Donjons and morons [audiobook project], Chronicles of the Golden Compagny
(Sound of driving rain, whistling wind. A door creaks and slams. A tavern backdrop begins to play: fat laughter, clinking mugs, an out-of-tune lute being strummed against the grain).
(Narrator, deep, cynical voice, in alexandrine(in french trad))
Listen, my friends, and lend an ear,
For here is a tale of dark and vile wonders.
Here, no heroes with pure and sacred hearts,
Only fools, madmen and lost souls.
We're in a place they call... ah, never mind,
A dead hole, a dead town.
The kind of place so bland and uninspiring,
That even its inhabitants suddenly forget it.
(A drunk customer in the background)
"What's this place called again?"
(Another, equally drunk)
"I don't know, and I don't care!"
(Narrator, smirking)
See? I told you so! What a beautiful village,
With its muddy streets and the smell of cheese.
A veritable nest of brigands, beggars and idlers,
Where they sell poison instead of red wine.
The tavern? Ah, yes! Let's talk about this place,
Where people come to get lost, where they happily sink.
A collapsed ceiling, unkempt benches,
A deceitful manager, and glasses that haven't been washed since... since?
Hmmm, I'd say... since the death of the last king!
(The tavern-keeper, outraged)
"Hey, my glasses are clean! ... I licked them clean."
(Narrator, sarcastic)
But of course, my friend, your hygiene is perfect...
So perfect that even the plague would retreat to it!
But enough of that, let's get on to the main thing:
These are our protagonists, very... special cases.
Wandering souls, full of big, fat flaws,
ready to get themselves into a real mess...
But you'll find out soon enough.
Because yes, dear listeners, that's where it all begins,
A night, a beer and a bit of recklessness...
Come on in, take a seat, laugh, cry, tremble,
This tale is about to begin... and you're going to regret it.
(The background sounds of the tavern continue: fat laughter, bursts of voices, a brawl that starts then immediately stops for lack of energy. The rain is still pounding on the roof, punctuated by the howling wind).
(Narrator, still in alexandrine (in french trad*), sarcastic and cynical)
In this decrepit place, where people drink more than they think,
Two very distinct souls share their presence.
One, talkative and vain, drowns in his stories,
The other, like a rock, quietly endures and endures.
There, in the background, under a dying candle,
A duel is taking place... not with sharp swords,
But with patience and ego, boredom and arrogance,
Where one talks too much, and the other... doesn't give a damn.
(We approach their table. Mözzer speaks loudly, a little tipsy. Iscomakhos can be heard murmuring imperceptibly).
(Mözzer, exalted)
For you see, dear friend, what makes me unique
is my boundless talent, my mystical power!
I am an artist, a magician, a dancer,
A warrior without equal, a superior spirit!
(Iscomakhos, laconic)
...Hmpf.
(Narrator, pompous)
Listen up, good people, and stand up straight,
For here is Mözzer, the greatest... in my opinion!
(Mözzer, delighted)
Ah! At last, a storyteller who recognises
That my talent shines with the brightest fire!
(Narrator, annoyed)
With a sheen of pure gold, it shines and shines,
And his ego, for its part, almost touches infinity.
(Mözzer flattered)
Yes, yes, go on, I like where you're going!
But don't forget my innate presence!
(Narrator, sighing)
He talks, he disserts, he thinks he's a scholar,
But alas, everyone knows he's just... a moron.
(Mözzer, outraged)
WHAT?! A moron?! What infamy!
I'm a genius, a star, a symphony!
(Narrator, imperturbable)
With arrogance and verve, he's selling you genius,
But what he's saying, my goodness, smacks of nonsense.
(Mözzer, outraged then hesitating)
Oh, please, what an appalling outrage!
... Wait... is that an insult, or is it flattering in some way?
(Narrator, mocking)
Bladesinger subtil and rogue assassin
He twerk and twirls like a beautiful baladin.
(Mözzer, satisfied)
Ah, at last, you see! Yes, I twirl!
A thunderbolt of steel, a blazing flame!
(Narrator, deadpan)
His enchanted daggers cut through the air with grace,
While he exclaims: ‘Behold my class!’
