video; un: eproghuefgdzptrrw

[vorrutyer]

[ Byerly Vorrutyer is sitting in front of a piano, fingers on the keys. Byerly Vorrutyer is also, apparently, drunk. There's a bottle of brandy in front of him balanced beside the music rack that's two-thirds drained, and there's a tiny sway in his posture, and he looks sloppy - suit coat opened, shirt-collar loosened. When he speaks, his voice slurs. But as he talks, he plays Chopin beautifully, expressively. He only misses the very occasional note. ]

God help me, but this place is dull. And I know from dull. I spent an entire season - an entire season! - on the Vorinnis estate on the South Continent. If Lady Vorinnis hadn't been there to distract me with all her deliciousness, I'd have actually, literally, died of boredom. I nearly set fire to the whole taiga. Roasted all the little birdies and rabbits and peasants. Pheasants. Peasants. Whichever.

[ He sighs mournfully, casting a sorrowful glance at the camera. ]

Say, fellows, how does a man have fun around here? It's clear no one knows how to play whist, so that's out, and dueling for laughs seems tacky. I've already watched a few of you brutes bash one another's faces in, which had its charms and no doubt, but the time for that is over. I can't play bed, wed, behead with you, because you're all proles of no account and no education who wouldn't know the high-society names I mention to you. Oh!

[ He sits up a bit, stopping his playing mid-note, right before the end of the first section of the piece. What a musical anticlimax. ]

I've got one. I'll write limericks about you. Tell me a bit about yourself, and I'll write limericks. Go on, do. They'll be funny, I promise - this is one of my favorite games. Absolutely kills at parties.

[ And then, with a small bow - ]

Byerly Vorrutyer, Emperor of Barrayar, at your lyrical service.

Comments

[vorrutyer]

[ An arched brow. ]

Ah, so we're being elitist now. Dismissing poetic forms because they remind you of undesirables.

[knitpick]

My mother was an awful alcoholic.
I think I'm justified in my distaste.

[vorrutyer]

As was mine, but I'm not taking it out on poor innocent blameless poetry.

[knitpick]

Wasn't it you pointing out that the limerick is very frequently not at all innocent?

[vorrutyer]

All right, poor smutty blameless poetry.

[knitpick]

You're so determined to defend the honor of the limerick, yet you've made no attempt to demonstrate its strengths.
Where is the custom poem I was promised?

[vorrutyer]

Well, I still know next to nothing about you, except your self-mythologizing.

[knitpick]

You sound skeptical.
I haven't even mentioned the truly mythic parts of this story.
They didn't quite fit the meter.

[vorrutyer]

Oh, I think skepticism is hardly appropriate after all we've been through. I'm simply pointing out that you don't know anything about someone from a poem like the one you gave me.

[knitpick]

There's plenty to know if one just pays attention.
But I'll give you a freebie:
In the world I came from, I had the title of Seer of Light.

[vorrutyer]

Dear lady, do you not understand how party games work? This isn't an ooh-I'm-so-special-investigate-me sort of situation. If I have a sexual interest in you, that's the time to play mysterious. When a fellow is writing your biography in verse, that's not the time.

[knitpick]

I should hope you don't have any sexual interest in me.
While it might be rather romantic to fall for a person for their words alone, having never seen their face, I don't think this particular case would work out.
You're far too old for me.
Also, I have a girlfriend.
There's another detail for your biographical poetry.