fong - verb; to fong, the act of... [OPEN]

[godimgood.livejournal.com]

Chaucer had a perhaps excusable fondness for taverns. He'd certainly spent enough time in them to either loathe the places or love them, and Geoffrey rarely found it within himself to loathe anything that was willing to provide him with food and company.

And a tavern, unlike so many things on this strange journey, echoed vaguely of home. He'd even found some dice somewhere.

Rattling them idly in one hand, an itch he wasn't quite allowed to scratch, the writer and herald sat neatly cross-legged on a table, chin in hand, elbow on knee, kilt neatly smoothed around him to avoid unwanted eyefuls. His dice-filled hand moved, clacking and jangling, as he finished up a story to whatever audience would listen.

It was a story of chivalry, of passion, of dedication, a slice of stupidity, and an overpowering need for a full stomach and well-delivered fonging. It was the story of Wat.

Delivered in fond mockery, it ended thus; "Not every wise man can expect to be a good man, and few good men can expect to be wise. The ones, however, who can grasp at life with both hands, breath deeply of it, and declare that it could use more salt are something to be marveled upon. Perhaps not revered or praised, but certainly watched very carefully."

Comments

[godimgood.livejournal.com]

"The same!" Chaucer agreed amiably. "But that means you've heard of me. From my writings, I hope? Nothing unusually sordid?"

[angel-ofthe.livejournal.com]

Cas appeared to give this question serious consideration. "Your soul never fell under my purview, so I can't comment on any ... sordidness," he decided. "As for your writings, ... I'm afraid I'm more qualified to comment on their level of blasphemy then their literary merit," he noted wryly.

A pause. "We spoke, on ... the communication devices. I'm Castiel."

[godimgood.livejournal.com]

"Ah, but the writings of a man are revelations of his soul," Chaucer claimed though it wasn't precisely his practice, "and sordidness the nature of both soul and scribble. To be other than blasphemous would be to not live, though I think I have not over-stepped that boundary too far as of yet. It is not I who call my love my god."

"But you are the m'lord formerly from m'Lord, then. Both well met and excused from misunderstanding the complicated beauty of human failure."

[angel-ofthe.livejournal.com]

Cas frowned. "Writings are the revelations of the soul?" he questioned. "I always thought the vast majority of human writings were meaningless." He sighed and took another drink of his beer. "... Humans are much more complicated than I ever knew."

He blinked at Chaucer and raised an eyebrow. "Failure is beautiful?" Cas asked. "... I'm not sure I understand your definition of 'beauty'."

[godimgood.livejournal.com]

"The human is a complex beast; both better than and worse than beasts, arguably, and attempt is beautiful," Chaucer amended, "thus arguably so is failure. There is beauty in tragedy, we shouldn't forget that."

He cast the die idly on the table, studying the results for a moment before sighing. "Pulchritudo in oculis aspicientis est. Man would go mad without beauty, and there are those with little but failure to behold."