vision. Or in reverse, he would awaken with the near future of another still fresh in his mind.

Slowly, Clover discovered he could tell fortunes on demand. All it took was a little (okay, a lot) of concentration. He mostly kept what he saw to himself. He didn’t really interact with anyone else in the village at all. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he knew they shunned him.

Instead, Clover sought companionship in the growing things all around him. It had taken awhile for the land to recover after the great floods, but once it did, just as the prophecy said, the earth had been reborn. Fresh, new growth could be seen anywhere you turned your eyes upon, and it was in the hidden groves of forest and slices of pristine habitat that Clover found solace. And the plants seemed to seek him out, too. Each step Clover took made the grass just a little greener, a little taller; it made flowers just a bit brighter, a bit happier. He found himself dozing off in lush meadows and awakening to dozens of little critters resting beside him, or sometimes perched in his hair. Butterflies, millipedes, bees– no matter what, they seemed naturally drawn to the little Myth. So they became his only friends. Clover didn’t mind. Other Myths had proven themselves to be cruel; he much rather preferred the company of his insect comrades.

Slowly, little by little, Clover found himself venturing farther and farther beyond the lands he knew; at first it was with much trepidation, and a little fear. However, he soon discovered that nothing the forests held was scarier than the Myths of his hometown. One fateful day, when the sun had just barely leaped into the sky, Clover made the choice that would alter his life forevermore: he set out for the distant hills still enshrouded in thick, velvety fog, and knew he would never come back. He didn’t say goodbye; who was there to tell it to?

Clover never looked back.

[ruberiot]

The Mender of Lost Things
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Clover wasn’t quite sure what prompted it, but one day, he had a thought: what if he were to try and use his powers to his benefit? Surely there had to be someone in the world who would find them interesting. Yes, they might not be the most useful powers, but you had to admit: they were very intriguing. Even if something were to go wrong, he told himself, there was always the added benefit that he was a wanderer, never staying in one place for long. If his plan backfired, he could always retreat to some other far-off village.

So he decided to take the plunge. At first, he frequented small taverns and bars, always shielding his face with what would become his signature item– the red cloak. (Where did the cloak come from, though? you might be asking. Well, dear reader, it’s a secret. Maybe Clover will tell you some other time.)

He told fortunes for whatever the patron deemed worthy. Sometimes it was a handful of gold, sometimes it was a crust of hard, dry bread. Clover never denied anything given in exchange. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all. Eventually, as it always does, word began to spread. Tales of a psychic from somewhere distant, a psychic who could only foretell silly things. At first, most other Myths didn’t quite believe it. Many of them came just for the novelty, the sort of thing only done because it will make a good story later. So the first handful of fortunes went unheeded: don’t eat the soup your grandmother offers you, it will give you a stomachache unlike anything you can imagine; don’t go into the meadow tonight, or a swarm of butterflies will get you; the cheesemonger is out of your favorite, don’t get an alternative or you will be robbed of it and all your pocket change.

Slowly, any Myth who had spoken to the soothsayer-of-sorts found that he spoke only truth, as unpleasant or bizarre that it might have been. Intrigue grew; more and more Myths began to inquire about the strange little psychic.

When the attention grew too intense, Clover skipped town. He wasn’t too concerned; there would be countless villages and cities he could migrate to over time. What he wasn’t expecting, however, was to be recognized so quickly. The pattern repeated itself several more times before he realized he had unwittingly become something of a legend. (The word “legend” is used loosely.) So many Myths knew him by name now. His reputation preceded him, and Clover was no fool. He knew that being well-known was not necessarily a good thing. But he also knew that either way, he was still earning enough to etch out a comfortable living from what he made telling fortunes. He didn’t mind that many thought him weird; there was no sense in denying it. He was weird.

The day he met Patchwork was otherwise unremarkable; he was slinging fortunes the way he had been doing for some time now. Sometimes those who sought to know the future were combative of what he told them, and this was one of those instances. The other Myth had called him some iteration of rude several times, which in itself was nothing new, but he had never struggled quite so hard with trying to deescalate the situation before.

He didn’t even see her at first– he was so engrossed in the conversation with the other Myth. Then a voice spoke up, an unfamiliar voice. "You should know that your mother's spirit says that you eat too much cheese and to be careful or you will turn into your great aunt. She didn't clarify what that means, but I assume this Marge was very overweight by what your mother said.” For a moment, Clover was stunned; his jaw actually fell open a little bit. Immediately he was transfixed by the stranger. And admittedly a little jealous. He admired her confidence, and the way she spoke without hesitation. But something else intrigued him– it seemed like she was psychic, too. Clover had only heard tell of other psychics, and the stories were often told in hushed voices, like it was something to be ashamed of. Now, here this other Myth was, and she too had the Sight? He could hardly believe it.

“Well I never! How rude both of you are!” shouted the other Myth, and she disappeared in a huff.

Clover watched her go for a moment, then turned his attention back to the charismatic stranger. He offered her a small grin, the first real smile that had graced his face in many months.

She spoke again. “Hello, by the way. your energy has been pulling at me all day, so I’m glad I finally found you! I'm Patchwork. I think we're meant to be friends.”

No sooner had Patchwork spoken than Clover realized it, too. He had felt the sensation she described– a feeling like he was being slowly pulled toward something, and a feeling like that something was very important. It was like the last piece of a puzzle being fitted into a slot. It felt right, and it felt correct. Clover felt something lift in his chest.

He had been meant to encounter Patchwork his whole life– he was certain of it.

