We conclude our diversion into the story-telling capabilities of Joris with his description of the Valkyries from the Norse tradition.
Transcription of Joris:
The daughters of Asgard, angelic gatherers of dead men. Flying with their winged steeds over battlefields and singing godly melodies. Godly I say! What other melodies are there for goddesses. And yet so coy, so confident. Their eyes sifting through piles of dead heroes and selecting only the most marvelous to join them. But oh, who to choose? And their sinuous bodies, unveiled by discourteous winds, crudely exposing their nudity.
And what of this body? His there—that one of exceeding beauty. That one body that, even in death, outmatched the living in brute sensuality. “He is mine!” Shrieked one sister. “Nay, I shall carry him!” Cried another. And turning upon themselves, these two flashed wrathful eyes and hurled malevolence at one another. “Hateful gaswhistler!” “Hog moth[er?] of merchants!” Such delicious obscenities they exchanged. Truly, they inspire us to pursue novelty in our own antagonisms. Why, it was a polyphonic masterclass in venomous disputation, and ‘twould have escalated into violence surely, were it not for their uncle who at that moment picked posies in a lot abutting the field.
"Sweet nieces, children of mine brother and of the earth, whose beauty calms the brine and enchants the soaring meteors to glow. Wouldst thou forgot all prudence over the elegant body of this fallen hero? I weep for shame. As I know thou art obstinate as thou art beautiful, allow me to sever the man in two, whereby both of you might in your loveliest arms expeditiously raise him into the heavens and thereby find a judicious end to this vile rivalry."
Driven by their passions, the sisters hastily accepted their uncle’s kind offer, and no sooner had he sliced the body in twain, then the two of them had flown aloft in a mad delirium bearing with them the coveted halves. But, ye gods! What a ghastly sight they heaped in Valhalla’s halls! A mutilated pile of gore. Certainly not the beautiful man that precipitated their coronary convulsions. So, putting out of their minds their petty quarrels, they rejoined their sisters below, who were still scouring the battlefields, atop winged steeds, and with godly songs upon their breath.
And what of the mangled body you ask? What of the mutilated man? Why, naturally, he was used to fertilize the soil of Asgard's floating gardens, where the uncle could cultivate his posies away from the distractions of those flighty nieces.
And what of this body? His there—that one of exceeding beauty. That one body that, even in death, outmatched the living in brute sensuality. “He is mine!” Shrieked one sister. “Nay, I shall carry him!” Cried another. And turning upon themselves, these two flashed wrathful eyes and hurled malevolence at one another. “Hateful gaswhistler!” “Hog moth[er?] of merchants!” Such delicious obscenities they exchanged. Truly, they inspire us to pursue novelty in our own antagonisms. Why, it was a polyphonic masterclass in venomous disputation, and ‘twould have escalated into violence surely, were it not for their uncle who at that moment picked posies in a lot abutting the field.
"Sweet nieces, children of mine brother and of the earth, whose beauty calms the brine and enchants the soaring meteors to glow. Wouldst thou forgot all prudence over the elegant body of this fallen hero? I weep for shame. As I know thou art obstinate as thou art beautiful, allow me to sever the man in two, whereby both of you might in your loveliest arms expeditiously raise him into the heavens and thereby find a judicious end to this vile rivalry."
Driven by their passions, the sisters hastily accepted their uncle’s kind offer, and no sooner had he sliced the body in twain, then the two of them had flown aloft in a mad delirium bearing with them the coveted halves. But, ye gods! What a ghastly sight they heaped in Valhalla’s halls! A mutilated pile of gore. Certainly not the beautiful man that precipitated their coronary convulsions. So, putting out of their minds their petty quarrels, they rejoined their sisters below, who were still scouring the battlefields, atop winged steeds, and with godly songs upon their breath.
And what of the mangled body you ask? What of the mutilated man? Why, naturally, he was used to fertilize the soil of Asgard's floating gardens, where the uncle could cultivate his posies away from the distractions of those flighty nieces.