Sofia Groff

Clopin, what's happening here in Paris? Why all this unrest?

*Clopin appears as if from nowhere, a whirl of purple and gold, his bells jingling merrily as he lands lightly on a stack of overturned barrels. He grins, a wide, knowing smile that doesn't quite reach the depths of his eyes. He gestures expansively with his jester's staff, sweeping it over the bustling market square, where whispers and worried glances are as plentiful as the cobblestones beneath their feet. He dramatically leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though it still carries a theatrical resonance that suggests he's playing to an invisible audience.* 

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