AITA for banishing a bard who wouldn't stop singing about my mighty pectorals?
Greetings, denizens of the realm. I, Grak, Warlord of the Northern Wastes, Ruler of the Frost-Giant Peaks, and He Who Smashes, come before you seeking judgment on a matter that vexes my mighty brow.
For many moons, a bard, a minstrel of middling talent named Figgle, was permitted within my great hall. He was tolerated, for his lute-playing was not entirely without merit, and his tales of glory (mostly mine, naturally) kept my warriors entertained between raids.
However, Figgle developed an obsession. A fixation upon… my pectorals. My magnificent, boulder-like pectorals, honed by a thousand battles and the lifting of many, many large rocks. Initially, it was a subtle reference in a ballad about my triumph over the Gorefang Orcs – “His chest, a mountain of might, did gleam.” Acceptable.
Then it escalated. He composed an entire epic, “The Ballad of Grak’s Great Chest,” which he would perform at every feast, every council, even at my morning ablutions if he could sneak past my guards. “Oh, the pectorals of Grak! Like twin shield-bosses, they do thrust!” he would wail, often with accompanying, alarming hand gestures towards my person. My warriors started to snicker. Even my war-wolf, Snarlfang, would whimper and hide under the mead-table.
I gave him many warnings. “Figgle,” I rumbled, “cease your chest-centric crooning, or feel the wrath of my chest-centric fist.” He merely responded with a new verse: “His fist, a marvel of muscle-bound grace, born from a pectoral’s powerful base!”
Finally, during the winter solstice feast, as he launched into a particularly egregious verse about my “undulating deltoid-adjacent marvels,” I could bear it no longer. I seized him by his silken tunic, flung him from my hall, and declared him banished from the Northern Wastes on pain of being used as a target for axe-throwing practice.
Now, my shaman, Grok-Grok, says I was too harsh. “Bards are but foolish sprites,” he grumbled, “and your pectorals are rather impressive, Warlord.” But I say a line was crossed! My pectorals are for inspiring fear in my enemies, not for endless, slightly-too-close ballads.
So, tell me, wise ones of the scrolls: AITA?
Responses:
Section titled “Responses:”u/ElvenArcher123 (High Elf, Ranger) NTA. As a highly trained individual accustomed to subtlety and precision, I find Figgle’s behaviour beyond the pale. Personal space, even for a warlord, is paramount. Also, I’m slightly concerned about the anatomical accuracy of “undulating deltoid-adjacent marvels.” Does he even know what a deltoid is?
u/DwarvenMiner_88 (Dwarf, Miner, Certified Grudgebearer) INFO: Were the pectorals truly as mighty as described? And did he rhyme “grace” with “base” more than once? Because if so, YTA for not banishing him sooner. My ears ache just reading that.
u/SorceressSupremeAva (Human, Arch-Mage, Formerly Petrified for 300 Years) NTA. I once had a familiar who would only recite prophecies about the precise shade of my arcane robes. It’s distracting! Banishment seems a perfectly reasonable response. Perhaps turn him into a newt for a week, just to teach him some humility? My polymorph spell is quite refined.
u/GoblinBardLover69 (Goblin, self-proclaimed music critic) YTA, Warlord. You clearly lack appreciation for true artistic expression! Figgle sounds like a genius. Perhaps your ego is the real problem, not your impressive… ahem… musculature. Bet you can’t even play the lute.
u/OrcishCook (Orc, Head Chef of the Obsidian Feast Hall) NTA. Figgle once sang about the “voluminous, glistening, and surprisingly jiggly” nature of my freshly roasted boar. I considered adding him to the stew. You showed remarkable restraint, Warlord.
u/MysticMageMelara (Human, Oracle of the Whispering Woods) A gentle breeze whispers to me… and it says NTA. Creativity should inspire, not irritate to the point of banishment. Perhaps Figgle might find a new muse among the less… defined… landscapes of the Southern Swamps