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The wine they drank that pleasant afternoon in the tavern was a particular kind – a soft pink color, fruity, sweet, with a pleasant smell that reminded them of berries. It was also somewhat light, and Hesiodos knew that to get drunk he would have to drink quite a lot of it, which he was willing to do since it was really good, if a bit expensive.
The arts festival was still raging on outside, but Hesiodos couldn’t pass the chance to invite his old friend Bastilliade for a drink or two, or maybe six. After all, it has been a while since they meet, and the bard wanted to spend some time with him. That’s how they ended in a tavern – which Hesiodos knew had the best wine in Argothia – sitting in a table in a quiet corner, drinking a selection of wines. Hesiodos offered to pay, and while he suspected all the money he earned for posing for the Dionysus painting would go down on this, he knew it was money well spent.
He took the cup off his lips and let out a pleasant sign, “What do you think, Bas? Is it good enough for you?”, his head was already a bit light from the wine he drank previously, but it was not an unwelcoming feeling. By drinking as much as he did, he had quite a resistance.
“You have to tell me about your adventures, my dear”, he said after another drink, “I’m sure you’re eager to hear about my exploits of the past… if you didn’t already”, he said with a chuckle. Stories about him spread like wildfire, though he had to see if the man before him believed them.
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The wine they drank that pleasant afternoon in the tavern was a particular kind – a soft pink color, fruity, sweet, with a pleasant smell that reminded them of berries. It was also somewhat light, and Hesiodos knew that to get drunk he would have to drink quite a lot of it, which he was willing to do since it was really good, if a bit expensive.
The arts festival was still raging on outside, but Hesiodos couldn’t pass the chance to invite his old friend Bastilliade for a drink or two, or maybe six. After all, it has been a while since they meet, and the bard wanted to spend some time with him. That’s how they ended in a tavern – which Hesiodos knew had the best wine in Argothia – sitting in a table in a quiet corner, drinking a selection of wines. Hesiodos offered to pay, and while he suspected all the money he earned for posing for the Dionysus painting would go down on this, he knew it was money well spent.
He took the cup off his lips and let out a pleasant sign, “What do you think, Bas? Is it good enough for you?”, his head was already a bit light from the wine he drank previously, but it was not an unwelcoming feeling. By drinking as much as he did, he had quite a resistance.
“You have to tell me about your adventures, my dear”, he said after another drink, “I’m sure you’re eager to hear about my exploits of the past… if you didn’t already”, he said with a chuckle. Stories about him spread like wildfire, though he had to see if the man before him believed them.
The wine they drank that pleasant afternoon in the tavern was a particular kind – a soft pink color, fruity, sweet, with a pleasant smell that reminded them of berries. It was also somewhat light, and Hesiodos knew that to get drunk he would have to drink quite a lot of it, which he was willing to do since it was really good, if a bit expensive.
The arts festival was still raging on outside, but Hesiodos couldn’t pass the chance to invite his old friend Bastilliade for a drink or two, or maybe six. After all, it has been a while since they meet, and the bard wanted to spend some time with him. That’s how they ended in a tavern – which Hesiodos knew had the best wine in Argothia – sitting in a table in a quiet corner, drinking a selection of wines. Hesiodos offered to pay, and while he suspected all the money he earned for posing for the Dionysus painting would go down on this, he knew it was money well spent.
He took the cup off his lips and let out a pleasant sign, “What do you think, Bas? Is it good enough for you?”, his head was already a bit light from the wine he drank previously, but it was not an unwelcoming feeling. By drinking as much as he did, he had quite a resistance.
“You have to tell me about your adventures, my dear”, he said after another drink, “I’m sure you’re eager to hear about my exploits of the past… if you didn’t already”, he said with a chuckle. Stories about him spread like wildfire, though he had to see if the man before him believed them.
Basilides could see where this afternoon was going from miles away, and while he knew he had it in his power to stop it, he was quite positive that the flowing drinks and fine company would not encourage him to do so. It was a dangerous game he played, mixing work and fun, and then using the excuses caused by one to excuse wrongdoing with another.
He would feel guilt later, as he always did, knowing that just hours ago he was planning to purchase a gift for his lover, Zephyrus. His young lover always suspected the worst, and usually was wrong about it. This time, there was no guarantee that he could look the young man in the eyes and say all was well when he returned to the troupe in a few days time. Perhaps...a bit more wine would help the situation.
If anything, he could blame it on Dionysus, a god who demands to be honored through abandon of inhibition in moments like this. While he doubted that sort of reasoning would hold up against Zephyrus, it was definitely convincing enough for Bas to put those thoughts aside as he finished another glass with a broad smile.
"What, the wine or the company?" he teased, his deep voice lilting in jest, "Both are fine enough and only improve with a bit more." As he made his point, he picked up the rest of the bottle and drained it between their two glasses, lifting the bottle high in the air for the droplets to splash against the walls of the glass. Basilides loved a good flourish.
"Oh, mine pale in comparison to yours, I am sure," Bas said, flapping a hand as if to brush away talk of the troupe, "And I assure you, yours involve far more swordplay and far less paperwork." He laughed a bit at his own words, his head light and slightly swirling from the amount of wine in his system. It seemed, in festivals such as these, the best way to assuage the coming headaches and nausea was to drink more.
"Is it true that you duelled the Pharoah's personal guard and then bedded him to get into the palace?"
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Basilides could see where this afternoon was going from miles away, and while he knew he had it in his power to stop it, he was quite positive that the flowing drinks and fine company would not encourage him to do so. It was a dangerous game he played, mixing work and fun, and then using the excuses caused by one to excuse wrongdoing with another.
He would feel guilt later, as he always did, knowing that just hours ago he was planning to purchase a gift for his lover, Zephyrus. His young lover always suspected the worst, and usually was wrong about it. This time, there was no guarantee that he could look the young man in the eyes and say all was well when he returned to the troupe in a few days time. Perhaps...a bit more wine would help the situation.
If anything, he could blame it on Dionysus, a god who demands to be honored through abandon of inhibition in moments like this. While he doubted that sort of reasoning would hold up against Zephyrus, it was definitely convincing enough for Bas to put those thoughts aside as he finished another glass with a broad smile.
"What, the wine or the company?" he teased, his deep voice lilting in jest, "Both are fine enough and only improve with a bit more." As he made his point, he picked up the rest of the bottle and drained it between their two glasses, lifting the bottle high in the air for the droplets to splash against the walls of the glass. Basilides loved a good flourish.
"Oh, mine pale in comparison to yours, I am sure," Bas said, flapping a hand as if to brush away talk of the troupe, "And I assure you, yours involve far more swordplay and far less paperwork." He laughed a bit at his own words, his head light and slightly swirling from the amount of wine in his system. It seemed, in festivals such as these, the best way to assuage the coming headaches and nausea was to drink more.
"Is it true that you duelled the Pharoah's personal guard and then bedded him to get into the palace?"
Basilides could see where this afternoon was going from miles away, and while he knew he had it in his power to stop it, he was quite positive that the flowing drinks and fine company would not encourage him to do so. It was a dangerous game he played, mixing work and fun, and then using the excuses caused by one to excuse wrongdoing with another.
