#tamedstray

Iago simply shrugs at their darling sweet Vigor, hiding their amusement at the complaint with nonchalance, "What the fuck am I supposed to do about it? As long as he isn't prattling out colorful death threats again, I see no harm."

WHAT KIND OF CAT IS THE MUN?

📚 The Bookstore Cat - Wise and chill. Knows your muse’s trauma before you do. Would live in a coffee-scented library if they could. 🖤 The Tumblr Core Cat - Vibes are unmatched. You’re probably mutuals. You might also be a little afraid of them.

I feel so honored you think so highly of me, while I am sitting here in my overheated flat, suckling on cold soda & letting my hands write whatever they want to. My brain has logged off years ago. ♥

𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠  𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞  𝐛𝐚𝐠   。  。  。

             𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭  𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞  𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐞𝐝: 𝑄𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠  𝑡ℎ𝑒  𝑀𝑢𝑠𝑒  𝐶𝑎𝑛  𝐴𝑛𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑟 。

@tamedstray:  What  are  a  few  things  (or  one  thing)  you  want  to  do  before  you  die?  Why?

              𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐀𝐓   𝐀𝐋𝐋   ;   that  is  what  comes  to  mind  first.  Puck  would  like  to  dig  a  hole  in  the  ground  &  let  it  swallow  him  up.  (  Seal  himself  within  the  earth  until  the  gods  finally  give  up  on  him.  ) 

But  that  isn't  a  very  cheerful  answer  to  the  question,  so  Puck  casts  it  aside.  Searches  instead  for  something  more  salvageable  for  a  conversation.  Something  less  concerning.

              𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋kill𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋  (  Be  The  Last  Man  Standing  )  𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋killkillkillkill𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋  ⸻

No.

              No.  Not  that  one,  either. That's- That would be more concerning.

              ❝  I  want  .  .  .   ❞  His  eyes  squeeze  shut,  brows  knitting  together  in  deep  thought  as  he  sucks  in  a  breath.  There  must  be  something.  Anything.  Just  say  anything.  You  won't  ever  have  it,  so  it  doesn't  matter  what  it  is. 

              ❝  Kids,  ❞  he  says  impulsively,  a  confession  that  causes  his  face  to  flush  &  his  eyes  to  dart  down  to  the  ground.  One  of  his  pointed  ears  flutters  nervously.  Talk  about  things  he  couldn't  ever  have,  huh  ？

But  it's  the  truth.  At  the  end  of  the  day,  all  he  wants  is  life.

              ❝  I'd-  I'd  like  to  have  kids.  A  lot  of  them,  I  think.  A  family  .  .  .  &  I  want  animals.  Lots  of  those,  too.  A-  A  whole  ranch.  Maybe  a  garden.  I  don't  know.  Something  that  grows.  ❞

@tamedstray asked: I'm willing to convert 🙏 I'm ready to dance naked in the moonlight. That is, if Selûne will take me 😉 --Cain

"That's not--" Luna shook her head and sighed, knowing it was a losing battle to argue that point with Cain. Many people jokingly thought all Selunites danced naked in the moonlight and maybe some of them did but... it was not a widespread thing and not something Luna was about to do-- not with Cain, anyway.

In a shadowy corner of the bustling city, Baldur's Gate, Zorah paced. Slender fingers traced the edges of a weathered parchment. Along its surface were cryptic symbols and the faint sketching of a man's face. It was the very man she'd seen in her dreams - divined by her, and gifted to her third sight by Grandfather. Drawing it out was unexpected but having an image to reference helped a great deal. This man was her best shot at the life she'd always desired to live and making her patron pleased. Perhaps they could work symbiotically... as long as it benefitted her, she saw no harm.

It had taken months of scouring the city. She'd visited every pub, every dive location, asked anyone who might know anything. Through her searching she'd discovered the name of the man: Vigor. He was the estranged adopted son of a local nobleman, Irnvar. Irnvar was wealthy and well-connected, established in the Upper City. If Zorah managed to pull all these strings in just the right way she might find herself in his place.

The tiefling looked up, eyes squinted against the bright light of a street lamp's flame. Hopefully he'd heard of her searching. She suspected that Vigor was quite good at gleaning information and she'd been obnoxious enough to draw attention over the last few months.

