tgrt

An old and tired Timothée de Fontaine would hear word of the new Duma taking place! He readies himself for more chaotic yelling. And dice.

Timothée de Fontaine raises a brow upom reading the Act, not really sure of what'll happen to his small little Arts Troupe located within Astorga.

Timothée feels rather nostalgic upon reading a few names within the missive. He'd surely tag along for this adventure, mostly to see who tries to kill the Duke this time. "I wonder if I can 'ave a wacky title, like Minister of Wine, Party and Silly 'Sings or somesing!" The bard would tune his lute to prepare for the festivities if the thing wasn't broken in half. Seth Rutledge sighs, hoping not to get dragged out of his study.

As Timothée de Fontaine gives this paper a read, a wide smile curls into his face! The Troubadour wonders what arts he could bring to Curon!

Timothée de Fontaine, leader of the Hibou Plongeant raises a brow when finding out about this so-called Troupe. After a chuckle, the Troubadour decides to keep an eye out for any talent Haense might show! So he can bribe them into joining his own Troupe.

[ ! ] Upon visiting Rosenyr, one would come across honest and heartfelt poetry about the place, pinned on the Library’s door. Penned by Timothée de Fontaine, you’d assume this man had some history with the Principality. Do come and ask of Rosenyr. Of all the things I’ve left behind. Of all their people. Of their drinks. Of all the creatures that came by. I see it fondly, Rosenyr. Despite the cynics and their lies. Despite the anger. Such anger. So much greed and grief and pain and bloodshed. Men gourmandizing gold, romantizing dread. By gods I left so many things there. What ignorance. There was endless fear. Unspeakable fear. But. I forgive you, Rosenyr. I might see past your broken ties. Your sacrifices, revolutions, poisoned drinks. Your pretty corners, petty crime. With broken pasts come broken people. And broken people mend with time. I come to see you, Rosenyr. And hope this time I don’t see knives. For I sure miss your flower gardens. Your shy demeanor. And your wine. T’was quite a journey, Rosenyr. You’ve made me laugh. You’ve made me cry. And you were there when journeys came. And you’ll be there when journeys die.

Timothée would hear of the news, sighing deeply “A beard zat glorious could never live forever...”

Timothée’s eyes narrow as he reads the flier, a face-wide smile curling to his visage. “What great timing!”

[!] Throughout your travels, on dirt or gravel, you soon would hear of one whom baffles. A bard most strange with little fame: One “Timothée de Fontaine”. Furthermore, any poet, troubadour or one with talent in store would see his Troupe was arts galore! In song, or via poster, you learn their lore: I never had the stronger hands. I took the lute and left the schyte. And while I wandered all the lands. I met a man who changed my life. Took me a while. To see his work was quintessential! At me he’d smile! For in my eyes he saw potential! He and his marvelous group! Truly a legend throughout Atlas. He’d always sing of his Troupe! His name: Timeo de las Baltas. “Timeo de las Baltas” by Timothée de Fontaine. Oil on Canvas c. 1698 And when he talked of its fame Right then all song in me woke! And when I asked for its name In bliss, the troubadour spoke: “Hibou Plongeant! ‘E-boo Plon-Jan!’ The diving owl! How does it sound?” And to this man my soul was bound. A better Troupe I’ve never found. And how we soared so! There was no description! The Troupe fed me and my wine addiction! “Self Portrait” by Timothée de Fontaine. Oil (And Wine) on Canvas. c. 1714. ...But like cloth we unwove. Now the Troupe makes no sound For when the ‘diving owl’ dove The bird’s beak hit the ground! And we disbanded! Shot dead, Timeo’s life ended. The Troupe was stranded. I couldn’t save the weight that I was handed... Until today! Now I can have a say! I’ve piled so many merry mina in my many ways! I’ve met so many people in my many days! ♫ Now be it as it may! I’ll sing it all and pluck away! ♫ Yes it’s true! I’ll do whatever work that I can do. I’ll fly just like our great owl flew. It’s round two! I’ll bring back the Hibou! The Hibou Plongeant’s Insignia. Are you a bard? Do you need a place to go? Are your times hard? Do you have talent to show? Is mina running dry? Do you daily feel upset? Are you looking for a why? Look no longer – Do not fret! We make do with all we get! We talk and write until sunset! We all debate and play and paint and speak aloud our thoughts until we sweat! For those of you whom sing or dance, Those whom craft, romance. Those whom when they walk must prance! You poets out there whom believe in free verse, aswell, we don’t discriminate. Come right in! Show a grin! Tell us all the things you’ve seen! Show the soul you keep within! Play your lute or violin! Widely smile, raise your chin! We take all races! All talents, all places! Whatever artform. You’ll have our graces! In times so cruel! Keep your mouth and pockets full! Walk with song and leave the dull! ♫ Let the arts become your fuel! ♫ And to apply? Make quite sure you catch our eye! Write down what you are and why. And send a letter, we’ll reply! And whether you’re just bored A peasant or a lord Who’s piled mina into a hoard And doesn’t know what to afford Here’s a tip: Call us in, we’ll make heads whip! With mordern works and tunes so slick Coming from dubious authorship! We’ll show in any port! A Keep, your Town or Court All events, from any sort! Write to us, we’ll soon retort! Our guild is set upon A town just off Curon Called “Astorga”! Est très bon! Pretty people – Sights that stun! Ripe with trade, filled with fun! Shining light just like a sun. To get to it, you simply run towards Curon, you walk a ton just take a right- and then you’re done! A map to Astorga! ((X:1604 Y:-1549)) And if that’s too far Or roads are all bare! We’ll come where you are! The Hibou goes there! For more detail, to book a show, or to know just where to go, just look below! Or talk to me: Timothée. ♫ You’ll love our Troupe, I guarantee! ♫ [!] Below you see: How to reach the bard Timothée! The read is over. Gee, what glee! (( Discord: Thi_T#5309 / Minecraft IGN: tgrt ))

Timothée de Fontaine stumbles upon this marvelous place, deeming it a fitting refuge for his artistic endeavours!

Seth Rutledge cries on his mother’s grave, his mind torn apart like a few specific pages in his journal. “...” “I won’t forget her.” “I... can’t.”

Timothée tunes the hell out of his lute!

As Timothée Fontaine heard of this, genuine surprise came to his visage. Anger and determination came right after. “A troubadour lives for as long as he´s remembered.” He´d state, reaching over for paper, ink, and his lute!

"Spill blood, it's not news for me. Spill my wine. NOW you f*cked up." An angry bard would say, his lute burned to a crisp!

Timothée tunes his lute in advance!

Timothée awakes from his slumber the Saint´s day after, reading the paper with a raised brow. ”Is... zis a joke?”

Done!