♛ 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓 ♛ — RÚAIRÍ DE BÚRCA the BARD from BELHAVEN. tales of this TWENTY EIGHT year old CIS MALE tell of their KINDHEARTED & FRIENDLY nature, but beware, for they are also SARCASTIC & COWARDLY. the gossips whisper they use HE/HIM pronouns and look strangely like ROBERT SHEEHAN. but i’ve also heard they bring images of BONES OF ANIMALS IN A BOG ; A TAVERN PACKED TIGHTLY WITH DRUNKS ; A CLUTTERED ARTIST’S HOME to mind. how will their story unfold?
[ hi i’m charlie (they/them) and this is my bog son rúairí!! this is also my first time doing any of this so please go easy on me! ]
tw;; drugs/alcohol, death
ABOUT RÚAIRÍ
rúairí was brought up in a rather unstable and chaotic environment. his mother died in childbirth, and his father ran a local tavern in belhaven. being raised in a bar isn’t exactly the ideal for most, but it was perfect in rúairí’s eyes. he claims that being surrounded by drunks and prostitutes is what gave him his current charming and accepting personality. there is no one too ‘out there’ for rúairí. at the age of twenty, rúairí met, who he deemed to be, the love of his life in the tavern. despite the deep connection they made, and the things they did together, and of all the things they talked about that night, the exchanging of names never happened. ever since that night, rúairí has been looking for them. he travels solely to have a chance of finding this mystery person.
although most of the time it was rowdy men in the tavern, rúairí was introduced to many musicians and artists, otherwise known as the people who drove rúairí to his current occupation as a bard. being told stories of both women and men practically throwing themselves at these rather elusive characters. rúairí was never sure if he loved the art of poetry, music and painting the most, or if it was just the attention he got from others because of it.
being brought up in what could only be described as the dead centre of a bog, rúairí developed quite a fondness for animals over the years; specifically frogs. while he is kind and nurturing to all things that aren’t human, frogs have stolen his heart. one frog in particular has even become a companion of sorts over the years; a tomato frog he lovingly named ‘swamp’. swamp has been with rúairí since he was eight years old. nobody aside from rúairí really knows how the frog is still alive, and rúairí isn’t any help with figuring out the mystery, as he refuses to tell anyone purely for his own enjoyment.
despite rúairí’s rather optimistic and fun loving demeanour, he struggles daily with quite an extreme dependency on alcohol and drugs. he claims it ‘inspires his art’, but in reality, it’s become a serious issue for him, his relationships and his health overall. rúairí can be fun, and his sarcasm can be charming at times, but when he pushes it too far with his substance abuse, he becomes a rather pathetic, emotional handful and needs looking after.
WANTED PLOTS
rúairí is the kind of guy who has lots of acquaintances, but not many friends. while he’s ridiculously easy to talk to, and known to most as ‘the bard with the frog’, he can’t seem to make a meaningful connection with many. he just needs a few close friends, preferably those he can get drunk with and bare his soul to.
that being said, i need people who absolutely cannot stand him. people he slept with that he never contacted again afterwards, people he’s wronged while out of it, etc.
the love interest is a big thing i want. i would prefer them to be a male/masc non binary person, but i am open to suggestions! rúairí needs to be head over heels when he finds this person. maybe the person can not really be into him at the beginning and slowly but surely warm up to him and fall for him too. or go the complete opposite way and absolutely despise him; again, i’m open to suggestion.
swamp stans
not so much love interests, but lust interests are a big thing for rúairí. he craves any affection he can get and he is a bit promiscuous (a bit of a slag, in other words).
HE HAD arrived early that morning with his mother. having spent most of the day chasing the servant boys around the mansion. he’d need them in top shape for the party he had planned. it was his right to test out the new servants, wasn’t it? but he was urged to venture out and mingle…. like the good little lord that he was. it just caused him to roll his eyes. but when the familiar voice rang out, he couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle. “i’m more respectable than a common wench, bard.” mmm… he knew this one. how many drunken nights in a tavern has he spent with him? “but… i admit, i’m not as chaste like them. shouldn’t you be the one to get me a drink?”
Rúairí grins as zuko snaps back at him. “right, i forgot you considered yourself ‘respectable’.” rúairí says with a snort, moving closer to the other man. he leans in to whisper in his ear. “if i remember correctly, you certainly acted like a wench the other night.” he chuckles, raising an eyebrow at him. he frowns when zuko suggests he buy the drinks. “excuse me? shouldn’t you be the one buying me a drink?” rúairí asks, beckoning zuko to follow him to get a drink.