[ruberiot]

Treasured Memories
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Patchwork and Clover spent months adventuring together, traveling the world and seeing all it had to offer. He felt a kinship with her unlike anything he’d ever experienced before; that sense of belonging he had been chasing his entire life (even if he didn’t know it.) He found great comfort in her companionship, and in the gift they both shared. Never before had Clover encountered another with powers, and Patchwork made him feel less like a freak. She was kind, and she accepted him for who he was.

But he wasn’t to know Patchwork for as long as he would have hoped; one day, Patchwork began to get a feeling she explained as “impossible to ignore,” a feeling that pulled her in a completely opposite direction from where they had originally been going. Trusting her judgment, Clover was fine with adjusting to follow where she felt called to go. Ironically, this was the first time Clover had been well and truly lost in his entire time gallavanting all around. He was never one to take great risks, and while he liked travel, he also didn’t like to be uncomfortable. The forest they found themselves in was full of dark, hungry shadows and trees that rose from the ground like broken, mangled bones. Clover jumped at every odd sound, at anything he couldn’t anticipate (which was most everything.) Heavy, choking fog carpeted the land, leaving everything wrapped in a musty damp blanket that made it impossible to see more than a few inches in front of you. At times, the pair could not even see their own feet. Clover swore something within the fog was hunting them, stalking them, waiting for them to be well and truly weak before it struck.

But then, as soon as it appeared, the fog fell away, revealing a terrain that was almost scarier than the fog had been. Far below them, crystals of every kind jutted up from the ground like broken teeth, sparkling with dangerous intrigue in the murky light. All around were remnants from some long-gone civilization, remnants that the earth was doing a pretty good job at reclaiming. Everything was coated in a thick, velvety moss. “Are you sure this is where you’re being called to?” Clover murmured, for the first time since he had known her growing skeptical of Patchwork’s intuition.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Patchwork reassured, offering him a comforting, warm smile. Although he was still uneasy, Clover shrugged his shoulders and the pair trudged ever onwards. Each step was calculated with maximum thought; one wrong footstep, and they would go tumbling down the cliffside, where the crystal teeth would swallow them in one merciless gulp.

Finally, Clover noticed something in Patchwork’s eyes he had never seen there before: a glint of overwhelming joy. He knew then that she had been right along. He felt foolish to have doubted her. No sooner had the glow come into his companion’s eyes than they broke free into another clearing. This one was different in a way unlike anything Clover could explain. All around them stood dozens of the ancient statues; these ones were in significantly better shape than their counterparts. The scene depicted before them sent pinpricks of tears rising into Clover’s eyes. Each statue was an iteration of some different beast, creatures that Clover had never seen before, nor could he have imagined on his own; there were dozens, maybe hundreds of statues, but each creature was different. Predator stood with prey. The scene spoke of harmony, of unity.

“Help me clear this off, would you?” Patchwork asked eagerly. Clover dropped his roving gaze from the statues to where she stood, her attention fixated on what were clearly words carved into the monument. The two of them had it cleared in no time; they had always been good at working together. His eyes scanned over the words several times before he really, truly comprehended what they said. What was cast aside was never meant to stand alone.

He thought it was all well and truly beautiful, yes, but he felt his heart sink faster by the moment when he realized he did not share the pull and connection to this (slightly frightening) but fascinating place. Then she asked the question that confirmed it: "Do you feel it? The belonging, the sense of home in the magic here?"

For a moment, Clover wasn’t quite sure what to do. For an instant, the fleeting thought of lying danced across his mind, but he dismissed it in an instant. He wasn’t a liar, especially not to Patchwork.

"You don't feel it, do you?" Patchwork asked again.

He smiled sadly at her as he shook his head. He was happy for her, of course; she was his best friend, his most treasured friend, the only person he had ever felt such a deep connection to. But this place was for her, not for him.

“We'll always be friends. I'll stay with you for a while before I move on again,” he said, trying not to let his voice betray the deep cavern of sadness opening in his stomach.

And he always did miss her, once they finally went their separate ways-- she to the place that was her home, where she was destined to be, and he to resume his traveling adventures. Sometimes, even now, he dreams of Patchwork, dreams of meeting her in the special land; he dreams of reunification, of the laughter and happiness they shared. Sometimes he gazes up at the constellations and asks them to send her a sign of his love.
-----
One of the memories Clover recalls with utmost fondness is the time he and Patchwork harvested strawberries beneath the light of the Strawberry Moon. There was much laughter to be had, and much joking, and for the first time that he could recall, Clover predicted his own future, rather than someone else’s (whether it was genuine psychic intuition, or just an educated guess remains to be seen). “I foresee that a stomachache is near in my future,” he had giggled. They gorged on ripe strawberries until their faces were stained red with the juice. Clover was no 5-star chef, but he could prepare pastries that were pretty alright, and so he had cobbled together a strawberry pie that he and Patchwork shared. They ate strawberries until they were completely and utterly tired of them, and for several months even the thought of strawberries sent shivers up and down their spines.

The spring that preceded the strawberry harvest rivals that memory for Clover’s favorite. It was early evening, and the first stars were just beginning to pepper the lavender sky. The meadow all around was heavy with wildflowers, and the night was filled with their pleasant perfume. Patchwork and Clover danced through the meadow, laughing and giggling as they plucked blooms. Patchwork had put special care into hers; Clover, not so much. She taught him how to weave them together to fashion a crown. It was a bit tricky at first, but he soon got the hang of it. Once it was finished, he lifted it to perch atop Patchwork’s head.

“To my best friend!” he beamed, grinning at her. “I hope we will be friends forever.”