He would feel guilt later, as he always did, knowing that just hours ago he was planning to purchase a gift for his lover, Zephyrus. His young lover always suspected the worst, and usually was wrong about it. This time, there was no guarantee that he could look the young man in the eyes and say all was well when he returned to the troupe in a few days time. Perhaps...a bit more wine would help the situation.
If anything, he could blame it on Dionysus, a god who demands to be honored through abandon of inhibition in moments like this. While he doubted that sort of reasoning would hold up against Zephyrus, it was definitely convincing enough for Bas to put those thoughts aside as he finished another glass with a broad smile.
"What, the wine or the company?" he teased, his deep voice lilting in jest, "Both are fine enough and only improve with a bit more." As he made his point, he picked up the rest of the bottle and drained it between their two glasses, lifting the bottle high in the air for the droplets to splash against the walls of the glass. Basilides loved a good flourish.
"Oh, mine pale in comparison to yours, I am sure," Bas said, flapping a hand as if to brush away talk of the troupe, "And I assure you, yours involve far more swordplay and far less paperwork." He laughed a bit at his own words, his head light and slightly swirling from the amount of wine in his system. It seemed, in festivals such as these, the best way to assuage the coming headaches and nausea was to drink more.
"Is it true that you duelled the Pharoah's personal guard and then bedded him to get into the palace?"
“That is true!”, he said, toasting messily like him, celebrating the abundance of the rich, pink wine, “To wine and company!”, he said as he drank, slowly, enjoying the fruit of the wine. He made a mental note to buy a bottle just for himself, and perhaps one for Bas as well. He would have to see…
“Swordplay, yes, and also daring chases and steamy sex scenes…”, he said without a hint of humility. That didn’t fit him at all, “And don’t paint yourself modest. I’m sure you have amazing tales to tell…”, he said with a flattering tone. While not everyone led exciting lives, he loved to hear all kinds of stories… if they were well told and creative, that’s it. Creativity was a must for him.
He made a thinking face, as if it was something he had to recall, “Yes, it is true. The Pharaoh wanted a private performance, but the personal guard didn’t trust that a random Greek jackass like me could be as good as they said… you see, I took offense in that, so I dueled him, and won… but then felt bad about him and took him to a healer. I made sure he was correctly patched up, but realized he was quite handsome without his armor…”, that last part he said with a particular tone, one they both knew well, “So… I gave him a consolation prize, right there on his sick bed. That gained me entrance to the palace.”
Hesiodos knew that a man like Bastiliade could see through the tall tales and the bullshit, even when drunk, but he also knew than a thespian like him could appreciate a good story.
“What about you?”, he asked then, “I heard one of your play was enough to make the Lords of five different provinces cry tears of joy… oh, how I wish I could have been there to see that…”
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“That is true!”, he said, toasting messily like him, celebrating the abundance of the rich, pink wine, “To wine and company!”, he said as he drank, slowly, enjoying the fruit of the wine. He made a mental note to buy a bottle just for himself, and perhaps one for Bas as well. He would have to see…
“Swordplay, yes, and also daring chases and steamy sex scenes…”, he said without a hint of humility. That didn’t fit him at all, “And don’t paint yourself modest. I’m sure you have amazing tales to tell…”, he said with a flattering tone. While not everyone led exciting lives, he loved to hear all kinds of stories… if they were well told and creative, that’s it. Creativity was a must for him.
He made a thinking face, as if it was something he had to recall, “Yes, it is true. The Pharaoh wanted a private performance, but the personal guard didn’t trust that a random Greek jackass like me could be as good as they said… you see, I took offense in that, so I dueled him, and won… but then felt bad about him and took him to a healer. I made sure he was correctly patched up, but realized he was quite handsome without his armor…”, that last part he said with a particular tone, one they both knew well, “So… I gave him a consolation prize, right there on his sick bed. That gained me entrance to the palace.”
Hesiodos knew that a man like Bastiliade could see through the tall tales and the bullshit, even when drunk, but he also knew than a thespian like him could appreciate a good story.
“What about you?”, he asked then, “I heard one of your play was enough to make the Lords of five different provinces cry tears of joy… oh, how I wish I could have been there to see that…”
“That is true!”, he said, toasting messily like him, celebrating the abundance of the rich, pink wine, “To wine and company!”, he said as he drank, slowly, enjoying the fruit of the wine. He made a mental note to buy a bottle just for himself, and perhaps one for Bas as well. He would have to see…
“Swordplay, yes, and also daring chases and steamy sex scenes…”, he said without a hint of humility. That didn’t fit him at all, “And don’t paint yourself modest. I’m sure you have amazing tales to tell…”, he said with a flattering tone. While not everyone led exciting lives, he loved to hear all kinds of stories… if they were well told and creative, that’s it. Creativity was a must for him.
He made a thinking face, as if it was something he had to recall, “Yes, it is true. The Pharaoh wanted a private performance, but the personal guard didn’t trust that a random Greek jackass like me could be as good as they said… you see, I took offense in that, so I dueled him, and won… but then felt bad about him and took him to a healer. I made sure he was correctly patched up, but realized he was quite handsome without his armor…”, that last part he said with a particular tone, one they both knew well, “So… I gave him a consolation prize, right there on his sick bed. That gained me entrance to the palace.”
Hesiodos knew that a man like Bastiliade could see through the tall tales and the bullshit, even when drunk, but he also knew than a thespian like him could appreciate a good story.
“What about you?”, he asked then, “I heard one of your play was enough to make the Lords of five different provinces cry tears of joy… oh, how I wish I could have been there to see that…”
A muffled rumble of a laugh sat low in Basilides' throat as he echoed his friend's toast, "To wine and company!"
The wine was sweeter than his usual preferences, which tended towards dark, dry, and a touch of bitterness. The issue truly existed in the crispness of the flavor which almost had an effervescence from the fermentation process that seemed to bubble on the top of the tongue. It was a dangerous wine, one where if not careful, it was easy to lose track of the number of glasses. Usually, given his height, it took more than a few rounds to truly cause him be affected. However, sitting across from the bard with a few empty bottles before them, Bas could truly feel the effects warming the inside of his chest and tingling his lips.
Tonight would be a dangerous night at this rate.
Bas was mid-sip when Hesiodos added the aspects of swordplays and sex to his summary, causing an involuntary laugh to escape Bas' nose and which in turn sprayed the rose-colored wine from the glass and into air in a fine mist. His hand immediately rose to his face to try to wipe away the mess, around his face and he set down the glass with a clink, eyes narrowed briefly at the bard as if to blame him for laughing. It was likely a common look the man received.
In trying to finish the wine in his mouth and wipe away at his face with the back of his hand, the other hand flapped delicately as if inviting the man to continue....and to breeze past the idea that Basilides actually had interesting stories to tell. As the bard told his tale, Bas felt his eyebrows rise and fall with each interesting moment in the story, and occasionally shaking his head in disbelief at certain points. His hands throughout were occupied with attempting to wipe the beads of wine into the wood. As the story ended, Basilides could not help but scoff and roll his eyes.
