Post by devilinthedetails on Sept 14, 2019 1:29:39 GMT 10
Title: Ballads for the Giantkiller
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Ballads
Summary: The Own celebrate Raoul's last night as a bachelor.
Ballads for the Giantkiller
“Some of the men have prepared a celebration of your last night of freedom as a bachelor.” Flyn, wearing a somber expression befitting a corpse at a funeral, grabbed at Raoul’s elbow and began to steer him down one of Steadfast’s hallways.
Raoul, not being blind as a bat and deaf as his great-aunt, was well-aware that it was a custom in the Own for men to throw parties that were as much celebrations as farewells for their friends who were about to marry and leave the Own. As Knight Commander, he had never attended such events as he understood that he was expected to act blissfully ignorant of them and the violations of appropriate military discipline they represented. He imagined they were ribald events filled with mocking toasts, bawdy jokes at the expense of the soon-to-be groom, and poorly sung romantic ballads. He had never felt the need to fill in the blanks in his mind beyond that, but now apparently one such party would be hosted in his honor, and he would become more familiar with the tradition than he had ever expected to be.
“I thought as Knight Commander I was supposed to do my men a favor and turn a blind eye to such vulgar celebrations?” Raoul was unsure whether he should be touched that his men wished to honor him with a party to celebrate (or mourn) his passing from bachelordom into married life or offended that they had such little fear of his ire to court it in such a fashion.
“You are except for when the vulgar celebration is in your honor.” Flyn’s face remained dour as he steered Raoul into a large room the Own had apparently appropriated for a wild evening’s entertainment.
A long table groaned under the weight of platters of spiced venison and bowls of fresh fruit. The pitchers of ale that presumably would have usually loosened tongues at such an event were replaced with ones of juice, a nod to his aversion to drinking alcohol. A banner embroidered in the green and yellow of Goldenlake hung from the far wall. In slanting letters it congratulated him and Buri on their upcoming marriage. Dots of dried blood punctuated the message at random intervals.
“Was the banner your handiwork, Wolset?” Raoul reached out to give Wolset a friendly clap on the shoulder as he spotted the corporal standing between Dom and Lerant.
“It was.” Wolset looked pleased and proud as if he had created a fine tapestry worthy of adorning the chambers of royalty rather than a banner with uneven lettering splattered by drops of dried blood. “How could you tell, sir?”
“The slanted lettering and drops of dried blood were my first clues.” Raoul chuckled.
“It’s the thought that counts more than the execution.” Cheerfully, Dom pressed a glass of juice into Raoul’s hand.
“The only problem with that is there’s never any thought behind what Wolset does.” Lerant ducked the swipe Wolset aimed at his ear, snatched an apple from the bowl behind him, and tossed it to Raoul, who caught it with his empty hand. “Have an apple and save the seeds so you can plant them later, sir.”
That, Raoul remembered, was an ancient custom to ensure a man’s fertility in a marriage originating in hills of Tortall that included Eldorne. Obliging his standard bearer, he bit into the apple with exaggerated passion, feeling the sticky juice dribble down his chin.
“We must have music!” Osbern shouted before breaking into a long love ballad about a soldier who marched off to war, leaving his pining lover to wait for him to come back to her.
“Strangle me with a spoon!” Lerant’s palms flew to his ears midway through Osbern’s rendition of the old love ballad. “I don’t know which is worse: the screeching you call music or the sickly sweet lyrics of your song.”
“Perhaps something more martial would be in order.” Dom lifted his glass of juice to Raoul in a salute that seemed to promise nothing more than future teasing. “I composed a ballad in your honor, sir.”
“If it’s in my honor, I know it’ll be very respectful and not at all insubordinate.” Raoul’s tone conveyed that he knew no such thing.
“Of course, sir.” Dom smirked before beginning to sing: “Oh, when things were at their most dim, Goldenlake went out to bag himself a giant, and a giantess fell in love with him…”
“The historical inaccuracies abound in your ballad.” Raoul hurled the uneaten half of his apple at Dom.
Undaunted, Dom ducked the apple aimed at his face and continued to sing, “Oh, Goldenlake had defeated many a giant. Because of him, many a giant was dead, but his greatest victory came when a giantess fell for him heels over head.”
“You’ll make Buri jealous of a giantess.” Raoul scowled. “Do you want to get demoted?”
“I composed a grand ballad in your honor.” Dom stopped his singing, and Raoul had the strong suspicion it was because he hadn’t gotten any further than those lines in the composition of his self-proclaimed grand ballad. “I ought to be promoted.”
“Don’t push your luck.” Raoul snatched another apple from a fruit bowl to lob at Dom’s face. Hoping to distract from the singing of ballads, he yelled as if it were a battle cry, “Food fight!”
His ploy worked. Chaos consumed the room as food and drink were flung everywhere, staining clothes and Wolset’s banner. The singing of great ballads in Raoul’s honor was forgotten in favor of throwing food at everyone who moved. His last night as a bachelor was swallowed by a food fight rather than spent listening beet-red to bawdy jokes and love ballads. He considered that a wild success.