(Mözzer, proud)
It's true! I've got allure, style and panache!
But tell me, why is your tone a bit cowardly?
(Narrator, ignoring the question)
He leaps, he turns, he parries and dodges,
But the trouble is, he talks and he's still a pain.
(Mözzer, outraged)
What?! Me, annoying?! What a bad language!
I embellish the stories, I inflame the harangue!
(Narrator, mocking)
His allies curse him, his enemies laugh at him,
Because between two blows, he never shuts his cursed beak.
(Mözzer, offended)
That's not true! It's unfair! I have an elegant way with words!
And then... all right... I talk a bit a lot...
(Narrator, satisfied)
Why keep him? Because he knows how to fight,
His style is perfect, his parry is theatrical.
(Mözzer, getting full of himself)
Exactly! At last, a well-deserved tribute!
Go on, storyteller, I'm thrilled!
(Narrator, falsely innocent)
But if he doesn't die with a well-placed blade,
It will undoubtedly be... for talking too much!
(Mözzer, panicking)
Wait, wait, what do you mean by that?
Are you... threatening me?!
(Mözzer, smirking)
Oh no, dear friend... It was just a thought.
But if one day you should miss...
Pray that the enemy has the nerve to listen to you!
(Mözzer, nervous)
... Yes, well, maybe... I should... slow down...
A little... but just a little! You shouldn't ask too much of me!
(Narrator, still in alexandrine, with emphasis and irony)
Behold this prodigy, this prince of brilliance,
This son of the great summer, this jewel of noise.
A superb Eladrin, a star of arrogance,
A mirror of pure gold where insolence dances.
Tall and slender, sculpted like a forgotten god,
He shines with a brilliance that no one can deny.
His skin seems forged from gold and flame,
His flaming gaze scrutinises you... and condemns you.
Her pointed ears, as thin as blades,
Tremble to the echoes of rumours and tragedies.
Her long, supple cloak, cascades of amber and gold,
Hides a treasure from the gaze of blades.
For yes, beneath his presence, beneath his sovereign bearing,
Hide daggers with cruel, fine threads.
In the folds of his jacket, a thousand tricks lie dormant,
ready to blossom in unparalleled hands.
And what of his precious grimoire,
This book of incantations, this jewel box of knowledge?
A divine artefact, a dazzling work,
Gilded, of course... because everything must be, of course.
(A silence, then an outraged exclamation.)
(Mözzer, offended)
Of course, you say! What an absurd question!
If it's not gold, it's in far too rough a taste!
Elegance, my dear, is adorned with light,
Everything else is bland, crude banality!
(Narrator, falsely admiring)
Oh, but it's brilliant, it's fine, it's pure,
A star, a sun... or just an erasure.
(Iscomakhos, still stoic)
More of a scum, don't you think?
(Mözzer, outraged)
Insolent narrator! My greatness is beyond you!
Go on, then... show me more grace... What are you waiting for?
(Narrator, solemn)
He is a warrior whose shadow is a threat,
A watchman of plans, a guardian without daring...
(Iscomakhos, laconic)
...Hmpf.
(Narrator, continuing)
He keeps watch in silence, without superfluous words,
For speaking, after all, is often superfluous.
(Iscomakhos, soberly approving)
...Right.
(Narrator, mocking)
His piercing gaze freezes all his peers,
An unblinking eye that chills the air.
(Iscomakhos, impassive)
...It's useful.
(Narrator, smiling)
He wields the knife, sharp and swift,
Splitting space with a limpid cut.
(Iscomakhos, flatly)
It's an effective weapon.
(Narrator, raising an eyebrow)
Are you serious? We guessed it,
Since a thousand enemies have already fallen.
(Iscomakhos, indifferent)
They were there. I struck. They died.
(Narrator, sighing)
...What eloquence! What vivacity!
So many words served up with such agility!
(Iscomakhos, slightly annoyed)
Words are useless. Only action counts.
(Narrator, teasing)
But of course, O stoic warrior,
Silence is golden, but the story must shine!
(Iscomakhos, crossing his arms)
...Do.
