For all those who thought a bard would be too dainty a profession for Aedan, I give you the man who taught him. Hope that'll clear that up.

Dafydd ap Owain (not Gwilym, btw), chief bard to Aedan's father. Watercolour sketch, about an hour's time.

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For those interested in more:

For some better understanding what it means to be a bard in Rhyddion, he's a little snippet I wrote two days ago. (Making great progress! Yay!)

(Context: the previous night, Aedan got drunk and insulted his father, saying he was too craven to have bards ever sing his praise, but Aedan might compose a poem (englyn) in his praise if he could only find enough rhymes for "coward.)


When he looked up, he saw that Dafydd had left the group around the Prince and was coming towards them. The bard did not say a word, only struck Aedan across the face. Aedan flinched, and stared. Dafydd was a short and stocky man who barely rose up to the younger man’s nose, but Aedan made no move.
“Idiot!” Dafydd hissed. “This is what your father should have done last night, but since he probably won’t, I’ll do the job. You would think I hadn’t taught you anything these past ten years. Getting drunk and insulting your prince, even worse, your own father. You’re a disgrace to the title of bard.”
Rhys had tactfully turned and was walking back to the group around the Prince. Aedan found some defiance left in him, and answered Dafydd, “You were the one who taught me that meekness does not befit a bard.”
“Some measure of meekness would indeed befit you, to balance that self-righteousness of yours. Subtlety, Aedan. It doesn’t mix well with liquors.” The bard took the harp from Aedan, and sang,

“High on a cliff among birds thou art, lord,
while long thy sword rusts, Howard,
Thy guts but worth a cow fart.”

He thrust the harp back at Aedan. “That’s subtlety.”
Aedan’s mouth twitched as he took the instrument. “Subtle, but badly rhymed.”
“Hold your cheek, Aedan, and come up with something better.”


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For those interested in STILL more:

An englyn is a form of Welsh short poem with a complicated rhyming and rhythm scheme. The first line has ten syllables, the other two have seven. The last syllables of the last two lines rhyme with the penultimate syllable of the first (thou art - Howard - cow fart), while the last syllable of the first line rhymes with the fourth syllable of the second line (lord - sword).

...

... I never said I was GOOD at it. I may be forced to do better when I'm writing an englyn that the person in question was *not* making up in a matter of seconds. (Such is Dafydd's ingenuity.)

I'm having way too much fun with writing right now. ^^