#tryckthebard

[taleswrittenmoving]

@tryckthebard sent [SENSITIVE] The sender nibbles the receiver’s earlobe. (to astarion)

A shudder runs down his spine as soon as those blunt teeth find his earlobe. They're sat in the corner of the camps, away from prying eyes for now. Astarion has come to enjoy Tryck's company, inviting him into his tent just to simply spend time together.

Though, he's not complaining as the other nibbles on his ear. It sends a wave of arousal throughout his body that has him nearly groaning, a sound he swallows back for now.

"Careful. You keep up with that and I will not be able to keep my hands to myself." Not that he thinks either of them will mind that.

[greatnessthrusted]

I’m sorry @tryckthebard .

The party is quite a lavish one, all told. Every high-ranking official in the city, every moneyed family member, every esteemed artist and merchant for miles around all gather in the grand ball room. The room is carved from marble, ornate with gold and white decorations and dark wooden tables, red velvet cushions upon the chairs and crystal chalices for drinking. A string quartet plays in a corner of the room, one of several of the night’s entertainments. Will should know—he’s another of them, hired to close the evening with poetry of a nature that suits the crowd, be it bawdy or beautiful.

Truthfully, Will still isn’t sure which suits the party better: though its guests be bawdy, there is much beauty also present here, such as the gorgeous woman with long raven locks making her way between the tables. Her eyes are heavily made-up, making the blue of them pop against the darkened surrounding features. Though her blush be light, her lips be dark, leaving it to the twinkle in her eye to suggest her manner is more the former than the latter. He’s been scribbling brief odes to her radiance in the hopes of finding some amusing new turn of phrase, but the journal before him is just as blank now as it was upon his arrival. As always. He’ll simply have to keep any worthy words in his head, lest he should lose them again.

Will didn’t need to wait long for his opportunity to turn those words loose upon the object of their inspiration: sharp movement from the next table lands the dear lady right in his lap, quite literally. He laughs as he catches her about the waist, leaning so as to keep the pair from toppling out of the chair.

“Never before have I witnessed the fall of so fair a winged messenger of the heavens; truly, I am blessed to be the hells in which you landed.” He takes her hand in his own and brushes warm lips over her knuckles. “Will. Well met.”

[spawnmade]

@tryckthebard sent [ CHAIR ]: the distinct lack of available chairs in a room results in the sender having no choice but to sit in the receiver's lap.

It is very rarely that they get the luxury of going to an tavern and enjoying a meal they do not have to cook. While Astarion does not eat actual food, he still, on occasion, likes the taste of it. It's nowhere near as delicious as blood is but the taste is almost worth it.

What he's really here for, however, is the booze. Finally a moment for the party to relax and forget about those dreaded tadpoles for the time being. He is ordering a drink from the bartender by the time Tryck makes his way over to him.

Settled at the bar, Astarion barely has time to look up before the bard is sliding into his lap. Instantly, the vampire spawn's arms wrap around him to keep him on his lap as if he thinks he might fall off.

"Well, hello to you too, darling." He leans in slightly to press his lips to Tryck's shoulder in greeting.

[estarion]

If you were an A+ student, you'd be Passtarian If you ate only fish, you'd be Pescastarion. If your world got flipped, turned upside-down, you'd be Freshtarion

　　　... the professor’s hand creeps ever-so-steadily towards the ‘panic’ button recently installed beneath his desk.   ( the button:  @silvertiefling )

[hopedflightarc]

"please commit any murders outside of the camp. i am not cleaning up more blood stains. this is a camp not a denny's parking lot."

[accultant]

Iago sneezes a bit like a kitten and scowls at nothing in particular. Then they sneeze again.

Someone must be thinking about them...

[bloodyarn]

☼

𝚃𝙰𝙳𝙿𝙾𝙻𝙴 𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙳𝚁𝙾𝙿 . 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚎

☼ for a morning text

  〚❛❛ Good morning Tryck   ! !   How was your night   ?   I heard some pained noises coming from your tent, did you hurt yourself in your sleep   ?   Happened to me a while ago too. Knocked the lamp over while asleep  &  it fell on my face. Anyway, yeah. What was that groaning   ? ❜❜〛

[neverhangd]

@tryckthebard made the fatal mistake of befriending me. 😈

The moment Tryck followed her off the ship and into the streets of Nassau, Anne knew she was done for. It was one thing to speak plans into the air while at sea, drunk on intimacy and affection, but quite another to act on them in the full light of day on unsure shores. Every man she’d made the mistake of before (and now with) Tryck was a good talker. But a good doer? He would be the first.

And she would hang herself by his violin strings before admitting that she’d only learned the literal truth of being made weak in the knees at the thought of him now.

“Thyself shalt see the act. For, as thou urgest justice, be assured Thou shalt have justice more than thou desir’st,” Anne reads. It would appear she’s most ways through the thin book in her hands, and from the shine in her eyes, it’s clear there’s conflict afoot in the plot. It’s one of Anne’s favorite plays, having often been called dubbed Portia—and Kate, and Viola, and a few other notables—by her father in her youth. It isn’t hard to guess why. The trickiest bit of this scheme, Anne’s favorite meting out of true justice, is mere lines away when the bed creaks again.

As before, she glances up at check it; very much not as before, the occupant in it is clearly awake. Anne does a double take before removing her feet from the frame of the bed, the front two legs of her chair slamming back down on the floor.