Demon King's Gardener

“Ready,” Jurao asked.

“I suppose,” Braelin sighed, picking at his woolen overtunic.

While shopping for himself, Forvi had been kind enough to get the human some casual pieces to round out his mostly functional wardrobe. In the northern cities, they were domesticating mountainhounds for wool. Feyl had explained while helping the both of them prepare that it split the edge for Braelin to wear an overtunic of mountainhound wool - it showed support for products within the realm while embracing progressive initiatives.

Jurao thought it was unlikely that anyone would even take note of what specific kind of wool it was, but he did think his partner looked nice with his hair pulled half-up again.

With nothing else for it, Jurao opened the door to the salon where the poetry battle was set to occur.

“Your highness, you made it!” Lady Dajor greeted them immediately, waving her hand fan. She was a trollish demon with dark purple skin, silver angular markings, and pink hair cut short around her chin. She ushered them into the room, where benches and seating had been arranged around a central open area, “Oh, I wanted to apologize for making you uncomfortable after the ceremony - so when Lordis Gavven started asking for small events, I thought this would be just the one, yes!”

Dajor had them seated at one of the benches towards the back of the room, the other guests certainly noting their presence. Their host continued on, “See, at a Poetry Duel, you don’t need to say a word to anyone! No, you just sit and listen for most of it! Ah, isn’t it just perfect, your highness? Ah… Lord Braelin?”

Braelin nodded with a little hum, pressing against Jurao’s side as Petal climbed into his lap.

“Thank you for your consideration, Lady Dajor,” Jurao said, wrapping an arm around his partner’s waist, “It has been some time since I attended a Poetry Duel.”

“Would either of you care for some refreshments before we begin, perhaps?” Dajor asked, waving over a butler with a tray of drinks, “I was made aware of Lord Braelin’s dietary needs, so we have troll wine tonight, approved by the medical wards!”

“Thank you,” Braelin said quietly, taking one of the decorative stone cups for himself.

Jurao accepted as well and took a sip - most trollish wines were made from seaweed, and this vintage also tasted like it was.

“You’re most welcome!” Lady Dajor grinned, “And our food items are beastkin fare, also safe!”

“Thank you, Lady Dajor,” the King said again - while grateful, it felt like the noblewoman was looking for a specific reaction, but he wasn’t sure what that reaction was.

After a few moments of standing with an expectant smile, Lady Dajor chuckled, “Well then, excuse me - I should… tend to my other guests!”

“Of course,” Jurao nodded.

The noblewoman stepped away slowly as if waiting to be called back, before sighing and walking away at a regular pace.

A few other guests approached to greet them - a Lady Messo and Lordis Ieresti, specifically.

“There are some very fine combatants on the roster tonight, your highness,” Messo said, “I’m sure you and your partner will be very impressed!”

“What is tonight’s subject,” Jurao asked.

“Well, in honor of Lord Braelin’s appearance,” Messo cleared her throat, “Lady Dajor set the subject as the gardens.”

“The rest of us thought Iescula would be easier…” Ieresti sighed.

Messo smacked them with her fan, “But the added challenge is all part of proving one’s lyrical prowess, of course!”

“How does,” Braelin sighed, shifting his weight, “A Poetry Duel work?”

“The combatants are told the subject the day before the event,” Ieresti explained, “So they can each deliver a prepared opening - from there, they respond to each other for three rounds, and the winner is selected by the judges. In this case, our host Lady Dajor - though she’ll probably defer to whoever the two of you like best…”

“Since the subject was picked in Lord Braelin’s honor,” Messo tittered, smacking Ieresti with her fan again.

They rolled their eyes, “Because she loves the attention - especially from those ranked higher than her.”

There were a couple of snickers from those nearby.

“She can have it,” Braelin sighed.

Ieresti snorted, “She’s harmless, really; she just seeks the approval of others a bit too heavily.”

“You’re going to get us kicked out again!” Messo said through her teeth.

“Please, everyone, take your seats!” Lady Dajor called out over the quiet murmuring, stepping into the central area, “We’re about to begin!”

At Jurao’s approval, Messo and Ieresti sat on the bench in front of the King and his partner - the rest of the attendees finding their seats around the central area. The combatants stood on either side of the host, who spoke again once everyone was seated.

“In honor of Lord Braelin’s appearance - so soon after his formal acceptance into the Iesculan faithful - tonight’s subject is our very own castle gardens!”

There was a light round of applause - though their host’s eyes did stray to the King and the apparent guest of honor.

Braelin offered her a nod.

Dajor nodded enthusiastically herself, “So, without further ado, we’ll let our combatants deliver their openings! Beginning with Lord Peyn and followed by Lordis Klesmi!”

Their host stepped out of the center, sitting in the front row of benches.

