Sallies of the Knight of the Joyful Countenance...
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@d974fe9f42:
_"Hail, Knight of the Joyful Countenance,
Knight of the Joyful Countenance!
Wherever you go
People will know
Of the glorious deeds
Of the Knight of the Joyful Countenance!Farewell and good cheer
Oh my brave cavalier
Ride onward to glorious strife.
I swear when you're gone
I'll remember you well
For all of the rest of my life.Hail, Knight of the Joyful Countenance,
Knight of the Joyful Countenance
Fare to the foe,
They will quail at the sight
Of the Knight of the Joyful Countenance!
Oh valorous Knight,
Go and fight for the right,
And battle all villains that be,
But oh, when you do,
What will happen to you
Thank Garl I will be there to see!Hail, Knight of the Joyful Countenance,
Knight of the Joyful Countenance!
Wherever you go
People will know
Of the glorious deeds
Of the Knight of the Joyful Countenance!"__After extensive rumination, cogitation, reflection, consideration and so on, I, Perriwig P. Doubleday - heretofore simple marksgnome, armoured ordinanceman, sometime gastrognome, private gentleman, fashion magpie, local rouse-rabble politician, gem-collector, tickler of Tymora's chin and general good egg - do with giddy heart and cheerful mind assume the mantle of Glittergold Knight Burlesque, Knight of the Joyful Countenance!
I admit, my fond little diary, that the aforementioned heroic cape is entirely of my own invention, but a rather spiffing appellation if I do say so myself. The circumstances for my dramatic new identity are these. Firstly, I acquired from a certain Oscuran gentleman a splendid lion-maned helmet, quite the comfortable fit, which simply begs to capital the captain of some heroic enterprise. I should rather change myself than change my headwear, hence a more dramatic identity needs must be assumed. Secondly, of late I have detected a spirit of rampant heroics in the land, gallant souls galloping off to smite goonish demi-gods and their boney wyrm companions. I could hardly join them as myself - what a ludicrous suggestion, you giddy little gigglesome monster thou! - hence I needs must also go the full trifle. (Methinks I got that "thou" right. Rather slippery customers, these courtly terms. Accidentally call His Lordship Your Lordship, and see this humble knightling's social attitudes wilt. Note to self, don Peasant's Costume No. 6 and scuttle around behind some marching bod from the Divine Shields. Rampant self improvement through selective plagiarism, that's my motto.)
Thirdly, its also a terrific joke you see! I'm reliably informed by those who know of such things that divinely-sponsored shinesome cavalier souls invariable are graced with any number of sniffish powers by the Men and Women Upstairs. Keen noses to snuff out villains, that extra sparkle of pep for sticking your longsword in some thuggee oppressing the natives, a cosy fearless glow and I presume some sort of armour-polish made from deva spittle and ground imps. Why the devil can't I quite achieve that Senator Thel shine? Ho hum. Perhaps I'll find an imp to grind on my travels. Anyhoo, the splendid joke of all of this is that Garl Glittergold hasn't given me a single cantrip of his power! Not a sausage. Not even the hint of a sausage, casing, crumb, sage or pigling toothsome. The joke's on Him, but I'm sure he'll take it in good part. I explained this exquisite irony to Carmey, but she didn't get it. Then again, perhaps she was being winsomely ironical herself. Cunning, very cunning.
As one can imagine, dear diary, the practicalities of the matter are obviously a mite vexed, since technically I'm my own squire. One of the advantages of this is that I can let myself off all the minor fetch-and-carry tasks and chores associated with that menial station. I can pop into the Dancing Mermaid and have a bottle of port instead. And perhaps a crumb of biscuit. The Knight of the Joyful Countenance has to keep himself hale and hearty after all. I've already got that spiffing set of lightweight full plate which we pried from the vile clutches of the Kobold Menace a year or so ago, so I undoubtedly look the part. Actually, I've met other sarcastic souls who claimed to be Knights of Helm, but who also lacked the ability to restore a chum to health by nabbing a shameless parp of their extremities, as I've seen the paladin chaps and chappesses do. They didn't seem to find their status even vaguely amusing or amusingly absurd. Queer. Like yon Norwickian Mr Warpiest. He's a fine rum one, like a metal log. A grumpy metal log.
As my first errantry task, I dropped in on a money-jaunt sponsored by yon multi-hued elvish gent Fithram, setting sail from Peltarch like a good'n through the scud, the eddies, the bumpy waves and assailed by the elf's oppressive, hull-denting pilotage. Although naturally I ought to humbly eschew the full debt owed by my sailing companions to myself, and this diary should be a monument to my hearty self-deprecation rather than a long, long roll of my various inspired day-savings - the account of the journey would not be complete if I did not, exceedingly briefly, touch on my valorously saving the day by plugging the cracked hull of the vessel using only Woodsman's Outfit No. 4 and a gnomish fork. The costume is, tragically, ruined, but I don't suppose the Knight of the Joyful Countenance has much need of a mud-brown tunic and cowpat-coloured leather trousers. The meat of the matter - and a mutton-matter it was, dressed with a spicy sauce - was that a clutch of pious elven sorts had misplaced a couple of their scouts and they piled up their temple to one of the elvish gods.
"To lose one scout, Mr Elfington, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness" I quipped to our host, prompting uproarious laughter from my men and women at arms. Actually, the matter ended rather iffily. Having bonked a few impertinent snow goblins over the noggin, our gallant crew invaded the outward tunnels of an old elvish mithril mine, only to find that a couple of culinary driders had brewed the pitiful elven scouts into a decidedly unappetising looking stew. "At 'em my lads!" I cried to the assembled warriors and we gave the spidericious goons a damn good thrashing. They won't be boiling any more elves in a hurry. The eight-socked sods also decidedly lacked a sense of interior decoration, effacing the twinkling veins of mithril than flickered like a white film behind the walls with a daub of spikey spider symbols and glyphs. The elves in the company seemed rather moved by the sight. That and the oodles of elvish twinklies and shinies we uncovered inside a mysterious sarcophagus.
Duty done, we marched back to the ship and scudded back to Peltarch, intact and a penny-pinch richer all the assembly. Splendid._
