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[scriver]

Yes, it was indeed a great game. Many thanks to la and the Latin proverb wikipedia article, this game wouldn't have beeb possible without you

Sir Feyman delivers the grail.

I don't know about you, but I'm hoping for a 1

I suppose the final addition to Feymans title will be "saint", no?

It's a shame it had to end this way, though. And Keardwall's damn spleen was lost with Baedocáf... Hm... They never did find his body, did they? I guess...

...Months later, a legless, one-handed and thoroughly ragged vagabond crawls into the Canterbury Cathedral, refusing to meet with anyone but the Archbishop himself. When he is finally recieved, he brings out a Very Well Pickelled Spleen and retells the story of Sir Keardwall and that this Holy Appendage once belonged him, and should be considered a holy relic in it's own right, even if the good sir have not been kanonised himself. When asked of how he knows all this and came into possession of the Spleen, the vagabond grows silent, and says simply: "I am many things, but an oath-breaker, I am not" before he leaves, humbled, never to be seen again.

So ends the tale of Baedocáf, Most Scholarly and Latiniest among Kniggits.

[Ultimuh]

And so ended the the life of Sir Uriel The Entirely Lacking In Depth Perception.
It was a most satisfactionary death, splendidly well played. 

[Remalle]

*slow clap*

[Errol]

This RtD should be required reading for everyone who wishes to start one himself. So that he can see how to do it right.

[lawastooshort]

Yon Epilogue.

England; the Dark Ages; Tuesday.

Somewhere in deepest, darkest England, in the darkest depths of the Dark Ages – on a Tuesday – a lone knight marches along a dark – and deep – forest path with long, purposeful, heavy strides. He seems to have carried a great weight upon his shoulders and, indeed, in his heart; a weight that seems to get lighter with every step he takes.

In fact, the nearer the knight gets towards his quest’s end, the lighter his heart begins to feel; the straighter his back begins to stand; the prouder his feet begin to rise and fall as they propel him onwards to everlasting glory.

As he begins to reach a realisation of his accomplishments, and of the horrors he has left behind, he starts to whistle: a melody born out of pure chivalric joie-de-vivre.

Even the losses that this music reminds him of – for this brave knight has lost many a merry music maker – cannot silence the noble song.

He marches on.

He whistles.

…   …   …   …   …   …

Around a corner, without warning, the trees that encumber the edges of this particular forest path part; light spreads in where once there was darkness, and a vast plain opens before the knight’s eyes.

The sight of yon mighty Castle of Camelot, on a small rise not so very far away, fills our valiant knight’s heart with joy.
 
As he approaches the castle walls, his incessant whistling finds words coalescing in the air about him, forming into a song that stirs within him fond memories of his many minstrels. Tears stream manfully down his bronzed cheeks in memory and in gratitude.

I found the Grail, and I’m okay,
I sleep all night and I quest all day.

And lo! For from the mighty castle walls doth come an echo: Camelot’s musical minstrels have sighted the approaching knight, and honour him with yon sound of music!

He found the Grail, and he’s okay!
He sleeps all night and he quests all day!

…   …   …   …   …   …

Hearing the magical minstrels of Camelot fills our brave knight’s heart with longing, and he strides up to the castle gates with the manly gait befitting a heroic Knight of the Round Table returning successfully from a God-granted quest.

I’m Sir Feyman and I’m alright,
I slay fell beasts ‘cause I’m a Holy Knight.

The echo reverberates from the walls above!

He’s Sir Feyman and he’s alright,
He slays fell beasts ‘cause he’s a Holy Knight.

…   …   …   …   …   …

A dozen English men-at-arms peer over the walls, gasping when they recognise the renowned heraldry ‘pon this valiant English knight’s surcoat. The rumbling chains of the rising portcullis barely drown out the glorious English voice singing gloriously beneath the watching soldiers.

I didn’t cut down the Tree, I ate my lunch,
I went to the lavatory.
Last Thursday I found the Grail,
A knightly epitome.

Sir Feyman – for it is he, our wondrous and musical knight – walks through the castle gatehouse, to a roaring echo of minstrels and faithful men-at-arms.