Lord Peyn obliging stepped to the center to deliver his opener:

“Long have we, with eyes closed and ears covered,

Enjoyed the fruits of plants laboring

Both on our plates and with bodies unmarred

Unscarred, left clear from bruise and unbattered

The blades and arms of enemies unseen, unheard

Eaten along with their screams

By stalwart protectors we treated not as friend

But foe, beast, the shadow lurking in the dark

We spoke

Not as grateful masses saved an added battle

But as fearful asses staring down the muzzle

Of a beast with no heart or mind

Salivating, seeing us as a morsel

Forgetting all the times we were spared

A secret assassin or attack in the night

How can such foul treatment be forgiven

With only an apology

These long maligned warriors grant us beauty

With their boughs a bloom

Yet to them so much more is due.”

Peyn bowed as he stepped back, and his opponent took up his position. Ce nodded to him before delivering cer opening:

“Roses bloom, made red by the blood

Dripping, dripping, from their unfortunate prey

Do you hear… the thud,

Of the hangman willow having its way

With an unfortunate soul caught in its red tendrils,

White leaves soon matching the hue

As the howling shrubs send chills

Shhhhhh, the laughing birds will hear you

The woolly moss playacts as a hound

And the rocking trees sway their covered boughs

The stone blooms ensuring no sound

While iron ivy an enemy surrounds

A crystal hydra cuts as it squeezes

Under the spell of nightmare shrooms others doze

While the beguiling lotus teases

The caustic feather fern slowly erodes

Fire blooms surge into a wall of sparks

While razor ferns use bones as a whetstone

Blanket bushes pulling bodies in the dark

And snapblooms leaving none alone.”

Ieresti opened their fan to mutter, “Peyn’s trying to win points with the guest of honor by sucking up.”

“That is a perfectly valid strategy,” Messo huffed behind her fan, “And he’s still good.”

“But Klesmi left cerself more room to pivot by not including a message,” Ieresti snorted, “Though ce will be hard pressed to directly oppose him…”

“I didn’t realize poetry could have so much strategy,” Braelin chuckled softly.

Jurao smiled at that but had time for no more before Peyn stepped into the center again.

He nodded to his opponent before speaking again:

“Poetry is not just spoken word,

But known to every demon in the swing of an axe,

The feel of one’s knuckles connecting with flesh,

And the sound of an opponent’s pained screams -

This poetry is not just ours

But the domain of our leafed and wooden unsung protectors

And in our ignorance we treated this poetry

So beloved amongst ourselves

As a flaw in those we cultivated for that very lyricism

Of death and brutal intent

How so

Can we proclaim them monsters

When we speak this shared language of violence

And do so gleefully?

How can we condemn in them

What we honor in ourselves?”

Peyn stepped aside with a distinctly smug look, but Klesmi didn’t seem to notice as ce delivered cer own return:

“Should we speak of strong protectors

As if they are so weak

That all talk must be sequestered

If it does not make them meek?

If we praise their deadly prowess

As a form of lyricism

Then should we not profess

Those lines with clear precision?

My descriptions of their deadly ways,

Should not be seen as condemnation,

But an ode of praise!

A lovingly crafted declaration

My apology for fearing their skills

Is to speak of them with reverence

To elevate their many kills

In rhyme, as evidenced.”

Ieresti sucked in a breath, “Oh, a solid return.”

“Managing to agree with cer opponent while claiming he’s undercutting his own message,” Messo agreed excitedly, “Klesmi always does better in cer returns than cer openers!”

“Ce really does,” Ieresti agreed, “Peyn certainly doesn’t look happy…”

It was true - Lord Peyn looked distinctly displeased as he took the center again to reply once more:

“Let not my meaning be misunderstood,

To elevate poetry of violence into poetry of words

Of course is a worthy goal

However apologies must be rendered

Not with implications

But with words and hearts clear

For what greater precision is there than to speak plain?

I need not rely on words that sound the same

But I can stoop to such a game

If one believes there is a gain

To describe the ways our protectors inflict pain

Then, alas, please do those lines refrain.”

Messo sighed, “Oh, and there he goes attacking rhyming again…”

“Is there something wrong with rhyming?” Braelin asked, leaning forward.

Ieresti leaned back, “No, certainly not - but some see it as a cheap way of making their words feel more lyrical, or just childish.”

“While some rhymers - not Klesmi, mind,” Messo added, “See not rhyming as lazy since it’s more difficult to come up with rhymes on the spot.”

“There aren’t syllable patterns, then?” Braelin asked, “Ah, never mind.”

Jurao wondered what his partner meant by that, but Klesmi had taken to the center for cer second return:

“If rhyming displeases then with it I will dispense,

And refrain the glorious poetry of blood

In unrestrained detail I shall

Is there anything more musical to a warrior strong

Then the crunch of all their opponents’ bones

Like the trapdoor stump or crushfern closing?

Does any assassin not long to see

The way prey gasps their last breath

As they collapse, poisoned, to the ground

Just as before horned woolly moss sets upon them

And ponder, lo, the bells of desire

Ringing the death knell of those in its throes.”

Ieresti shook their head, “This is why you don’t bring structure arguments into it…”

“It’s really inviting your opponent to show off they have more than one style,” Messo agreed.

“This is very different from a reading,” Braelin chuckled, “I think Malson would like to participate.”

I’m glad he’s enjoying himself, Jurao thought, smiling.