#onwarleggansbehalf

[ifproofwereneeded-blog]

sticks m warleggy out real far

    “—- … ”

    “Mr. Tankard, you are going to HURTyourself–”

[therapardalis]

[Starter for @onwarleggansbehalf ]

Oh, great Goddess ... was there anyone even remotely interesting here? Sadly, Thera wasn’t currently believing so. Most of the attendees were busy puffing themselves up in front of each other, boasting about their latest accomplishments and gains - or alternatively, boasting to her, in the apparent firm belief that the size of their pocketbooks made up for the lack in their personalities.

Newsflash; it didn’t. To the point where she had to excuse herself with an expression that was part smile, part gritted teeth, and make a getaway across the room to somewhere out of the way. That hopefully had a good stiff drink.

[sentiment-or-profit]

“Tankard! Did I not give explicit instruction these people were not to be admitted------?!”

[ofnimbleness-blog]

“ --- @onwarleggansbehalf​ getting a random starter

“ .... Excuse me, you’re stepping on my skirt.”

[ifproofwereneeded-blog]

PAY YOUR FUCKING TAXES.

    “Running errands for dear George again, are we, Oliver?”

[ifproofwereneeded-blog]

I know you are a man of honor. I'm so sorry to bother you at home. But I don't know where to go, and I came here all alone.

    He’s not expectant of visitors (rather, is a great deal far from in the mood for them). And yet for some inexplicable reason does the unforeseen knock at his door and disrupt an otherwise pleasant evening spent by his oneself. That in which he’s already engaging, filling his belly with brandy and agonizing over every possible issue to plague all souls in Cornwall (or rather simply those with souls about which to be concerned in the first place). The knock cuts through his distant ruminations of so dark a variety, and Ross Poldark stiffens where he sits. Looks with hardly subtle reluctance to the door. And with even less subtle reluctance rises to answer.

    The gentleman is wont to blanch at the start; indeed, he believes he’s had a touch more than his proper fill of his supply if this is who stands before him. “Oliver, what the devil—” But he blinks and tugs firm on his waistcoat: a gesture thereafter complemented by the still lacking in all subtlety noise of disquiet in his throat. “Tankard—sir.” The show is for no one—if not himself. He feigns a stiff formality with the dip of his head. “Rather late an hour, is it not? Or contrarily early for one kept busy with his employer’s demands?”

[therapardalis]

❔~

“Mr Tankard, what was it that led you to such a close professional relationship with the Warleggans? Do you afford such personal attention to all your clients, or is there a particular ... kinship there?”