Beadocáf cut down the tree, Feyman ate lunch,
And went to the lavatory.
On Thursday he found the Grail,
Our knightly epitome!

…   …   …   …   …   ..

Saint Sir Feyman – for it is thus, his full title – marches through the bustling castle courtyard, a courtyard full of life: market criers selling their wares; men-at-arms exercising; fair dames promenading; various knights watching the fair dames promenading. As he and his knightly aura enter, the courtyard’s occupants turn, as one, to catch a glimpse of the legend walking amongst them. A slow applause begins to build.

I don’t cut down trees, I fight and quest,
Then hark as my minstrels sing.
I got rescued by Sir Keardwall,
A knight most astonishing.

A dozen dozen minstrels join the hundreds of onlookers in echoing this glorious truth.

He don’t cut down trees, he fights and quests,
Hark as the minstrels sing.
He got rescued by Sir Keardwall,
A knight most astonishing!

…   …   …   …   …   …

Saint Sir Feyman reaches the castle keep, seat of the great King Arthur, King of Britons and Defeater of the Saxons himself! He pulls open the great oaken door with his vast muscular and weather beaten arms. The solid doors creak under the weight of time itself.

Feyman strides forth unto yon Reception Desk.

“I have come to deliver yon Holy Grail of Christ unto our King.”

“Have you got an appointment?”

“I… er… I don’t, no, sorry.”

“You’ll have to take a seat then, I’m afraid. I’ll see what I can do.”

…   …   …   …   …   …

As the receptionist looks down his carefully scribed list of appointments, the temporarily dispelled heroic and joyful fervour returns to Feyman’s heart, and the song to his lips.

I cut down beasts, I wear high heels,
Suspenders and a bra!
I fight for Old King Arthur,
Just like my dear Papa!

The studious receptionist echoes this lusty chant, glancing hopefully up at the handsome knight before him!

He cuts down beasts, he wears high heels,
Suspenders and a bra!
He fights for Our King Arthur,
Just like his dear Papa!

Yon receptionist continueth yon songe!

Oh he’s Sir Feyman and he’s okay!
He sought the Grail and went all the way!
He brought it back, we praise his name,
Forever and a day! 

The blushing receptionist suddenly comes to a halt, looking first down his list of rendez-vous, and then back up to the joyfully whistling Feyman.

“I’m… I’m afraid he can’t see you today, Sir Feyman. Can you try again tomorrow? Say, at 9 o’clock sharp? He might be able to squeeze you in. Can’t guarantee anything though. Terribly sorry.“

…   …   …   …   …   …

Spoiler: freeformschooler; Saint Sir Feyman, Discoverer of the Holy Grail of Christ, Glorious Judging Saviour of Sir Beadocáf and Slayer of the Black Knight, Soiler of Underwear, Fiendish Smasher of the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog and Destroyer of the Vicious Lobster of Chateau L’Homard (click to show/hide)

Name: Saint Sir Feyman, Discoverer of the Holy Grail of Christ, Glorious Judging Saviour of Sir Beadocáf and Slayer of the Black Knight, Soiler of Underwear, Fiendish Smasher of the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog and Destroyer of the Vicious Lobster of Chateau L’Homard.
Bio: Sir Feyman gladly accepts his role in any quests, but is always suspicious of the motives of his fellow questers. He likes to play music, but doesn't have the opportunity very often. He fights with swords, but doesn't get too attached to his equipment.
Lost Members: Naughty Melga the Possible Witch.
Deceased Retinue Members: Maine the shy Minstrel. He usually followed Feyman around, blindly agreeing with him, even though he taught Feyman many things, including how to play music; Eric the Lutist, who bravely followed Sir Feyman for over an hour, only to be sliced in twain by the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh. Crannock the Minstrel. Hurled himself to death in shame at his terrible final composition.
Weaponry: Headless Flower Troll Corpse.
Inventory:
Chivalry: 7.
Duels Won: 1/2.
Arms: 1/2.
Wounds Acquired: Re-smashed nose; Re-smashed Face! (Ye face is covered in blood! And dirt! -2 to seeing until it is cleaned off!).
Minstrels: 0/3.

[Powder Miner]

This was a hilarious read of an RTD.

[scriver]

It was. Many thanks for making this, la. You cool guy.