' Aye, d'ye hear about the weird bitch with horns? She's been callin' on some lad named Vigor. What could she be wantin'? D'ye think they're estranged lovers? I'd bet she has the sod's kid or somethin'... '

Any attention was good attention, and rumors spread like wildfire. The most important, most consistent aspect to these rumors was carefully crafted: she had something for him. Even the more outlandish whisperings all drew back to that core detail. This would ideally benefit him, too.

If her instincts proved correct then she was hoping Vigor would show himself soon. Perhaps tonight.

Niamh wasn't sure that the spell she had cast worked. She was hoping it would give her more insight into the tadpole, but so far, nothing had happened. She figured that it must have been a dud. She decided to work on a potion, thinking perhaps that would work better.

Until she heard Vigor. It took her a moment to realize he wasn't speaking, but she was hearing his thoughts. Had the spell tapped into the tadpole's telepathy? It must have.

As he continues to muse, as vivid images feel Niamh's head, her face flushes hot. A plume of heat shoots straight down between her thighs and she can't help but feel embarrassed.

Does he really want to do that with her?

She's certainly not opposed to it. Vigor is handsome and kind. She greatly enjoys his company. She wipes her hands on her apron and turns to him, wetting her bottom lip with her tongue.

@tamedstray sent: [ 08 ] a rowdy tavern crowded with drunk, singing patrons

There was nothing more satisfying and more liberating than vanishing in the anonymity taverns and gargantuan, foreign cities provided someone of his stature. Granted, he was still sticking out like a sore thumb — courtesy of his finely tailored attire —, but the majority of the patrons were too inebriated to notice, let alone remember the day after. Luran had never visited this particular establishment before, but one of the locals had recommended — praised — the tavern, advertised it as “the most superb in town — the best that’d ever befallen mankind, a blessing from the Gods”. To him, it sounded like codswallop, a mere drunken man’s exaggeration — no clue if the praises were earned. However, the elf’s first impression of the tavern and the accompanying amenity were promising. Besides, he’d traversed hither to unwind, and find and relish in frivolous festivities and gaiety — it was saturating with both. Mission accomplished. The music was decent. Not great, but tolerable — very much unlike the well-composed, harmonious, and nuanced melodies played at the taverns back in the city he hailed from. The bards cavorting up on the stage were true performers — extravagant in dress and well-versed in the art of entertainment. An improvement, in his eyes — no disappointments there.

The tall, lithe elf waded through an ocean of patrons who spontaneously burst out into song when the tempo picked up. A grimace flittered across his attractive countenance at the unanticipated influx of dissonance, fearing the cacophony would hack his eardrums in twain — not all were bestowed with the gift of a euphonious singing voice. This manifestation was one Luran happened to be familiar with; he had endured the torment of being beset by incompetent musicians, amateurs, on numerous occasions — abroad as well as in Fortia. Nevertheless, the poor quality expelled from their throats, didn’t withhold the advisor from ordering an alcoholic beverage of his own and settling down someplace strategic, with an excellent view of the carousing crowd and the performing bards.

While his sapphire blue eyes skimmed the congregation of people — the turnout was predominantly human —, Luran reclined in the chair and sipped his ale. His thick, dark eyebrows ascended in surprise at the liquid’s distinctive and flavorous taste, and scribbled an annotation on the inside of his skull reminding himself to be sparing on the consumption of it. The last thing he wanted was to mar his immaculate reputation by bludgeoning an irremediable dent into it. He was confident none of that would come to pass. After all, important, diplomatic affairs were lurking on the horizon of a new dawn; he’d merely sought out this establishment to have fun prior to plunging himself in endless, prosaic talks and infinite piles of insipid, soul-destroying, clerical work...

Luran revelled in the attention, the dreamy looks of admiration and fascination, his memorable presence and flamboyant appearance garnered from the few seated in his proximity. It was because of this very response that he’d opted not to dress down; to show up in something less sumptuous and conspicuous would defeat the purpose of his being here — of being enamoured. It was deliberate, a premeditated scheme. Of course, not everyone was appreciative of his ostentatious comportment: an older woman, located several tables away from him, shot him a disdainful glare when their gazes met. Regrettably, his charm did have its limitations; it seemed to have no effect, whatsoever, on people, who simply appalled those who publicly displayed their sinful pride and didn’t bother reigning in their pompous personalities. To each their own, he supposed, but Luran was silently judging their — and the glaring woman’s, in particular — abominable taste...