[It's with reluctance that D'Artagnan attends anything deemed mandatory, and he doesn't hide his displeasure at that, physically present at this indecently vulgar pool party, but pointedly not participating in any suggested activities. He's forgone the provided 'swimsuit' in favour of just his underclothes, nearly long enough to be trousers themselves, rolled to the knee, a long row of small buttons on the front and made of rougher-looking off white linen cloth. If he's going to be here, he intends to at least be comfortable, as if he might be waiting to wade into a stream and fish instead of glancing up every few moments when someone emerges from the water with a phallic item in hand and a cry of victory.
The pool gathering itself isn't that far removed from a public bath, only it's outside in an open area, there are women present, and the water is cold. D'Artagnan is past the point of questioning every single thing that makes little sense to him, as they are quite large in number, and he's slid into a perpetual state of confusion and subsequent adjustment. He stands by one of the cabanas, feather-adorned cavalier hat pulled low over his eyes, fiddling with the cap on a bottle of sunscreen, trying to pull the top off directly like yanking a cork out of a barrel, unfamiliar with the pliant plastic material or the concept of flip-tops, and he pulls or twists something too hard and ends up with sunscreen dripping all over his hands as the cracked cap strikes the concrete and rolls towards the edge of the pool. He sniffs, wrinkles his nose in distaste, and sighs quietly, holding the bottle out to the nearest person.]
Here, did you want this? It has the odor of a sheep's innards.
[His voice is near monotone and slightly querulous.]
2. — network; audio
Should this message reach... anyone, I've two requests.
[His tone leans towards an awkward cadence, unfamiliar with this style of communication, and more modern technology in general, clearly questioning whether it actually works as intended.]
If someone could inform me where I might purchase shot balls and gunpowder, I would be in your debt. The other, I'm certain will not be fulfilled, but who would I see to petition for an audience with the king of this land? Or... simply tell me where he is located.
[The latter is a more than implied threat.]
3. — wildcard (ooc: canon point is end of series, 20+ for any smut, all "creamsicle" things are fine, not interested in the "new tricks" prompt. pm for questions/plotting. )
D'Artagnan | The Musketeers | Dominant
[It's with reluctance that D'Artagnan attends anything deemed mandatory, and he doesn't hide his displeasure at that, physically present at this indecently vulgar pool party, but pointedly not participating in any suggested activities. He's forgone the provided 'swimsuit' in favour of just his underclothes, nearly long enough to be trousers themselves, rolled to the knee, a long row of small buttons on the front and made of rougher-looking off white linen cloth. If he's going to be here, he intends to at least be comfortable, as if he might be waiting to wade into a stream and fish instead of glancing up every few moments when someone emerges from the water with a phallic item in hand and a cry of victory.
The pool gathering itself isn't that far removed from a public bath, only it's outside in an open area, there are women present, and the water is cold. D'Artagnan is past the point of questioning every single thing that makes little sense to him, as they are quite large in number, and he's slid into a perpetual state of confusion and subsequent adjustment. He stands by one of the cabanas, feather-adorned cavalier hat pulled low over his eyes, fiddling with the cap on a bottle of sunscreen, trying to pull the top off directly like yanking a cork out of a barrel, unfamiliar with the pliant plastic material or the concept of flip-tops, and he pulls or twists something too hard and ends up with sunscreen dripping all over his hands as the cracked cap strikes the concrete and rolls towards the edge of the pool. He sniffs, wrinkles his nose in distaste, and sighs quietly, holding the bottle out to the nearest person.]
Here, did you want this? It has the odor of a sheep's innards.
[His voice is near monotone and slightly querulous.]
2. — network; audio
Should this message reach... anyone, I've two requests.
[His tone leans towards an awkward cadence, unfamiliar with this style of communication, and more modern technology in general, clearly questioning whether it actually works as intended.]
If someone could inform me where I might purchase shot balls and gunpowder, I would be in your debt. The other, I'm certain will not be fulfilled, but who would I see to petition for an audience with the king of this land? Or... simply tell me where he is located.
[The latter is a more than implied threat.]
3. — wildcard
( ooc: canon point is end of series, 20+ for any smut, all "creamsicle" things are fine, not interested in the "new tricks" prompt. pm for questions/plotting. )