WILLIAM WAS UPSET he’d missed the evening’s main event. whispers were already floating around about how a certain bard created a song about a noble falling into a fountain. he had been gambling in the corner of an alehouse, and managed to win over some poor squire’s invitation to the feast. he’s only been here for five minutes that he hears a much too familiar voice. he turns, incredulous smile on his face. “rúairí. i should have known you’d be the only sot dumb enough to write a song about a nobleman falling from grace and into a fountain.” he’s quick to finish his own wine. it’s been years since he’s seen the other. rúairí had been the first person william connected with after escaping the sect. he didn’t think he’d ever see him again. “remember me?” he asks, grin spreading to reveal pearly whites. apart from all the scarring and tattoos, william was a new man, with ten years of real world experience and ( too much ) confidence.
Rúairí could barely comprehend the beauty that stood in front of him. it was him; the man he had met in the tavern all those years ago. the man he had spent so long searching for. he was finally stood in front of him.
rúairí felt as though he had been staring at the man in front of him for hours. he finally notices he hadn’t even spoken yet. for once in his life, he was rendered speechless. he reaches a hand out and places it on the other man’s shoulder. “i-it’s you.” he mumbles, a grin spreading across his face. “oh my god, it’s you! i thought i’d never see you again! my god, it’s been, what, ten years?” he rambles excitedly. “i can’t believe you’re here!” rúairí pauses momentarily, realising he didn’t even know this man’s name. what was he supposed to do? guess? just never address it? he sighs, shaking his head. “i never actually got your name all those years ago.”
Evening, wench! The words, however amusingly spoken, caught his attention like a fish to a hook. These damned celebrations couldn’t finish fast enough. The city was crowded enough on a normal day, but with the influx of hundreds of nobles —- not to mention their guards, maids, and households — it was almost unbearable. For the entire day he’d stood on his face, stoic and straight-faced, a shadow behind Lord Brannon’s shoulder. However, with the evening festivities upon them, it was a time for sensitive conversations, and so Ser Artys was sent off on his own devices. And more often than not, such a thing meant getting too drunk to think.
The audacity, – “Who do you think you’re talking to?” Artys whirled around in a fit of anger, only to feel every bit of the emotion drain away a second later as he finally recognized the person he was looking at, someone he had not seen in years. “Rúairí?! What the fuck are you doing here?”
the man rúairí had decided to approach was much larger, and much more threatening than he had expected. rúairí backs up a bit, feeling as though he was about to get a smack across the face as the man turns around. however, that fear vanishes as he sees a familiar face he hadn’t seen in years. a grin forms on rúairí’s face as he throws his arms around the man in a tight hug. “artys! my god, how long has it been?” he says with a laugh. “i’ve missed you! can i get you a drink?”
𝐖𝐇𝐎 / ismira sangrey & @bog-bard
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 / the grand square, kingsport
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 / the eight day, afternoon
THE SQUARE WAS PACKED WITH smallfolk trying to get a glimpse of the queen, and ismira was immediately filled with regret about deciding to attend. rúairí was their friend — sort of — so she made him the promise to show up and cheer when he would undoubtably reveal a painting of his main interest: frogs. what she did not, however, sign up for was to hear the bard wax poetic about his relationship with swamp for the better part of an hour. “ saints, ” she muttered as he launched into a heartfelt story about how the frog had saved his life, and mira decided to take matters into their own hands.
SHUFFLING FORWARD THROUGH the small crowd, she grabbed rúairí by one of his ( scrawny ) arms and pulled the bard aside. “ either you buy me a drink and spare me from more of this misery or i’ll tell the crowd it was actually me who saved your life from that manticore, not that fucking frog — and then you can forget getting any buyers. ”
Rúairí had gained the attention of a small crowd by speaking about how much his beloved tomato frog, who was rested on his shoulder. his spiel about swamp and the manticore was a personal favourite of his, and rúairí was good with speeches, so the crowd was naturally drawn to him.
however, it wasn’t long until the tight grip of (a much stronger) ismira dragged him away from his stage. rúairí rolls his eyes as he is pulled away from his audience. “honestly, mira, nobody cares about you saving me. it’s just not as interesting. besides, swamp listens to me. in reality, i think he did save me that day.” he teases, a grin forming on his face. he loved getting on mira’s nerves, and doing so was like clockwork at this point. “but fine, i’ll buy you a drink, trollop. what do you want?”
the evening had barely begun, and rúairí had found himself to be half cut already. he had drawn the attention to himself that he so desperately wanted after a half effort jab at a nobleman in the form of song, yet he craved even more. with a fresh goblet of wine, he approaches a body from behind and grins to himself, knowing he was either about to receive another joyous laugh or a punch in the face. “evening, wench!” he greets the figure, downing his wine in one quick gulp. “care to get me another drink?” he asks, raising an eyebrow in a cheeky fashion. he knew he could get in trouble tonight; it was almost as if he craved chaos in his life. he figured he had made the right decision leaving his beloved frog companion, swamp, at home for the night.