(Narrator, satisfied)
He paces the planes, relentlessly stalking,
Without a sound, without a cry, without a laugh that spoils.
(Iscomakhos, flatly)
Laughing is useless.
(Narrator, mockingly)
Really? What an exciting and joyful life!
Always austere, never curious?
(Iscomahos, implacable)
Efficiency above all.
(Narrator, falsely frightened)
Oh, what terror! What a spell,
A warrior so cold that humour is dead!
(Iscomakhos, raising an eyebrow)
Humour is a weakness.
(Narrator, raising his hands)
How sad! How dull! How tasteless!
But effective, it's true... to the point of pain.
(Iscomakhos, dryly)
Precisely.
(Narrator, resigned)
Well, well, O statue, O soulless sentinel,
Guard your words as you guard your glaive.
But if one day a portal should fail,
What if you were to... speak to warn?
(Iscomakhos, after a long silence)
...I will use a gesture.
(Narrator, dejected)
By all means... What a nuisance!
Talking to you is like howling down a well!
(Iscomakhos, indifferent)
Then don't talk.
(Narrator, defeated)
...All right, fine.
End of story.
(Iscomakhos, letting go)
...Blade to the wind, I go,
soul at peace, straight on my way,
the world fades away.
(Narrator, still in alexandrine, with gravity and mystery)
Here is the other extreme, the shadow on the edge of nothingness,
The echo of another world, a fading breath.
No gold or glitter on this austere warrior,
Only cold steel and the shadow of a mystery.
A Githzerai from elsewhere, from the shattered skies,
From a plane where only sharpened souls survive.
Tall and slender, sculpted by the harshness of the void,
He stands impassively beneath a livid sky.
His tarnished ochre skin evokes an ancient world,
His emerald green eyes pierce destiny.
His hair, long and pale, the shroud of a bygone age,
is knotted in silence, never tousled.
Her weapon? A glaive, carved for the absolute,
Whose dance is surer than a sworn oath.
On his back, three javelins, standing sentinel,
Like three mute judges of a solemn death.
His bronze harness, polished by battle,
Hides neither his forehead nor his unblinking gaze.
For he wants, without diversions, that before the final moment,
His enemies plunge into his crushing eyes.
(A heavy silence, then a calm, implacable voice.)
(Iscomahos, soberly)
Fear is a mask.
What's the point of killing
without a sincere witness?
(Narrator, a shiver in his voice, almost admiring)
Ah... Few words, but heavy. A rock in a storm...
Behold this colossus, and tremble in secret.
Mözzer spoke, Iscomakhos endured,
When suddenly, with a crash, everything was swept away.
(The door opens violently, shaking the tavern. There is silence. All the customers turn round).
For in the doorway, pounding on the floor,
stood a colossus, a block of hair.
A massive black man with a bald head
Whose frizzy beard defied the infinite.
So long and so thick that it seemed to possess,
The strange ability to scrub everything.
With a simple movement, a confident gesture,
He could clean a burnt pot.
His adamantine harness, forged for carnage,
reflected the glare of countless ravages.
And in his gnarled fist, menacing, confident,
Slept a hammer ready to smash everything.
(A silence... then a tiny voice rises.)
(Murielle, enthusiastic, with her fluent voice.)
" Tadaaaaam!"
(Narrator, resuming with irony.)
Oh, but what an entrance, what strength, what panache!
And yet, beside it, like a passing shadow,
fluttered a sliver, a frail butterfly,
a winged elf, a fairy in a beam.
Twenty-eight centimetres, shimmering wings,
A radiant smile, a dazzling ardour.
Dressed in studded leather, blade at her side, viol in hand,
She flew effortlessly, laughing along the way.
Blonde and luminous, with clear eyes, fascinated,
She gazed intently at Marcel.
For, you see, this rock of an infamous brute,
Had conquered this charming soul.
(A shiver runs through the assembly, as Marcel speaks at last, with his rocky voice and his corrosive verb).
(Marcel, grumpy and boorish.)
" For fuck's sake, it stinks of sweat and piss!
I'm going to have to talk to you, and I'm not here for the Misses."