"Either you're the world's most brilliant liar, or you have more lives than a cat. I'm honestly not sure which one I'm more inclined towards," Basilides said, matter-of-factly, following it up with a successful sip of wine through a smirk. At the next topic, Bas inclined his head, though it was followed by a slight sigh.
"Yes, it is true, to an extent," Basilides started, leaning forward, "Phineus decided that for a scene, instead of releasing doves into the air, he wanted our dancers to be the doves - masks, feathers, and all. It was horribly expensive, but...it was honestly one of the most ridiculous and hilarious things I have ever seen in my life - all these dancers and acrobats cooing and vaulting and flapping across the stage. Feathers. Everywhere."
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A muffled rumble of a laugh sat low in Basilides' throat as he echoed his friend's toast, "To wine and company!"
The wine was sweeter than his usual preferences, which tended towards dark, dry, and a touch of bitterness. The issue truly existed in the crispness of the flavor which almost had an effervescence from the fermentation process that seemed to bubble on the top of the tongue. It was a dangerous wine, one where if not careful, it was easy to lose track of the number of glasses. Usually, given his height, it took more than a few rounds to truly cause him be affected. However, sitting across from the bard with a few empty bottles before them, Bas could truly feel the effects warming the inside of his chest and tingling his lips.
Tonight would be a dangerous night at this rate.
Bas was mid-sip when Hesiodos added the aspects of swordplays and sex to his summary, causing an involuntary laugh to escape Bas' nose and which in turn sprayed the rose-colored wine from the glass and into air in a fine mist. His hand immediately rose to his face to try to wipe away the mess, around his face and he set down the glass with a clink, eyes narrowed briefly at the bard as if to blame him for laughing. It was likely a common look the man received.
In trying to finish the wine in his mouth and wipe away at his face with the back of his hand, the other hand flapped delicately as if inviting the man to continue....and to breeze past the idea that Basilides actually had interesting stories to tell. As the bard told his tale, Bas felt his eyebrows rise and fall with each interesting moment in the story, and occasionally shaking his head in disbelief at certain points. His hands throughout were occupied with attempting to wipe the beads of wine into the wood. As the story ended, Basilides could not help but scoff and roll his eyes.
"Either you're the world's most brilliant liar, or you have more lives than a cat. I'm honestly not sure which one I'm more inclined towards," Basilides said, matter-of-factly, following it up with a successful sip of wine through a smirk. At the next topic, Bas inclined his head, though it was followed by a slight sigh.
"Yes, it is true, to an extent," Basilides started, leaning forward, "Phineus decided that for a scene, instead of releasing doves into the air, he wanted our dancers to be the doves - masks, feathers, and all. It was horribly expensive, but...it was honestly one of the most ridiculous and hilarious things I have ever seen in my life - all these dancers and acrobats cooing and vaulting and flapping across the stage. Feathers. Everywhere."
A muffled rumble of a laugh sat low in Basilides' throat as he echoed his friend's toast, "To wine and company!"
The wine was sweeter than his usual preferences, which tended towards dark, dry, and a touch of bitterness. The issue truly existed in the crispness of the flavor which almost had an effervescence from the fermentation process that seemed to bubble on the top of the tongue. It was a dangerous wine, one where if not careful, it was easy to lose track of the number of glasses. Usually, given his height, it took more than a few rounds to truly cause him be affected. However, sitting across from the bard with a few empty bottles before them, Bas could truly feel the effects warming the inside of his chest and tingling his lips.
Tonight would be a dangerous night at this rate.
Bas was mid-sip when Hesiodos added the aspects of swordplays and sex to his summary, causing an involuntary laugh to escape Bas' nose and which in turn sprayed the rose-colored wine from the glass and into air in a fine mist. His hand immediately rose to his face to try to wipe away the mess, around his face and he set down the glass with a clink, eyes narrowed briefly at the bard as if to blame him for laughing. It was likely a common look the man received.
In trying to finish the wine in his mouth and wipe away at his face with the back of his hand, the other hand flapped delicately as if inviting the man to continue....and to breeze past the idea that Basilides actually had interesting stories to tell. As the bard told his tale, Bas felt his eyebrows rise and fall with each interesting moment in the story, and occasionally shaking his head in disbelief at certain points. His hands throughout were occupied with attempting to wipe the beads of wine into the wood. As the story ended, Basilides could not help but scoff and roll his eyes.
"Either you're the world's most brilliant liar, or you have more lives than a cat. I'm honestly not sure which one I'm more inclined towards," Basilides said, matter-of-factly, following it up with a successful sip of wine through a smirk. At the next topic, Bas inclined his head, though it was followed by a slight sigh.
"Yes, it is true, to an extent," Basilides started, leaning forward, "Phineus decided that for a scene, instead of releasing doves into the air, he wanted our dancers to be the doves - masks, feathers, and all. It was horribly expensive, but...it was honestly one of the most ridiculous and hilarious things I have ever seen in my life - all these dancers and acrobats cooing and vaulting and flapping across the stage. Feathers. Everywhere."
Hesiodos was completely amused by Bas’ outburst with the wine. If he were a younger bard, more inexperienced, he would have laughed like an idiot, unable to tell his story, and probably spilled the wine, adding to the mess. But he knew how to control himself during a story… and the man seemed to like it. He gave him that very look of people that didn’t mean to laugh but did… oh, how he loved that damn look. Made him remember why he took this profession.
That, and the facial expressions of the thespian as he kept telling the story. Just as he suspected, he didn’t believe him, not one bit, but he liked the story nonetheless. It was like that time he told that story about him getting drunk with satyrs, bedding nymphs, and composing the world’s most wonderful songs… but being so drunk they ended up burning the scrolls where it was written. He then proceeded to play and sing for them the ‘replication’ of the song, which was something he composed himself a while ago. He was sure the most keen people didn’t believe him… and those who did, well, they clearly enjoyed themselves, like children.
“I’m a bard”, he said, giving him a third option to his assumptions, “I’m quite sure that tells you everything you need to know”, in fact, it did and didn’t, at the same time. He was an adventurer, did all sort of daring and exciting things, and generally could sing stories about his exploits… but most of them were liberally embellished, tall tales, or straight up bullshit.
He looked at the man intently, like a good audience, when he told his own story. A smile crept upon his face, and then he showed teeth, white as milk. As chuckles escaped the bottom of his mouth as he told, and in the end he ended up laughing, “For the love of Dionysus, I wish I’ve been there… I would have probably passed out from laughing so hard”, that happened to him, truth be told. He knew how to control himself… but when he didn’t have to, he laughed hard, and truly, and cried tears of joy. He felt, and wore his feelings like a badge of honor.
“It’s the wonder of art”, he said, with a dramatic flair, “It can produce so many emotions… and that’s what I’m after. Joy. Wonder. Expectancy… lust”, that last part he said with certain emphasis, looking at his companion with a cocky smile, “I’m sure working together could result in oh so many things…”
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Hesiodos was completely amused by Bas’ outburst with the wine. If he were a younger bard, more inexperienced, he would have laughed like an idiot, unable to tell his story, and probably spilled the wine, adding to the mess. But he knew how to control himself during a story… and the man seemed to like it. He gave him that very look of people that didn’t mean to laugh but did… oh, how he loved that damn look. Made him remember why he took this profession.
