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Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone.
Last month, unprompted, I wrote "The Fifteen Loves of Golarion" as a full heroic crown of sonnets for Valentines Day.
They were well received (for which I thank everyone). Mark Moreland then said (and I quote) "You know, Kevin, if you don't give us a heroic *something* of limericks for St. Patrick's Day, a lot of green-wearing drunkards will be very upset."
I do not want the green-wearing drunkards to be upset, especially since some of them may be goblins. So, as requested, here's the limerick epic.
Note: It's limericks, so it's bawdy. Maybe not quite up to the level of Chaucer's "The Miller's Tale" or "The Ballad of Eskimo Nell," but still, bawdy. Be forewarned, but I hope you enjoy it.
Best,
Kevin Andrew Murphy
“The Flyting of Cailean’s Hall”
A limerick epic for St. Patrick’s Day 2011 & Mark Moreland
By Kevin Andrew Murphy
One evening in Cailean’s Hall,
A tavern with mugs on the wall
And mead, wine and ale,
And spit-roasted quail,
And everything there but a brawl,
Bragged cavalier Alain Germande,
A man with his word as his bond,
“I’ve won every contest
And crave a new conquest.
Does any man dare to respond?
“Valeros–What was he thinking?
He dared test my mettle at drinking.
I’ve proved I’m most able–
He’s under the table
And there he lies snoring and stinking.
“I’ve no skill at magic or knitting–
Only masculine contests are fitting–”
Piped Lem at the bar,
“Oh I’m sure that they are
So I challenge you, lad, to a flyting!”
Alain huffed, “I will not be reviled
By a man who’s the size of a child!”
“You just were, my good sir.
You prefer the word ‘cur’?”
Said Lem as he stood up and smiled.
“A flyting’s a contest of curses
And insults, all traded in verses.
There’s also a wager–
It needn’t be major–
Do you dare put your mouth where your purse is?
“For my part I will wager my flute
Which I prize more than money or loot.”
Alain said, “Then of course
I must wager my horse
For I am a man of repute!”
Lem admitted, “A fine reputation
Befitting a man of your station.
You’ve caused some divorces
And I hear pregnant horses
Birthing centaurs–in fact a whole nation!
“The Mother of Monsters has blessed you
And nibbled your ear and caressed you.
It’s often been noted
Your gelding’s devoted....
Why is that, or have I distressed you?”
“Not at all,” said the cavalier, blushing,
As the folk in the pub began hushing.
“I’ve heard your first volley
But I promise your folly
Will be short, like an ant that needs crushing!
“I know of this flyting, this sport,
From the guardsmen at my father’s court,
And while it’s not knightly
I can do it rightly
So I’ll start with the fact that you’re short!
“You’re a mandrake root, twisted and stunted!
Or a cadpig, grunting and runted!
By every last measure
You’d choose for your pleasure
You fall short, like a ball that’s been bunted!”
Said the bard, “I must grant you that case.
As a halfling I should know my place.
Yet I may be petite
But the hair on my feet
Is far more than you have on your face!
“Indeed, we all think it quite weird
That Alain here cannot grow a beard.
Should I call you ‘Allana’
You smooth-faced madonna?”
The halfling bard cheerfully jeered.
Hissed Alain, “I will not be a stinter
You tow-headed hair-footed splinter!
Go crawl back in your hole
Lest some oracle troll
Use your shadow as omen for winter!”
“Brave words from a knight with a shield
With a monstrous chicken en field.
What is there to mock?
It’s a snake-tailed cock!
A pecker that bids men to yield!”
“And this from a bard whose first levels
Were learned pleasing Chelaxian devils?
His lips on a bone
Like some courtesan crone
Playing with it for Satanic revels?
“Your old bone? Who but devils would cheer it?
Or would willfully ever come near it?
Who finds that appealing?
Your skirling and squealing
Makes harpies vomit to hear it!”
“Oh come off it, you ponce and you prance.
You’re a fop with an oversized lance
And a cock on your tunic
And a prized equine eunuch.
Just what are you saying perchance?”
Alain roared, “You foul little newt!
You...pug with...that bone that you toot....”
He looked to get violent
But then he fell silent.
“You’ve won....” Winked Lem, “Oh, you brute....”
The bard then showed some remorse.
“You and Donahan can stay your course.”
Lem laughed, “Though he’s cute
I’ll keep blowing my flute
And I’ll let you take care of your horse!”
That'll teach me to encite you, Kevin!
Finer verse couldn't be found in Heaven.
My challenge you've met
And I won't soon forget
That your poetry goes to eleven.
We all know Kevin's a writer
Crafting this must have been an all nighter
While I might have the will
I clearly lack the skill
With two points per level, I'm only a fighter.
Wow, I was familiar with the Inuit and Nordic versions of 'contention songs' or insult-as-artform (or the feudal Japanese fad of saying the most scandalously insulting thing you could, via 'innocent' innuendo, to a social superior that you despised), but I'd never heard of flyting.
Neat. Also, saucy!
Yes! This is exactly the sort of thing I want to see (and hopefully write) in modern heroic fantasy someday. We so need to see a scene like this in a Pathfinder novel.
Though given that a flyting is an exchange of insults, how does this line:
“The Mother of Monsters has blessed you
And nibbled your ear and caressed you.
constitute an insult? (What, doesn't every guy on Golarion want some sweet Lamashtu lovin'?) XD
Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww snap!
I demand art of Lem and KAM sharing a brofist.
AWESOME. This is deliciously dirty (almost as much as Lem's flute). Thanks so much for doing this.
(Also-- Poor Valeros! He loves his booze, but it puts him to sleep so very easily!)
My assumption is that Valeros, being a devout worshipper of Cayden Cailean, had got an early start on the evening well before accepting Alain's challenge to a drinking contest--and Alain, had he not just been coming off a drinking contest, would have had more sense than to accept Lem's challenge to a flyting.
And Lem? Well, beating a drunk braggart in an insult contest is fine for counting coup, but actually taking his prized horse (and BFF) would be letter-of-the-law tacky--exactly something a devil would do and thus exactly the sort of thing Lem would not do. Besides which, anyone with even one dot of Diplomacy (and Lem has to have more than that) would know that would make him an enemy, and that and the price of an expensive horse isn't worth as much as having a badass cavalier in your debt.
Not that Alain would formally acknowledge it as that. But riding to the rescue with the full cavalry some time that Lem gets in a scrape, with some noble waffle about "little halfling" and "honor" and "just being in the neighborhood" and "fast horse"? Oh yeah. Alain would be just itching to repay that unspoken honor debt.
At least that's how I see the story coming about, given the characters involved.
Nicely done, and I think that this is no worse than what I have read in Shakespeare's works. So, maybe we can find a way to include this in a future product on poetic contests .... or having battles of wits between characters. (Lem at least did not accuse Alain of being an unarmed opponent in such a contest.)
