|| and what i am is sexy trash ||

♛ 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

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?”

 WILLIAM & RUAIRI

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.

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?”

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.

a historical / fantasy / period / medieval friendly character survey.

reblog and bold your muses preference.

roses / cherry blossoms / orchids / tulips

winter / summer / autumn / spring

thunderstorms / sunshine / snow 

indoors / outdoors

meat / fruit / sweets

extravagance / traditionalism / minimalism

god fearing / non god fearing

cats / dogs / horses / birds

sunrise / sunset

day time / night time

fire / earth / water / wind 

reading / writing

rising early / sleeping late 

wine / ale / neither

fur / silk / satin / lace 

rubies / pearls / sapphires 

horse back / walking / carriages 

love / power

having company / being alone 

lakes / rivers / oceans 

knife / sword / bow / poison