That, and the facial expressions of the thespian as he kept telling the story. Just as he suspected, he didn’t believe him, not one bit, but he liked the story nonetheless. It was like that time he told that story about him getting drunk with satyrs, bedding nymphs, and composing the world’s most wonderful songs… but being so drunk they ended up burning the scrolls where it was written. He then proceeded to play and sing for them the ‘replication’ of the song, which was something he composed himself a while ago. He was sure the most keen people didn’t believe him… and those who did, well, they clearly enjoyed themselves, like children.
“I’m a bard”, he said, giving him a third option to his assumptions, “I’m quite sure that tells you everything you need to know”, in fact, it did and didn’t, at the same time. He was an adventurer, did all sort of daring and exciting things, and generally could sing stories about his exploits… but most of them were liberally embellished, tall tales, or straight up bullshit.
He looked at the man intently, like a good audience, when he told his own story. A smile crept upon his face, and then he showed teeth, white as milk. As chuckles escaped the bottom of his mouth as he told, and in the end he ended up laughing, “For the love of Dionysus, I wish I’ve been there… I would have probably passed out from laughing so hard”, that happened to him, truth be told. He knew how to control himself… but when he didn’t have to, he laughed hard, and truly, and cried tears of joy. He felt, and wore his feelings like a badge of honor.
“It’s the wonder of art”, he said, with a dramatic flair, “It can produce so many emotions… and that’s what I’m after. Joy. Wonder. Expectancy… lust”, that last part he said with certain emphasis, looking at his companion with a cocky smile, “I’m sure working together could result in oh so many things…”
Hesiodos was completely amused by Bas’ outburst with the wine. If he were a younger bard, more inexperienced, he would have laughed like an idiot, unable to tell his story, and probably spilled the wine, adding to the mess. But he knew how to control himself during a story… and the man seemed to like it. He gave him that very look of people that didn’t mean to laugh but did… oh, how he loved that damn look. Made him remember why he took this profession.
That, and the facial expressions of the thespian as he kept telling the story. Just as he suspected, he didn’t believe him, not one bit, but he liked the story nonetheless. It was like that time he told that story about him getting drunk with satyrs, bedding nymphs, and composing the world’s most wonderful songs… but being so drunk they ended up burning the scrolls where it was written. He then proceeded to play and sing for them the ‘replication’ of the song, which was something he composed himself a while ago. He was sure the most keen people didn’t believe him… and those who did, well, they clearly enjoyed themselves, like children.
“I’m a bard”, he said, giving him a third option to his assumptions, “I’m quite sure that tells you everything you need to know”, in fact, it did and didn’t, at the same time. He was an adventurer, did all sort of daring and exciting things, and generally could sing stories about his exploits… but most of them were liberally embellished, tall tales, or straight up bullshit.
He looked at the man intently, like a good audience, when he told his own story. A smile crept upon his face, and then he showed teeth, white as milk. As chuckles escaped the bottom of his mouth as he told, and in the end he ended up laughing, “For the love of Dionysus, I wish I’ve been there… I would have probably passed out from laughing so hard”, that happened to him, truth be told. He knew how to control himself… but when he didn’t have to, he laughed hard, and truly, and cried tears of joy. He felt, and wore his feelings like a badge of honor.
“It’s the wonder of art”, he said, with a dramatic flair, “It can produce so many emotions… and that’s what I’m after. Joy. Wonder. Expectancy… lust”, that last part he said with certain emphasis, looking at his companion with a cocky smile, “I’m sure working together could result in oh so many things…”
To be quite honest, Basilides forgot how refreshing it was to spend time with others outside of the troupe. Yes, there were his patrons that he would entertain and schmooze in order to maintain funding, or better, increase the contributions, but there was always that semi-guarded approach they would take. After all, it was business. A chance meeting like this was rare, and even rarer with someone whose company he thoroughly enjoyed.
He did not laugh like that often, and it was a relatively addictive sensation that managed to dissolve into a steady smile as he heard the man weave another reason that he had not been stoned or beheaded in some foreign land. Then again, it was not just the fact that Hesiodos was bard that kept him alive, but that he was a man of many skills - duelling, singing, and a way with words that would make even the most skilled of royal advisors second guess their next words, lest they become a part of a legend.
"That would have been a sight," Basilides replied, thinking of the dashing man laughing himself onto the floor over some unfortunate dancers in feathers.
Ah, there it was.
There was no denying the attraction between them, something primal about the physical magnetism that had existed from the moment he saw the bard dressed as their shared patron god. The wine was certainly adding to the mixture, lowering inhibitions - first with words, then with actions - as the sun started hanging lower in the sky. Glancing out the window into the street, the formal festivities seemed to have started to dissolve into more spontaneous events, with musicians fifing and drumming through the streets in imprompu dances. It would be a night with little in the way of sleep as the nocturnal celebrators found ways to continue to honor the god of the arts.
And all of this would pale in comparison to the festival a few months later on in the year.
Downing the last of his wine, noting the empty bottle between them, he raised a suggestive brow as he spoke, "Knowing you, I believe you have something in mind."
He moved to stand from their booth, tilting his head toward the exit.
"I am at the boarding house by the harbor...unless you are staying somewhere closer by?"
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To be quite honest, Basilides forgot how refreshing it was to spend time with others outside of the troupe. Yes, there were his patrons that he would entertain and schmooze in order to maintain funding, or better, increase the contributions, but there was always that semi-guarded approach they would take. After all, it was business. A chance meeting like this was rare, and even rarer with someone whose company he thoroughly enjoyed.
He did not laugh like that often, and it was a relatively addictive sensation that managed to dissolve into a steady smile as he heard the man weave another reason that he had not been stoned or beheaded in some foreign land. Then again, it was not just the fact that Hesiodos was bard that kept him alive, but that he was a man of many skills - duelling, singing, and a way with words that would make even the most skilled of royal advisors second guess their next words, lest they become a part of a legend.
"That would have been a sight," Basilides replied, thinking of the dashing man laughing himself onto the floor over some unfortunate dancers in feathers.
Ah, there it was.
There was no denying the attraction between them, something primal about the physical magnetism that had existed from the moment he saw the bard dressed as their shared patron god. The wine was certainly adding to the mixture, lowering inhibitions - first with words, then with actions - as the sun started hanging lower in the sky. Glancing out the window into the street, the formal festivities seemed to have started to dissolve into more spontaneous events, with musicians fifing and drumming through the streets in imprompu dances. It would be a night with little in the way of sleep as the nocturnal celebrators found ways to continue to honor the god of the arts.
And all of this would pale in comparison to the festival a few months later on in the year.
Downing the last of his wine, noting the empty bottle between them, he raised a suggestive brow as he spoke, "Knowing you, I believe you have something in mind."
He moved to stand from their booth, tilting his head toward the exit.
"I am at the boarding house by the harbor...unless you are staying somewhere closer by?"
