![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
HS&S:WT Short
May. 21st, 2008 12:09 amSomething I thought up on the way back from rehearsal tonight
It was nearing midnight on midsummer’s night. In the great hall of the castle of the King of Langand, the traditional banquet was well under way. The air was smoky from the torches that burned at every pillar, and the great fire in the massive hearth behind the high table. A pair of guards flanked each door, sweating under the weight of their armour and livery in the heat of the hall. The page boys that served the food, cleared the empty platters, and kept the goblets and tankards filled were doing little better – they carried less weight, but they never stopped moving all night. The team of jesters, taking it in turns to tumble, juggle, dance and gurn in the middle of the floor, were suffering just as much. The guests, the ladies in their fine and heavy dresses, the men in their best brigandines, were raucous and sweating at the tables, drinking hugely, tearing great mouthfuls of food from whatever came to hand, talking loudly; the only ones who seemed at all at home in the heat were the serving wenches, a dozen young women recruited from the housekeeping staff, and another dozen hastily conscripted from the city and given basic training – mind you, they were wearing light low-cut blouses, that were doing their job so well that there wasn’t one of them that hadn’t had to retire for a few minutes to correct an impromptu state of dishabille. Even the minstrels in the gallery in the corner were inaudibly flagging, the noise was so great. Although, suddenly, there was one strident voice cutting through the din.
( Read more... )
Midsummer
It was nearing midnight on midsummer’s night. In the great hall of the castle of the King of Langand, the traditional banquet was well under way. The air was smoky from the torches that burned at every pillar, and the great fire in the massive hearth behind the high table. A pair of guards flanked each door, sweating under the weight of their armour and livery in the heat of the hall. The page boys that served the food, cleared the empty platters, and kept the goblets and tankards filled were doing little better – they carried less weight, but they never stopped moving all night. The team of jesters, taking it in turns to tumble, juggle, dance and gurn in the middle of the floor, were suffering just as much. The guests, the ladies in their fine and heavy dresses, the men in their best brigandines, were raucous and sweating at the tables, drinking hugely, tearing great mouthfuls of food from whatever came to hand, talking loudly; the only ones who seemed at all at home in the heat were the serving wenches, a dozen young women recruited from the housekeeping staff, and another dozen hastily conscripted from the city and given basic training – mind you, they were wearing light low-cut blouses, that were doing their job so well that there wasn’t one of them that hadn’t had to retire for a few minutes to correct an impromptu state of dishabille. Even the minstrels in the gallery in the corner were inaudibly flagging, the noise was so great. Although, suddenly, there was one strident voice cutting through the din.
( Read more... )
