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]

[ With a laugh - ]

And which one have I lost that you object to?

[shashka]

[ he gives a playful smirk in turn ]

I've always been more impartial to vodka, personally.

[ and whiskey, but that has more to do with the fact that he's a massive cowboy fanboy. ]

Somewhere, Ivan the Terrible is rolling over in his grave. [ a pause ] Or stasis pod, I guess.

[vorrutyer]

Well.

[ He gestures cheerily at Ocelot. ]

Bring over a bottle and we'll split it. Come on, then. Toast to Ivan's memory.

[shashka]

And here I didn't even offer you a limerick.

[ well how can he refuse a request from a fellow "countryman"? ]

But I'd be glad to.

[ of course, he's always relatively careful when he drinks. but others do have a tendency of spilling out all the secrets. ]

[vorrutyer]

Good!

[ Byerly claps in smug delight. ]

And I shall bring the pickles, the dried herring, and the black bread. Where shall we meet, good fellow?

[shashka]

Depends on what you're in the mood for. There's a few good bars sprinkled around the red light district. If you want a quieter night, I've got a whole house mostly to myself. But my housemate isn't much of a talker.

[ Ocelot returns that look with one of his own. ]

But whatever you do, don't forget the sour cream.

[vorrutyer]

I wouldn't dream of it. Now, let's say your home. A bit of privacy wouldn't be unwelcome.

[shashka]

Excellent. I'll see you in about an hour.

[ gives him a time to find a few of the finer vodka-like substances around town. not that he has any intention of getting drunk.

well. getting "Russian drunk", that is. ]