To be quite honest, Basilides forgot how refreshing it was to spend time with others outside of the troupe. Yes, there were his patrons that he would entertain and schmooze in order to maintain funding, or better, increase the contributions, but there was always that semi-guarded approach they would take. After all, it was business. A chance meeting like this was rare, and even rarer with someone whose company he thoroughly enjoyed.
He did not laugh like that often, and it was a relatively addictive sensation that managed to dissolve into a steady smile as he heard the man weave another reason that he had not been stoned or beheaded in some foreign land. Then again, it was not just the fact that Hesiodos was bard that kept him alive, but that he was a man of many skills - duelling, singing, and a way with words that would make even the most skilled of royal advisors second guess their next words, lest they become a part of a legend.
"That would have been a sight," Basilides replied, thinking of the dashing man laughing himself onto the floor over some unfortunate dancers in feathers.
Ah, there it was.
There was no denying the attraction between them, something primal about the physical magnetism that had existed from the moment he saw the bard dressed as their shared patron god. The wine was certainly adding to the mixture, lowering inhibitions - first with words, then with actions - as the sun started hanging lower in the sky. Glancing out the window into the street, the formal festivities seemed to have started to dissolve into more spontaneous events, with musicians fifing and drumming through the streets in imprompu dances. It would be a night with little in the way of sleep as the nocturnal celebrators found ways to continue to honor the god of the arts.
And all of this would pale in comparison to the festival a few months later on in the year.
Downing the last of his wine, noting the empty bottle between them, he raised a suggestive brow as he spoke, "Knowing you, I believe you have something in mind."
He moved to stand from their booth, tilting his head toward the exit.
"I am at the boarding house by the harbor...unless you are staying somewhere closer by?"
Hesiodos realized three things – that their bottle was empty, that it was beginning to be dusk, and that he wanted to fuck the man in front of him until neither of them could walk properly. He looked at him with his green eyes with hunger; a primal hunger with only one way to be satiated.
Hesiodos chuckled at him, “The harbor is too far away… I’m staying at the painter’s house, near here. Not to mention that his room is rather comfy…”, his tone spoke of a soft bed and candle light and more wine. But his eyes said something else.
“But honestly?” he said, the wine talking through him, “I’m tired of waiting. I’ve wanted to see this ever since I saw you”, and with that his arm leaped to grab him by his clothes and pull him closer to the both again, on top of him, and into his lips.
It was a fearsome kiss, one without inhibitions or barrier, full of tongue, passion and wine. He pulled the thespian closer to him, embracing him, with his hand trailing down his ass. At this point, all subtlety was out.
He only got out once he needed to breathe, and turned to see the bartend giving them a dirty look. He only chuckled and looked at Bas, “We should be going, shall we?”
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Hesiodos realized three things – that their bottle was empty, that it was beginning to be dusk, and that he wanted to fuck the man in front of him until neither of them could walk properly. He looked at him with his green eyes with hunger; a primal hunger with only one way to be satiated.
Hesiodos chuckled at him, “The harbor is too far away… I’m staying at the painter’s house, near here. Not to mention that his room is rather comfy…”, his tone spoke of a soft bed and candle light and more wine. But his eyes said something else.
“But honestly?” he said, the wine talking through him, “I’m tired of waiting. I’ve wanted to see this ever since I saw you”, and with that his arm leaped to grab him by his clothes and pull him closer to the both again, on top of him, and into his lips.
It was a fearsome kiss, one without inhibitions or barrier, full of tongue, passion and wine. He pulled the thespian closer to him, embracing him, with his hand trailing down his ass. At this point, all subtlety was out.
He only got out once he needed to breathe, and turned to see the bartend giving them a dirty look. He only chuckled and looked at Bas, “We should be going, shall we?”
Hesiodos realized three things – that their bottle was empty, that it was beginning to be dusk, and that he wanted to fuck the man in front of him until neither of them could walk properly. He looked at him with his green eyes with hunger; a primal hunger with only one way to be satiated.
Hesiodos chuckled at him, “The harbor is too far away… I’m staying at the painter’s house, near here. Not to mention that his room is rather comfy…”, his tone spoke of a soft bed and candle light and more wine. But his eyes said something else.
“But honestly?” he said, the wine talking through him, “I’m tired of waiting. I’ve wanted to see this ever since I saw you”, and with that his arm leaped to grab him by his clothes and pull him closer to the both again, on top of him, and into his lips.
It was a fearsome kiss, one without inhibitions or barrier, full of tongue, passion and wine. He pulled the thespian closer to him, embracing him, with his hand trailing down his ass. At this point, all subtlety was out.
He only got out once he needed to breathe, and turned to see the bartend giving them a dirty look. He only chuckled and looked at Bas, “We should be going, shall we?”
Following the Arts Festival
There was only so much that the offered damp linens could do to save their feet and hands and faces from the pigments that were used for the finale of the Arts Festival. Basilides had done the best he could but there were dried splatters of what seemed like a hundred different colors along his calves, and his hand seemed to be stained a shockingly bright yellow still following it all.
The only thing that clung to him more than the pigment was his broad, drunken smile and the occasional rumbling fit of laughter as he tossed the used linen into a set aside bin and collected his sandals, forgoing the process of putting them on.
"Weren't..." he started, his nose and brows scrunching in thought, half-teasing and half-honestly asking, "Weren't we going somewhere?"
As he spoke, it was like he remembered all that they had planned before walking out of the tavern where they shared the wine. Ah, yes. That moment seemed to have been slightly derailed from its initial candor by the almost child-like playfulness of painting in masse.
With his sandals tied looped over his fingers and his nice himation looped over his forearm so as not to risk any lingering wet paint to touch it, Basilides glanced at the setting sun that cut sharp orange and peach lines through the city streets around them.
"I could go for another round before I lose all ability to stand, paint or otherwise," Bas offered as a suggestion, perhaps to put them back onto track for the mood that originated in the tavern booth. He raised a brow as he watched Hesiodos gather the last of his things.
As looked on him, Basilides could not help but muse about how the man looked like some heroic character in one of the performances the troupe put on. Some swashbuckling galavant drifting from place to place with a sly smile for each lady and a crass joke for every man.
Bards, Bas thought a moment, before quirking another look at him.
"How come we haven't put your story on the stage, yet? You should get to writing that."
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Following the Arts Festival
There was only so much that the offered damp linens could do to save their feet and hands and faces from the pigments that were used for the finale of the Arts Festival. Basilides had done the best he could but there were dried splatters of what seemed like a hundred different colors along his calves, and his hand seemed to be stained a shockingly bright yellow still following it all.
The only thing that clung to him more than the pigment was his broad, drunken smile and the occasional rumbling fit of laughter as he tossed the used linen into a set aside bin and collected his sandals, forgoing the process of putting them on.
"Weren't..." he started, his nose and brows scrunching in thought, half-teasing and half-honestly asking, "Weren't we going somewhere?"
As he spoke, it was like he remembered all that they had planned before walking out of the tavern where they shared the wine. Ah, yes. That moment seemed to have been slightly derailed from its initial candor by the almost child-like playfulness of painting in masse.
With his sandals tied looped over his fingers and his nice himation looped over his forearm so as not to risk any lingering wet paint to touch it, Basilides glanced at the setting sun that cut sharp orange and peach lines through the city streets around them.
