#bard!stiles

LAST ONE I SWEAR!! I drew this just for this event lol! I really wanted fashion disaster Bard!Stiles who only vaguely knows how to play the recorder. He’s better at poetry but he was told he had to pick an instrument besides his singing voice. 

(submitted by @loveyprophet)

It started in a pub, as all good adventures do.

The pub was lit by the warm glow of the overhead lights, the withered grain of the thick wooden walls gave the space a rustic and welcoming feeling. The heavy mahogany benchtop of the bar ran along one wall, stained by the years of drinks that had rested or been spilt over it. The wall behind it was lined with wooden shelves, bottles of alcohol and wooden barrels lying on their sides, spouts piercing the lids so that the barkeep could pour drinks.

Several tables were set up around the room, wooden booths lining the walls and stools lined up under the bar.

Groups of people sat in nearby, filling the building with raucous chatter.

Stiles sat at the bar, a tankard in his hand.

He got a lot of strange looks from those around him, and he knew why. He didn’t look like someone who belonged here; he wore a blue-grey plaid shirt over a black shirt, strips of fabric coiled around his forearms and thick red gloves with a woollen lining covered his hands.  A red cape with a thin fleece lining was pinned around his shoulders, his chest covered in brown belts that crossed over his torso and coiled around his waist. A blue bandanna was folded into a headband, pulling back the tousled mess of his chestnut-brown hair from his face. Strapped to his side, in one of the leather holsters fastened to the belt around his waist, was a recorder.

In short, he was a fashion disaster—and as such, he always looked out of place.

But his reputation proceeded him; Stiles Stilinski—the strongest bard in the Eastern lands. And the only bard to carry a recorder as a weapon.

He specialised in lyrical poetry and vocals, but his mentor had told him time and time again that he needed a weapon to hone his powers. The only problem was, he was never any good at playing an instrument. The only instrument he could play was the recorder or the drums, but it was hard to carry a drum kit into battle, so a recorder it was.

Stiles lifted his tankard, taking another drink of the lager.

A figure slid up beside him, sitting down at the bar. The man was dressed in a worn black leather coat that matched the black plated armour he wore underneath. The leather chest plate covered half his chest, fastened to the plates of armour that sat over his shoulder. Underneath his armour, he wore a soft grey shirt. Black leather belts were coiled around his waist, a quiver attached to his hip and a row of throwing knives holstered on the other side.

A Ranger.

The man pushed back the hood of his coat, revealing his short raven-black hair and stunning aventurine-green eyes.

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat, his breath catching in his throat as he blinked in surprise.

He forced himself to look away, lifting his tankard to his lips and taking another drink.

The barkeep – a tall man with dark skin and a heavy build – brought the Ranger his drink, sliding a beaten metal tankard in front of the man.

“You know a lot of people who come through here, right?” the Ranger asked., his voice deep and husky.

The barkeep, Boyd, nodded.

“I need a team,” the Ranger said. “The best of the best.”

“You want the best of the best, look to your right,” Boyd replied nodding towards Stiles.

Stiles looked up from his drink, surprised by the compliment.

The Ranger looked at him, his pale eyes looking him over.

“Bard?” the Ranger asked.

Stiles nodded.

“The best there is,” Boyd added.

The Ranger raised an eyebrow. He held out his hand.

“Derek,” he introduced himself.

“Stiles,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand.

The corners of Derek’s lips turned up in a charming smile.