(Murielle, laughing softly, flying around her head.)
" Oh, Marcel, come on, be polite!
Don't be such a bear, show us your nobility!‘
(Marcel, irritated, growls and stamps his foot.)
’ I don't give a fuck, Murielle, get down from there!
And stop watch me like a fuckin' rat!"
(Narrator, huffing with amusement.)
Ah, what complicity, what an unequalled duo...
One thunders and storms, the other dances and gets carried away.
But if they're here, it's not to have a drink...
Their mission awaits them... and it's going to be a rough one.
(Black screen. End of scene.)
(Narrator, solemn and mocking tone) :
So here we are, faithful spectators,
Immersed in the wake of our proud orators!
Four drunken thieves,
In this tavern where their troubles fester.
For if there's no gold in their holey purses,
It's adventure they're after!
But don't wait any longer, and don't let anyone be offended,
It's Marcel getting up and banging his fist!
[Marcel bangs the table loudly, the group falls silent]
(Marcel, gruff, growling):
OK, you lazy bunch of bastards! Listen to me carefully at
I've got a mission, we've got to get moving.
There's a nobleman we have to escort,
A little assehole who shouldn't be pushed around.
Mözzer (sarcastic):
A nobleman? A fine, refined person?
An elegant prince, a well-born hero?
Murielle (curious, a little naive):
Oh, a young nobleman! What should we do?
Should we sing him sincere praises?
Iscomakhos (impassive):
Protect him, no doubt. One more burden.
Whether gold is at stake, or even a few écus.
Marcel (exasperated):
The kid is Octave, a rotten little prince,
A cowardly badger, a poorly educated fatso!
He yells at everyone, he likes to torture,
If I wasn't paid, I'd let him die.
[Awkward silence in the group, Mözzer chuckles softly]
Narrator (ironic):
Ah, what a sweet picture this is!
A nobleman to be cherished, a pile of ugliness!
But gold is gold, and hunger remains strong,
So our heroes get up and carry on.
[Sound of chairs being pushed back, footsteps in the tavern, then the door opening.]
[Sound transition: outside, light wind, a few footsteps.]
Narrator:
So, in line, they set off with heavy steps,
Towards a manor house with a taste for courtship!
A fat building, with blistering towers,
Refuge of a father who cherishes without counting the cost.
[Octave's father (warm, overly benevolent):
Ah, there you are! My brave men, noble and proud,
Take care of Octavian, spare him any iron.
Show him consideration, obey quietly,
Make him happy, that's all I'm saying to him!
Murielle (gentle but perplexed):
Such a darling son, what paternal love!
What a tender impulse, a natural concern!
Marcel (low growl):
Too much love makes you stupid, I'm not going to change my mind,
The kid's a goner, and I'm the one who's happy about it.
Mözzer (smiling, carnivorous):
Oh, what an honour! Escorting the mire,
I hope it oozes, stinks and eats.
Iscomakhos (imperturbable):
Gold is sometimes won through the worst of spells,
Our charge is set, let's go take that body.
Narrator:
And so they entered the lair,
to meet the noble little belly.
Because yes, my friends, underneath all that gilding,
Octave was hiding... the worst kind of rubbish!
[Sound of door opening. A young boy sniffs, then speaks in a haughty, unbearable tone].
Octave (nasally, scornful):
There you are at last, you bunch of losers!
I want to leave, be formidable!
No abrasions, no fatigue,
And above all no stupid noises!
Murielle (falsely cheerful):
Oh, what a great man, what a noble presence,
What charisma, what elegance!
Marcel, (mocking):
Too many daddy's boys, not enough slaps,
I just want to tie him up in a sack.
Mözzer (feigning joy):
Come on, let's go! He can't wait, the dear boy,
To Mochebourg, for the journey to begin!
Narrator (mocking tone):
And so ends this happy chapter,
A charming boy, what more could you ask for!
But on the way, adventure awaits,
And our heroes are already harbouring the seeds...
...From an unfortunate accident, from a stumble in the swamp,
From a mysterious diversions... who knows what is born?
[Music at the end, mysterious and comic atmosphere].
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