[lawastooshort]

Appendix A: The Holy Spleen of Keardwall

Much has been written regarding the origin and true nature of England’s holiest relic, the Spleen of Keardwall, or the Holy Exterior Spleen of the Blessed Keardwall, to give it its full and correct name, but it has to be admitted that of all the surviving relics of ancient Christendom, the Spleen is perhaps the only to resist the doubts of modern science.

Although the DNA testing revealing the spleen to be, at least in sections, more than 3% pickled egg has not yet been adequately explained, radiocarbon dating has indeed revealed that, if the origin itself is not authentic, the age certainly is (see Creek & Jorgensen, Cam. 2009 pp291-364). Since its first arrival in Canterbury Cathedral, no evidence has been unearthed to cast serious doubt on the first tale of how it came to be. Perhaps the last word will have to be the first: the account of its arrival in Canterbury by Saint Æðelwalh, the incumbent Archbishop of the time:

...This nighte, a legless, one-handed and thoroughly ragged vagabond did crawl into the Cathedral, refusing to meet with anyone but the Archbishop himself. When at lengthe I finished my ministrations and did finally receive the manne, he did bring out a Very Well Pickelled Spleen and retold the story of Sir Keardwall and that this Holy Appendage once belonged him, and should be considered a holy relic in its own ryghte, even if the good Sir has not been canonised himself. When asked of how he knew all this and came into possession of the Spleen, the vagabond grew silent, saying simply: "I am many things, but an oath-breaker, I am not,” at which point he left, and I have not seene him synce. Osric, my page, who liketh greatly and shamefully the warblings of yon minstrels, and is believed by me to spend much time listening unto them at yon nearby tavern, claimeth that one of the party of the Blessed Discoverers of the Grail, led by Saint Feyman himself, was rumoured to march into combat without the aid of his legges, and with but one hand, and has also repeated a tale similar to that of the vagabonde concerning this Sir Keardwall…

It is interesting to note that careful study of the archived manuscripts of Canterbury Cathedral reveals that, within twenty years of Æðelwalh’s above commentary, one Keardwall, Knyghte, is added to the Liste of Great Englyshe Saintes. 

Further explanation as to the Appendage’s origin can be sought, and indeed found, in several of the sagas and shorter poems passed on from minstrel to poet to folk singer through the mists of time. Of course, the veracity of the facts recounted in such sources should always be considered carefully: they tend to deal in legend and myth rather than verifiable historical fact. What can probably be considered with some certainty to be myth rather than fact are the many miraculous properties attributed to the Spleen, and the belief that, should England ever come under mortal threat, the Holy Exterior Spleen of the Blessed Keardwall shall come once more to life to vanquish the enemies of Queen and country. It has certainly never been verified that the Spleen was present either in the Low Countries in June 1815 or in Berlin in May 1945, even though its location throughout time has not always been accurately recorded. It is true, however, that it has gone missing on several occasions, most recently in the scandal of 1906, and when it was removed for safekeeping in 1940.

[Yoink]

*Wipes happy tears from eyes*
The Holy Spleen lives on! ...And somewhere, somehow, the Holy Leg sits and sulks at its sibling's great fame.

[Tiruin]

This story is elaborately beautiful.

[scriver]

Even further !

[lawastooshort]

Appendix B: The Raising of the Grail

From Le Livre du Graal, unattributed authorship, 11th century:

And at King Arthur’s behest was a great tableau created to be passed downe the ages, and upon this holy image was displayed the likeness of Saint Feyman in his raising of the Holy Grail of Christ; and lo, yon image was mounted on the walls of Canterbury Cathedral for all to see, until ye great evile did spread upon the worlde and the holy likeness was withdrawn unto darkness, and thusly ended the last chapter of its search.

[Tiruin]

((Beautiful. ))

Edit: Upon seeing the spoiler: *Speechless*

Wow.

[lawastooshort]

And lo! Yon true authorship was revealed from withineth a spoiler.

Spoiler: Oops (click to show/hide)

The other image disappeared anyway so I replaced the one above with this one.

[SeriousConcentrate]

Wait, what? Did you donate and get that, or are Toady & Threetoe fans of this RTD?