The Knight and the Knave: A Short Comedy

The Knight and the Knave: A Short Comedy

Postby Pariah » Tue Sep 25, 2007 4:38 am

[For some weeks now, there's been a one-man acting troupe performing to one side of Myrkentown's market square. These plays are often popular comedies, ranging in tone from astutely-observed wit to the bawdy farce, and often involving both at the same time.

An old grocer's barrow forms his stage, and by various artifices - primarily involving masterful shifts in body language, voice, and a mask and loose and flowing garment that seem able to change from one character's features and costume to another - he enacts a variety of short performances, playing all parts himself.

He has gained something of a following, becoming a regular sight every market day playing for pennies from the audience and passers-by; this week is no different, and his corner of the market square has already drawn a crowd before he even steps on-stage. A heightened air of anticipation pervades the crowd, as word is that there's a
new play on offer. A comedy, a farce, a satire, and perhaps something more than that...]

--~--


The Knight and the Knave
A Short Comedy in One Part, featuring Ribaldry of a Bawdy and Topical Nature


DRAMATIS PERSONAE

SIR HAUGHT, a Proud and Noble Knight
[whom the actor portrays with stiff and upright bearing, reserved, with a well-spoken accent; his garment pulled close to resemble a knightly tabard, the mask displaying a narrow, aquiline face with a slightly supercilious expression.]

MARSHAL DINGLEBERRY, a Lewd and Scurrilous Knave
[whom the actor portrays as a crass and swaggering braggart, with a pronounced Thessilane accent; the garment lowered to bare his chest and lifted to expose his legs, resembling something between a loincloth and an infant's nappy, and the mask assumes a leering and belligerent visage.]

Innkeeper, a stout Yeoman of the Bar
[whom the actor portrays as a plump and avuncular fellow, his accent that of a native Myrkentowner; the garment is pulled to resemble an apron, and the mask takes on rounded, ruddy features set in an amiable though long-suffering smile. Those who have watched the actor's performances before will likely recognise him as a recurring minor character.]

--~--


SCENE I, A Tavern

[Enter SIR HAUGHT]

HAUGHT
Ah! A very fine eve for a very fine Knight to rest from his labours and enjoy their fruits.
Ho, tapman! A man of pure spirit requires that his spirits be pure.


Innkeeper
A cup of clear drink to cloud your eyes.

HAUGHT
Well might I wish them clouded, sir - some vile phantasm
hoves in sight! What nightmare thing befouls my gaze,
and fills the air with noxious reek? A ghoul of pale
and clammy loins, in rancid rags so barely wrapped
to ill-conceal the pox's blight! Some revenant
from 'neath the turf? A corpse still wrapp'd in funeral shroud?
Its breath is that of stinking death! Surely naught but
darkest spells could bring it stumbling from the earth!


[Enter MARSHAL DINGLEBERRY]

DINGLEBERRY
A pox on thee, thy house, thy kin, and a rotten eve
to one and all! [Belches.]


Innkeeper
Be not alarmed, brave knight, for look! 'Tis but the Marshal,
deep in his cups.


HAUGHT
Dingleberry, thou pustulent cur, thy garb offends
both sight and sense! Come not hither so rudely clad -
begone, rough scoundrel, get thee hence!


DINGLEBERRY
Thy sense offended? Then glad I do be that I do have none,
or I'd offend myself! But what care I for the offence
of others that call me foul and coarse and rough?
They do think such things of Dingleberry when far worse
lies 'neath this stout breechcloth.


HAUGHT
For its stoutness, sir, we are most thankful
lest what lies within be loosed upon the world.


DINGLEBERRY
It do be loose enough, good knight - were it not,
'twould chafe more sore than any words thou might choose.


HAUGHT
Enough talk of thy sores! The merest thought sets my brains
to horrored itching.


DINGLEBERRY
Be glad 'tis only thy brains that do itch, sire.

HAUGHT
I am glad enough that I have brains to be itched.
I am done with such talk! So tell me, knave, what brings thee
to this tavern now, with the East aflame like second dawn
with sorcerous fires? What of thy post, thy coin-bought duty?
Who guards the gates while Derry burns? Where is thy honour?


DINGLEBERRY
A pox on honour, and duty be damned! A shilling will buy
a slattern's skirts, but here's a riddle: what man risks
his life for coin?


HAUGHT
No riddle at all, the answer's plain as thy paunch -
when a soldier takes a coin to fight, then fight he must
else why should the coin be granted?


