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This article in Dragon always had some fascination for me and I've always
wanted to add it to my campaign. How would you, as a DM, implement it?
***********************************************************************
by Arthur W. Collins
Many long years ago, there was a man named Diarmuid, who was the greatest
of all bards of his time. In his day he had told many a jest, sung many
a lay, drunk many a cup of golden ale, and lightened many a heart.
Indeed, he was known throughout all the lands he traveled as the best of
companions, a hearty man with a great laugh like thunder rolling
down from the hills. He was gracious to prince and thrall alike, and his
life was long and merry. So he came to be much loved by all who knew him,
and as he lay finally on his deathbed, the town of his residency mourned.
The Archdruid and the local Lord had come to be with the great Magnus
Alumnus at his passing, and drink his grave ale. A fitting gravity
settled over all the countryside.
Fitting, that is, to all but Diarmuid himself. Perhaps he thought it
poor form to have lightened hearts all his life, only to weigh them
down at his end. Perhaps he feared to slip away into death and be
forgotten, and wished to do one last great deed before he died, to make
his name live on. Or perhaps the lively sense of humor that he applied
to all things just couldn’t be suppressed, even on this occasion
of solemn gravity. In any event, he had thought of one last jest to tell,
and he meant to crack his joke before he died.
"Quick, lad," he croaked to his apprentice, a young bard named Fergus.
"Fetch me a stoup of wine, and bring the Archdruid and the Prince and
their companies. There is one last jest in this old fool, and I’ll tell
it, ‘ere Arawn takes my soul to Caer Sidi. There’s no more jesting
in that grey land."
Fergus looked askance at his master, but a dying man’s request is
courtesy’s command, so off the young bard went to fetch the lords.
And they came: Prince Bras, a heavy man, cruel to his thralls, cruel
to his women, cruel to his beasts; the Archdruid with his long fade,
very much at home among wailing women and ponderous thoughts, enjoying
the solemnity of the occasion like a tonic; the Lady Meave, who saw no
charm in anything but herself; and all their chief Servitors. Not a
single peasant was allowed to enter the room -- "Not that I thought
they would be," muttered Diarmuid to himself as the guests entered.
The Archdruid cleared his throat and made a speech to which all
listened respectfully except for the dying man, who motioned Fergus
to bring him the wine. He then sipped his wine all through Bras’s
curt farewell and Meave’s weepy one, during which she somehow managed
to get her terribly expensive hatfeather in his wine. He noticed. So
did everyone else. She was pleased.
"A very nice plume, my chick," said he, raising himself up slowly to
stand on the floor. "But I’ve called you together to hear old Diarmuid’s
last jest, for I’d not leave the folk mirthless, nor did I wish to
die alone." His voice grew stronger as he began his tale, "Once
there was a traveling merchant," he said, "who stopped at a simple
crofter’s farmhouse."
For several minutes he held them enthralled by his skill once again,
and then he came to the punch line. At once, Bras let out a hearty
guffaw, and the Lady Meave blushed and began to titter. The Archdruid,
despite his best efforts to control himself, held his stomach and
howled. The entire company bit their lips, slapped their sides,
rolled on the flags and rushes, choking with helpless laughter that
drifted out into the somber town. Those who heard wondered at the
strange sound.
Soon the laughter, having reached its height, was stilled. Fergus wiped
his eyes, and looked about the room. Suddenly, his mouth dropped open
in horror. All the great lords and ladies were dead! Only he was left
alive -- he and Diarmuid, who now lay on the bed once more, obviously
spent and sinking.
"Fergus," whispered the old man. As Fergus knelt to hear his master’s
last words, the old bard said, "Stand the common folk a round of drinks
out of my Lord’s purse, over there. I said I’d not leave the folk
mirthless, nor did I wish to die alone." He smiled a weak smile and
said, "Such sour companions as these are fitting for Arawn’s hall, and
maybe even he will find this amusing." And then he was gone.
So, Diarmuid’s Last Jest was heard by no one living but Fergus, who
remembered it, and passed it on to his apprentice. And to this day,
Diarmuid’s Last Jest is a byword among the common folk, who revere
his name as the greatest of all bards who ever lived.
--
======================================================================
ISLAM: Winning the hearts and minds of the world, one bomb at a time.