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Ballads
Summary: The Own celebrate Raoul's last night as a bachelor.
Ballads for the Giantkiller
“Some of the men have prepared a celebration of your last night of freedom as a bachelor.” Flyn, wearing a somber expression befitting a corpse at a funeral, grabbed at Raoul’s elbow and began to steer him down one of Steadfast’s hallways.
Raoul, not being blind as a bat and deaf as his great-aunt, was well-aware that it was a custom in the Own for men to throw parties that were as much celebrations as farewells for their friends who were about to marry and leave the Own. As Knight Commander, he had never attended such events as he understood that he was expected to act blissfully ignorant of them and the violations of appropriate military discipline they represented. He imagined they were ribald events filled with mocking toasts, bawdy jokes at the expense of the soon-to-be groom, and poorly sung romantic ballads. He had never felt the need to fill in the blanks in his mind beyond that, but now apparently one such party would be hosted in his honor, and he would become more familiar with the tradition than he had ever expected to be.
“I thought as Knight Commander I was supposed to do my men a favor and turn a blind eye to such vulgar celebrations?” Raoul was unsure whether he should be touched that his men wished to honor him with a party to celebrate (or mourn) his passing from bachelordom into married life or offended that they had such little fear of his ire to court it in such a fashion.
“You are except for when the vulgar celebration is in your honor.” Flyn’s face remained dour as he steered Raoul into a large room the Own had apparently appropriated for a wild evening’s entertainment.
A long table groaned under the weight of platters of spiced venison and bowls of fresh fruit. The pitchers of ale that presumably would have usually loosened tongues at such an event were replaced with ones of juice, a nod to his aversion to drinking alcohol. A banner embroidered in the green and yellow of Goldenlake hung from the far wall. In slanting letters it congratulated him and Buri on their upcoming marriage. Dots of dried blood punctuated the message at random intervals.
“Was the banner your handiwork, Wolset?” Raoul reached out to give Wolset a friendly clap on the shoulder as he spotted the corporal standing between Dom and Lerant.
“It was.” Wolset looked pleased and proud as if he had created a fine tapestry worthy of adorning the chambers of royalty rather than a banner with uneven lettering splattered by drops of dried blood. “How could you tell, sir?”
“The slanted lettering and drops of dried blood were my first clues.” Raoul chuckled.
“It’s the thought that counts more than the execution.” Cheerfully, Dom pressed a glass of juice into Raoul’s hand.
“The only problem with that is there’s never any thought behind what Wolset does.” Lerant ducked the swipe Wolset aimed at his ear, snatched an apple from the bowl behind him, and tossed it to Raoul, who caught it with his empty hand. “Have an apple and save the seeds so you can plant them later, sir.”
That, Raoul remembered, was an ancient custom to ensure a man’s fertility in a marriage originating in hills of Tortall that included Eldorne. Obliging his standard bearer, he bit into the apple with exaggerated passion, feeling the sticky juice dribble down his chin.
“We must have music!” Osbern shouted before breaking into a long love ballad about a soldier who marched off to war, leaving his pining lover to wait for him to come back to her.
“Strangle me with a spoon!” Lerant’s palms flew to his ears midway through Osbern’s rendition of the old love ballad. “I don’t know which is worse: the screeching you call music or the sickly sweet lyrics of your song.”
“Perhaps something more martial would be in order.” Dom lifted his glass of juice to Raoul in a salute that seemed to promise nothing more than future teasing. “I composed a ballad in your honor, sir.”
“If it’s in my honor, I know it’ll be very respectful and not at all insubordinate.” Raoul’s tone conveyed that he knew no such thing.
“Of course, sir.” Dom smirked before beginning to sing: “Oh, when things were at their most dim, Goldenlake went out to bag himself a giant, and a giantess fell in love with him…”
“The historical inaccuracies abound in your ballad.” Raoul hurled the uneaten half of his apple at Dom.
Undaunted, Dom ducked the apple aimed at his face and continued to sing, “Oh, Goldenlake had defeated many a giant. Because of him, many a giant was dead, but his greatest victory came when a giantess fell for him heels over head.”
“You’ll make Buri jealous of a giantess.” Raoul scowled. “Do you want to get demoted?”
“I composed a grand ballad in your honor.” Dom stopped his singing, and Raoul had the strong suspicion it was because he hadn’t gotten any further than those lines in the composition of his self-proclaimed grand ballad. “I ought to be promoted.”
“Don’t push your luck.” Raoul snatched another apple from a fruit bowl to lob at Dom’s face. Hoping to distract from the singing of ballads, he yelled as if it were a battle cry, “Food fight!”
His ploy worked. Chaos consumed the room as food and drink were flung everywhere, staining clothes and Wolset’s banner. The singing of great ballads in Raoul’s honor was forgotten in favor of throwing food at everyone who moved. His last night as a bachelor was swallowed by a food fight rather than spent listening beet-red to bawdy jokes and love ballads. He considered that a wild success.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!