"I could go for another round before I lose all ability to stand, paint or otherwise," Bas offered as a suggestion, perhaps to put them back onto track for the mood that originated in the tavern booth. He raised a brow as he watched Hesiodos gather the last of his things.
As looked on him, Basilides could not help but muse about how the man looked like some heroic character in one of the performances the troupe put on. Some swashbuckling galavant drifting from place to place with a sly smile for each lady and a crass joke for every man.
Bards, Bas thought a moment, before quirking another look at him.
"How come we haven't put your story on the stage, yet? You should get to writing that."
Following the Arts Festival
There was only so much that the offered damp linens could do to save their feet and hands and faces from the pigments that were used for the finale of the Arts Festival. Basilides had done the best he could but there were dried splatters of what seemed like a hundred different colors along his calves, and his hand seemed to be stained a shockingly bright yellow still following it all.
The only thing that clung to him more than the pigment was his broad, drunken smile and the occasional rumbling fit of laughter as he tossed the used linen into a set aside bin and collected his sandals, forgoing the process of putting them on.
"Weren't..." he started, his nose and brows scrunching in thought, half-teasing and half-honestly asking, "Weren't we going somewhere?"
As he spoke, it was like he remembered all that they had planned before walking out of the tavern where they shared the wine. Ah, yes. That moment seemed to have been slightly derailed from its initial candor by the almost child-like playfulness of painting in masse.
With his sandals tied looped over his fingers and his nice himation looped over his forearm so as not to risk any lingering wet paint to touch it, Basilides glanced at the setting sun that cut sharp orange and peach lines through the city streets around them.
"I could go for another round before I lose all ability to stand, paint or otherwise," Bas offered as a suggestion, perhaps to put them back onto track for the mood that originated in the tavern booth. He raised a brow as he watched Hesiodos gather the last of his things.
As looked on him, Basilides could not help but muse about how the man looked like some heroic character in one of the performances the troupe put on. Some swashbuckling galavant drifting from place to place with a sly smile for each lady and a crass joke for every man.
Bards, Bas thought a moment, before quirking another look at him.
"How come we haven't put your story on the stage, yet? You should get to writing that."
After the insane fun he had painting with his feet and body, Hesiodos decided to leave his body covered in paint. It was a testament for the world to see how much fun he was having, and when people looked at him in the streets with his limbs and face covered in that myriad of colors and hues, they would know that he was a man that was living life to its fullest; he posed naked, he drank, he laughed he danced and he sang, and now he was with someone he wanted to spend the night with, drinking and laughing more. That was life.
“Were we?”, he said with a wide smile as he put on his sandals, not really caring if they were stained by paint, “Don’t ask me, I’m following you!”, there was a bout of laughter from him as he picked the rest of his things – mainly his brooch, his lyre and his swords, which he sheathed on his hip. He was ready to go, but the idea of another round was tempting, “Oh, I could, either of wine, or a nice cup of you, my dear”, he said blatantly as he got out of the booth.
When he turned, he saw his face, and mused on how attractive he was, even drunk, with his cheeks blushing , and covered in paint. No, he thought; he was far more attractive that way, because not only was he drunk on wine as he was, but he was also drunk on life. There was also something in his eyes – the same look one would give to a satyr if they saw him just relaxing at the foot of a tree, playing his flute, and then asking if they would like to sit beside him and listen to a song.
He loved those looks people gave him.
He chuckled at his question, “I considered it, you know… I just didn’t got around to it. Sometimes I wonder if people would believe it… but then I realize that many people believe it when I tell it myself…”, it wasn’t that fantastic, compared to others. People believed what happened to Odysseus, so it wasn’t an stretch, “Are you suggesting you want to put my story into a play, Basilides?”
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After the insane fun he had painting with his feet and body, Hesiodos decided to leave his body covered in paint. It was a testament for the world to see how much fun he was having, and when people looked at him in the streets with his limbs and face covered in that myriad of colors and hues, they would know that he was a man that was living life to its fullest; he posed naked, he drank, he laughed he danced and he sang, and now he was with someone he wanted to spend the night with, drinking and laughing more. That was life.
“Were we?”, he said with a wide smile as he put on his sandals, not really caring if they were stained by paint, “Don’t ask me, I’m following you!”, there was a bout of laughter from him as he picked the rest of his things – mainly his brooch, his lyre and his swords, which he sheathed on his hip. He was ready to go, but the idea of another round was tempting, “Oh, I could, either of wine, or a nice cup of you, my dear”, he said blatantly as he got out of the booth.
When he turned, he saw his face, and mused on how attractive he was, even drunk, with his cheeks blushing , and covered in paint. No, he thought; he was far more attractive that way, because not only was he drunk on wine as he was, but he was also drunk on life. There was also something in his eyes – the same look one would give to a satyr if they saw him just relaxing at the foot of a tree, playing his flute, and then asking if they would like to sit beside him and listen to a song.
He loved those looks people gave him.
He chuckled at his question, “I considered it, you know… I just didn’t got around to it. Sometimes I wonder if people would believe it… but then I realize that many people believe it when I tell it myself…”, it wasn’t that fantastic, compared to others. People believed what happened to Odysseus, so it wasn’t an stretch, “Are you suggesting you want to put my story into a play, Basilides?”
After the insane fun he had painting with his feet and body, Hesiodos decided to leave his body covered in paint. It was a testament for the world to see how much fun he was having, and when people looked at him in the streets with his limbs and face covered in that myriad of colors and hues, they would know that he was a man that was living life to its fullest; he posed naked, he drank, he laughed he danced and he sang, and now he was with someone he wanted to spend the night with, drinking and laughing more. That was life.
“Were we?”, he said with a wide smile as he put on his sandals, not really caring if they were stained by paint, “Don’t ask me, I’m following you!”, there was a bout of laughter from him as he picked the rest of his things – mainly his brooch, his lyre and his swords, which he sheathed on his hip. He was ready to go, but the idea of another round was tempting, “Oh, I could, either of wine, or a nice cup of you, my dear”, he said blatantly as he got out of the booth.
When he turned, he saw his face, and mused on how attractive he was, even drunk, with his cheeks blushing , and covered in paint. No, he thought; he was far more attractive that way, because not only was he drunk on wine as he was, but he was also drunk on life. There was also something in his eyes – the same look one would give to a satyr if they saw him just relaxing at the foot of a tree, playing his flute, and then asking if they would like to sit beside him and listen to a song.
He loved those looks people gave him.
He chuckled at his question, “I considered it, you know… I just didn’t got around to it. Sometimes I wonder if people would believe it… but then I realize that many people believe it when I tell it myself…”, it wasn’t that fantastic, compared to others. People believed what happened to Odysseus, so it wasn’t an stretch, “Are you suggesting you want to put my story into a play, Basilides?”
Basilides did not mind the hazy vision of things off in the distance, influenced by the wine and not wanting to lose the feeling. It had been quite some time since his mind was last unoccupied by the worries of the troupe and logistics. In fact, the satisfaction of the day coupled with the spectacular ending of the Arts Festival - which he was loathe to admit he enjoyed fully - was enough to put him in a downright pleasant mood.