This article in Dragon always had some fascination for me and I've always
wanted to add it to my campaign. How would you, as a DM, implement it?
***********************************************************************
by Arthur W. Collins
Many long years ago, there was a man named Diarmuid, who was the greatest
of all bards of his time. In his day he had told many a jest, sung many
a lay, drunk many a cup of golden ale, and lightened many a heart.
Indeed, he was known throughout all the lands he traveled as the best of
companions, a hearty man with a great laugh like thunder rolling
down from the hills. He was gracious to prince and thrall alike, and his
life was long and merry. So he came to be much loved by all who knew him,
and as he lay finally on his deathbed, the town of his residency mourned.
The Archdruid and the local Lord had come to be with the great Magnus
Alumnus at his passing, and drink his grave ale. A fitting gravity
settled over all the countryside.
Fitting, that is, to all but Diarmuid himself. Perhaps he thought it
poor form to have lightened hearts all his life, only to weigh them
down at his end. Perhaps he feared to slip away into death and be
forgotten, and wished to do one last great deed before he died, to make
his name live on. Or perhaps the lively sense of humor that he applied
to all things just couldn’t be suppressed, even on this occasion
of solemn gravity. In any event, he had thought of one last jest to tell,
and he meant to crack his joke before he died.
"Quick, lad," he croaked to his apprentice, a young bard named Fergus.
"Fetch me a stoup of wine, and bring the Archdruid and the Prince and
their companies. There is one last jest in this old fool, and I’ll tell
it, ‘ere Arawn takes my soul to Caer Sidi. There’s no more jesting
in that grey land."
Fergus looked askance at his master, but a dying man’s request is
courtesy’s command, so off the young bard went to fetch the lords.
And they came: Prince Bras, a heavy man, cruel to his thralls, cruel
to his women, cruel to his beasts; the Archdruid with his long fade,
very much at home among wailing women and ponderous thoughts, enjoying
the solemnity of the occasion like a tonic; the Lady Meave, who saw no
charm in anything but herself; and all their chief Servitors. Not a
single peasant was allowed to enter the room -- "Not that I thought
they would be," muttered Diarmuid to himself as the guests entered.
The Archdruid cleared his throat and made a speech to which all
listened respectfully except for the dying man, who motioned Fergus
to bring him the wine. He then sipped his wine all through Bras’s
curt farewell and Meave’s weepy one, during which she somehow managed
to get her terribly expensive hatfeather in his wine. He noticed. So
did everyone else. She was pleased.
"A very nice plume, my chick," said he, raising himself up slowly to
stand on the floor. "But I’ve called you together to hear old Diarmuid’s
last jest, for I’d not leave the folk mirthless, nor did I wish to
die alone." His voice grew stronger as he began his tale, "Once
there was a traveling merchant," he said, "who stopped at a simple
crofter’s farmhouse."
For several minutes he held them enthralled by his skill once again,
and then he came to the punch line. At once, Bras let out a hearty
guffaw, and the Lady Meave blushed and began to titter. The Archdruid,
despite his best efforts to control himself, held his stomach and
howled. The entire company bit their lips, slapped their sides,
rolled on the flags and rushes, choking with helpless laughter that
drifted out into the somber town. Those who heard wondered at the
strange sound.
Soon the laughter, having reached its height, was stilled. Fergus wiped
his eyes, and looked about the room. Suddenly, his mouth dropped open
in horror. All the great lords and ladies were dead! Only he was left
alive -- he and Diarmuid, who now lay on the bed once more, obviously
spent and sinking.
"Fergus," whispered the old man. As Fergus knelt to hear his master’s
last words, the old bard said, "Stand the common folk a round of drinks
out of my Lord’s purse, over there. I said I’d not leave the folk
mirthless, nor did I wish to die alone." He smiled a weak smile and
said, "Such sour companions as these are fitting for Arawn’s hall, and
maybe even he will find this amusing." And then he was gone.
So, Diarmuid’s Last Jest was heard by no one living but Fergus, who
remembered it, and passed it on to his apprentice. And to this day,
Diarmuid’s Last Jest is a byword among the common folk, who revere
his name as the greatest of all bards who ever lived.
--
======================================================================
ISLAM: Winning the hearts and minds of the world, one bomb at a time.
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