#laughingstill

[miratenebrarum]

preemptive headache incoming

[thelightprevails]

You know sometimes life gets in the way of a lot of things. BUT I promised @laughingstill a SAD BOY, and a SAD BOY shall be received.

I HOPE HE WAS WORTH THE WAIT <3

[petalsmustfall-blog]

“It must be... quite the act for so many of yours to check out my physical form... Making sure we can team up for the next mission?”

@truly-amusing @laughingstill @maniciiminstrel

[direhunting-blog]

laughingstill replied to your post: “…”

“I will eat any new ones you might make as well.”

“You’ll be the first person I seek whenever I make something new then.“

[feathercorp]

@laughingstill continued from here

“Sure, it’s on me.” Mike nodded, checking how much money he had in his wallet. The sack itself looked expensive, but inside he had just enough coin for a couple of rounds. Long were gone the times where Blackfeather family was among of the richest.

[desert-warmth]

‘‘I suddenly feel a strange yet persistent urge to strangle that jester with my bare hands. It almost feels like he was bothering me in my previous life, if such thing is possible...”

[let-the-mask-down]

"I want your sword, when you'll die."

“You’re welcome to it,” the sick man says. The mask covers the better part of his expression, but there’s a curl to what’s visible of his lower jaw that suggests he’s smiling. “Good luck heaving it about, though. It is bigger than you are.”

[thelightprevails]

Instinctual Instrumental

@laughingstill

“Don’t be silly, Mister Stafford!” Toast plucks out a few little notes on her harp, making sure that everything is in tune. She smiles, wanting to reassure the jester against his anxiety. “I’d think that everyone would be rather grateful to have some music in the tavern, wouldn’t you? I’ll follow your lead, Mister Stafford, or, that was what I was aiming to do. But if you’d rather me lead you, I can certainly do that as well.” She has a calm sort of confidence about her, a gentle attitude that radiated off of her. 

Her harp was sat on the small wooden stage, no bigger than enough space for three dancing girls, or a jester and a vestal. It’s six thirty in the evening, sun beginning to set, mouths are stuffed full of food and giggles are exchanged between women with painted lips. Toustain, for fear of looking too casual, has donned her vestal’s robes for the event. Her lips have not been wet with ale nore sweet wine, no. Her nerves are strung, but not tightly. Her companion seems more nervous that she.

Toustain pats his hand softly. “Come, my friend. You are a talented man. We will play for them, and well. They will find a solace in our harmonies.”