The Bard's words felt like a jest, but once Basilides glanced sidelong at him through heavy lashes, there was a slight spark of anticipation in his gut, and the corner of his lip flicked up lightly before he glanced around at the people on the streets. If there were no familiar faces, then this would not become an issue at all.
Zephyrus knew that on occasion, Bas would woo and charm potential patrons for the troupe to supplement their initial donations. It was not an every time occurrence but it had been enough to affect Zephyrus' dread every time they parted ways for such trips. It was an understood fact of life.
This, however, was a purely selfish desire - to embrace a moment in time where his usual brooding mood had lifted at the hand of company and wine...and to not let that moment reach an end without some sense of payoff.
"Why not?" Basilides offered, winding their way through the streets and noting that they grew less and less crowded the further away from the city center they drifted, toward his current boarding rooms. "Some poor souls cannot read and some are not patient enough to sit through a song unless there is something moving before their eyes. Imagine...you could play yourself in the initial performances before some start-up actor aims to take the part from you. It would be quite a role. Imagine the talk of it all!"
Basilides loved what he did as a part of the troupe, making ideas into reality through his gift with logic - and more importantly, selling that idea to the hundreds of spectators in a night. It created a shared experience and all he had to do was the paperwork on the front end and enjoy the luxuries that followed.
"What say you?" Basilides offered, clapping a hand on the man's shoulder and giving it a jostle. "Care to play the player sometime?"
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Basilides did not mind the hazy vision of things off in the distance, influenced by the wine and not wanting to lose the feeling. It had been quite some time since his mind was last unoccupied by the worries of the troupe and logistics. In fact, the satisfaction of the day coupled with the spectacular ending of the Arts Festival - which he was loathe to admit he enjoyed fully - was enough to put him in a downright pleasant mood.
The Bard's words felt like a jest, but once Basilides glanced sidelong at him through heavy lashes, there was a slight spark of anticipation in his gut, and the corner of his lip flicked up lightly before he glanced around at the people on the streets. If there were no familiar faces, then this would not become an issue at all.
Zephyrus knew that on occasion, Bas would woo and charm potential patrons for the troupe to supplement their initial donations. It was not an every time occurrence but it had been enough to affect Zephyrus' dread every time they parted ways for such trips. It was an understood fact of life.
This, however, was a purely selfish desire - to embrace a moment in time where his usual brooding mood had lifted at the hand of company and wine...and to not let that moment reach an end without some sense of payoff.
"Why not?" Basilides offered, winding their way through the streets and noting that they grew less and less crowded the further away from the city center they drifted, toward his current boarding rooms. "Some poor souls cannot read and some are not patient enough to sit through a song unless there is something moving before their eyes. Imagine...you could play yourself in the initial performances before some start-up actor aims to take the part from you. It would be quite a role. Imagine the talk of it all!"
Basilides loved what he did as a part of the troupe, making ideas into reality through his gift with logic - and more importantly, selling that idea to the hundreds of spectators in a night. It created a shared experience and all he had to do was the paperwork on the front end and enjoy the luxuries that followed.
"What say you?" Basilides offered, clapping a hand on the man's shoulder and giving it a jostle. "Care to play the player sometime?"
Basilides did not mind the hazy vision of things off in the distance, influenced by the wine and not wanting to lose the feeling. It had been quite some time since his mind was last unoccupied by the worries of the troupe and logistics. In fact, the satisfaction of the day coupled with the spectacular ending of the Arts Festival - which he was loathe to admit he enjoyed fully - was enough to put him in a downright pleasant mood.
The Bard's words felt like a jest, but once Basilides glanced sidelong at him through heavy lashes, there was a slight spark of anticipation in his gut, and the corner of his lip flicked up lightly before he glanced around at the people on the streets. If there were no familiar faces, then this would not become an issue at all.
Zephyrus knew that on occasion, Bas would woo and charm potential patrons for the troupe to supplement their initial donations. It was not an every time occurrence but it had been enough to affect Zephyrus' dread every time they parted ways for such trips. It was an understood fact of life.
This, however, was a purely selfish desire - to embrace a moment in time where his usual brooding mood had lifted at the hand of company and wine...and to not let that moment reach an end without some sense of payoff.
"Why not?" Basilides offered, winding their way through the streets and noting that they grew less and less crowded the further away from the city center they drifted, toward his current boarding rooms. "Some poor souls cannot read and some are not patient enough to sit through a song unless there is something moving before their eyes. Imagine...you could play yourself in the initial performances before some start-up actor aims to take the part from you. It would be quite a role. Imagine the talk of it all!"
Basilides loved what he did as a part of the troupe, making ideas into reality through his gift with logic - and more importantly, selling that idea to the hundreds of spectators in a night. It created a shared experience and all he had to do was the paperwork on the front end and enjoy the luxuries that followed.
"What say you?" Basilides offered, clapping a hand on the man's shoulder and giving it a jostle. "Care to play the player sometime?"
Hesiodos made an exasperated sound when he made his point, “Oh, tell me about it”, he said rolling his eyes; in his drunken state the sole action made his head dizzy. He was okay with that, though, “I don’t have patience for people that don’t know how to enjoy art, especially music. That is something theatre will always have a head on, though”, the Jews called these people Philistines, and Hesiodos took a liking to the word and used it often for the people that didn’t like his music. For those that were vocal, he let Castor and Pollux do the talking.
At his next statement, he stopped on his tracks, and since they were holding each other, that made Bas stop to. Hesiodos looked at him with a serious, sober look and asked, “You’ve known me for a while. Do you think I’m so egocentric to perform myself in a play about my life, Basilides?”
There was a pause that hung in the air for a while before he replied, “Because, yes, yes I am, and yes I will”, he said before his face suddenly turned into a laughing mask of joy, “I would certainly love to do it! I always wanted to be an actor, my friend!”
And with that, he continued his way, occasionally laughing and giggling, with his drunken tumbling hidden by dancer like prances of joy. While music was his true passion, Hesiodos wanted to dabble in all kinds of arts. He painted sometimes, tried sculpture a couple of times, wrote his stories perhaps once – though he forgot where he left that piece – and he would certainly love to be part of a play as an actor. He had years of experience in the stage and knew how to put a show and show his personality, and was sure that Bas knew it.
As they got closer, Hesiodos hummed and hugged the thespian closer, before planting a long, passionate kiss on the side of his face, “I have so much fun with you, Bas.”
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Hesiodos made an exasperated sound when he made his point, “Oh, tell me about it”, he said rolling his eyes; in his drunken state the sole action made his head dizzy. He was okay with that, though, “I don’t have patience for people that don’t know how to enjoy art, especially music. That is something theatre will always have a head on, though”, the Jews called these people Philistines, and Hesiodos took a liking to the word and used it often for the people that didn’t like his music. For those that were vocal, he let Castor and Pollux do the talking.
At his next statement, he stopped on his tracks, and since they were holding each other, that made Bas stop to. Hesiodos looked at him with a serious, sober look and asked, “You’ve known me for a while. Do you think I’m so egocentric to perform myself in a play about my life, Basilides?”