DINGLEBERRY
Why else? That I might spend it on doxies and drink!
For passion and desire I fight, and my loins do be rich with both!


HAUGHT
By my hearing thy loins be rich only in crabs and sores,
and 'tis long since thy smallest soldier stood straight.
But what of thy honour? What of thy duty to the king?
Or art thou less captain than cur?


DINGLEBERRY
If I do be a dog, then thy dam hath lain with a hound.
So a second pox for thy honour, and a third for thy king!
Let the wind of my bowels be fanfare enough,
and the flap of my breechcloth a pennant! [Farts thunderously.]


HAUGHT
Nay, sirrah, no dog art thou, for e'en a hound knows loyalty.
'Tis not the bay of a cur that I hear in thy voice
but the squall of an infant denied suck.


DINGLEBERRY
If an infant do squall, blame not the babe but the dam who denies.
No matter this - when the Duke do be arriving in Myrken Wood
I shall have suck and deeply so! Let my gates be thrown wide
for my Lord's triumphal entry!


HAUGHT
Not only wear'st thou an infant's napcloth, but speak with an infant's voice!
'Tis only meet and right that thou should be treated as befits!


DINGLEBERRY
What, to be coddled and pampered and have the soil
wiped from my buttocks? Wouldst thou do me such a care, sir knight,
and coo and pinch my plump and rosy cheeks? My heart do be warmed
by thy tender concern!


HAUGHT
Nay, truculent child, I would not. But thou hast the right of it
to speak of rosy cheeks, at least! Step hither, noisome brat
and thy seat shall be warmed by my belt!

[A Chase, and the Knave is caught.]
A whipping for thee, rambunctious whelp, sore though it doth pain me!

DINGLEBERRY
Truly in thy heart it pains? Grant me clemency,
sir knight, and still thy wrathful hand!


HAUGHT
My pain is that I spoil a belt by laying it 'gainst thy reeking arse -
No matter! Better to spoil a belt than a child! Be still, rascal!


DINGLEBERRY
Mercy! Mercy! Oh! Mother!
[HAUGHT thrashes the Marshal most soundly.]

HAUGHT
And let that be a lesson! Be off with you, scamp!
[Exit DINGLEBERRY, HAUGHT.]

[Enter PLAYER.] [whom the actor portrays as his customary persona of a man in a loose robe, mask displaying a youthful face with a knowing smirk]

PLAYER
[To audience] My thanks for watching all my parts
and lending me some of your own
your eyes and ears and hands and hearts
my play now done, I leave alone.


[Exeunt]

[FIN]

--~--


[A flourishing bow from the actor, fingertips touched to his lips and then waved to the audience as if blowing a kiss, before he jumps down from the makeshift stage and makes his own exit.]
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Awakening Knight and Knave

Postby Rance » Mon Nov 11, 2013 3:54 pm

Six years later, a girl who could not sleep lingered late in the Inquisitory, accompanied only by a flickering lantern-light. The violet file -- for Inquisitor Maxwell had dyed the parchments in a scintillating rainbow of colors -- was dislodged with some effort on her part from a pile of those meant to be shoved away, reordered, or burned.

These were the fragments of a Myrken Wood from well before her time. When no other Inquisitors were around, she often took her prescribed hours to examine them, frowning at the tales of lives lost, of magics unsolved, or experiments gone awry. Sometimes she giggled at the formal writing -- It appears as though the adultery of the fellow was answered with a Curse of Swollen Lips, and we may deem this case complete! -- while in other instances the notations were so poorly-bled by moisture and mold that she wondered what narratives had been lost.

But this one -- this one!

Ribaldry.

A Jerno's laugh was still a laugh. And for all the time her eyes danced across the aged transcription, she thought not of a missing Hour, of Rhaena Olwak, or of friends lost.

Laughter. A jah'zoon's guffaw, a loud and hooting hilarity, aching ribs when all was said and done--

She darted breathless through the streets of Myrkentown, eyes wet with tears, the parchment of the pilfered script clasped like a valuable relic in her fists, occasionally blurting to wandering passers-by, "Let the wind of my bowels be fanfare enough, and the flap of my breechcloth a pennant, a pennant!"

And to each, she gave such a beat of her skirt, a flick of her dress-hem, as if a bawdy wind awakened beneath could offer them the same cheer clutched in her fist.
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