There was a pause that hung in the air for a while before he replied, “Because, yes, yes I am, and yes I will”, he said before his face suddenly turned into a laughing mask of joy, “I would certainly love to do it! I always wanted to be an actor, my friend!”
And with that, he continued his way, occasionally laughing and giggling, with his drunken tumbling hidden by dancer like prances of joy. While music was his true passion, Hesiodos wanted to dabble in all kinds of arts. He painted sometimes, tried sculpture a couple of times, wrote his stories perhaps once – though he forgot where he left that piece – and he would certainly love to be part of a play as an actor. He had years of experience in the stage and knew how to put a show and show his personality, and was sure that Bas knew it.
As they got closer, Hesiodos hummed and hugged the thespian closer, before planting a long, passionate kiss on the side of his face, “I have so much fun with you, Bas.”
Hesiodos made an exasperated sound when he made his point, “Oh, tell me about it”, he said rolling his eyes; in his drunken state the sole action made his head dizzy. He was okay with that, though, “I don’t have patience for people that don’t know how to enjoy art, especially music. That is something theatre will always have a head on, though”, the Jews called these people Philistines, and Hesiodos took a liking to the word and used it often for the people that didn’t like his music. For those that were vocal, he let Castor and Pollux do the talking.
At his next statement, he stopped on his tracks, and since they were holding each other, that made Bas stop to. Hesiodos looked at him with a serious, sober look and asked, “You’ve known me for a while. Do you think I’m so egocentric to perform myself in a play about my life, Basilides?”
There was a pause that hung in the air for a while before he replied, “Because, yes, yes I am, and yes I will”, he said before his face suddenly turned into a laughing mask of joy, “I would certainly love to do it! I always wanted to be an actor, my friend!”
And with that, he continued his way, occasionally laughing and giggling, with his drunken tumbling hidden by dancer like prances of joy. While music was his true passion, Hesiodos wanted to dabble in all kinds of arts. He painted sometimes, tried sculpture a couple of times, wrote his stories perhaps once – though he forgot where he left that piece – and he would certainly love to be part of a play as an actor. He had years of experience in the stage and knew how to put a show and show his personality, and was sure that Bas knew it.
As they got closer, Hesiodos hummed and hugged the thespian closer, before planting a long, passionate kiss on the side of his face, “I have so much fun with you, Bas.”
The glimpses of fading light across the city painted a beautiful picture on its own, but with the pleasant swirl of wine and happiness, it made it a joyful sight to say the least. A gift from the gods.
Basilides nodded in agreement, knowing that there were many even during the theatrical performances who would find themselves yawning during the long interludes as the scenes shifted. The musicians, he knew, would play their hearts out on strings and pipes, yet he knew their art was almost taken for granted. Many crowds found such transitional scenes to be an opportunity to talk with their neighbors, neglecting the musicians contributions to art.
If Basilides had any artistic talent, he knew his annoyance and temper with such things would take hold in such a situation. How someone like Hesiodos could play and sing and tell his tales in a noisy drinking hall was beyond him, and yet, it never seemed to stop the man next to him from doing so. Basilides respected that, and knew that if it were not for the artists of the world, like Hesiodos and Zephyrus, then it would be quite the dull place.
And he would be out of a job.
A mildly concerned brow lifted as Hesiodos demeanor shifted, and the producer's jaw stiffened in concern, eyes slightly wider. As the man broke into his jest, Basilides let out an uncharacteristically loud laugh - mostly of relief, but also of wine-soaked amusement.
"See? There you have it! You had me fooled a moment there," Basilides said, the wine and nerves still sprinkling his voice with laughter, "You would do wonderfully with our troupe, should you ever venture to stay still long enough." Clapping a hand on the man's shoulder, he added, "Just be sure not to do your standard 'bard' trick and disappear without a trace. At least a word of warning so we can adjust the show, hm?"
They approached the harborside boarding house as night began to fall, and Basilides gripped Hesiodos strongly into an embrace, his hand clapping the man on the back more than once. As the bard pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, Bas felt a slight flush there, knowing the direction his thoughts had wandered before the group painting in the square. Now that the night had lingered on, he began to feel weary and knew that sleep would soon take him, making him terrible company.
"Let me know before you leave the city, Hesiodos," he said, clapping the man on the shoulder again, "I set out to reunite with the troupe in about two days time. If I don't see you again before that, then there is no doubt our paths will cross again at the Festival of Dionysus. Take care."
With that, Basilides tipped his head once more before venturing into the boarding house, eager to shed his clothes and fall fast asleep, only to find speckles of brightly colored paint lingering around his ankles and fingertips in the morning.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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The glimpses of fading light across the city painted a beautiful picture on its own, but with the pleasant swirl of wine and happiness, it made it a joyful sight to say the least. A gift from the gods.
Basilides nodded in agreement, knowing that there were many even during the theatrical performances who would find themselves yawning during the long interludes as the scenes shifted. The musicians, he knew, would play their hearts out on strings and pipes, yet he knew their art was almost taken for granted. Many crowds found such transitional scenes to be an opportunity to talk with their neighbors, neglecting the musicians contributions to art.
If Basilides had any artistic talent, he knew his annoyance and temper with such things would take hold in such a situation. How someone like Hesiodos could play and sing and tell his tales in a noisy drinking hall was beyond him, and yet, it never seemed to stop the man next to him from doing so. Basilides respected that, and knew that if it were not for the artists of the world, like Hesiodos and Zephyrus, then it would be quite the dull place.
And he would be out of a job.
A mildly concerned brow lifted as Hesiodos demeanor shifted, and the producer's jaw stiffened in concern, eyes slightly wider. As the man broke into his jest, Basilides let out an uncharacteristically loud laugh - mostly of relief, but also of wine-soaked amusement.
"See? There you have it! You had me fooled a moment there," Basilides said, the wine and nerves still sprinkling his voice with laughter, "You would do wonderfully with our troupe, should you ever venture to stay still long enough." Clapping a hand on the man's shoulder, he added, "Just be sure not to do your standard 'bard' trick and disappear without a trace. At least a word of warning so we can adjust the show, hm?"
They approached the harborside boarding house as night began to fall, and Basilides gripped Hesiodos strongly into an embrace, his hand clapping the man on the back more than once. As the bard pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, Bas felt a slight flush there, knowing the direction his thoughts had wandered before the group painting in the square. Now that the night had lingered on, he began to feel weary and knew that sleep would soon take him, making him terrible company.
"Let me know before you leave the city, Hesiodos," he said, clapping the man on the shoulder again, "I set out to reunite with the troupe in about two days time. If I don't see you again before that, then there is no doubt our paths will cross again at the Festival of Dionysus. Take care."
With that, Basilides tipped his head once more before venturing into the boarding house, eager to shed his clothes and fall fast asleep, only to find speckles of brightly colored paint lingering around his ankles and fingertips in the morning.
The glimpses of fading light across the city painted a beautiful picture on its own, but with the pleasant swirl of wine and happiness, it made it a joyful sight to say the least. A gift from the gods.
Basilides nodded in agreement, knowing that there were many even during the theatrical performances who would find themselves yawning during the long interludes as the scenes shifted. The musicians, he knew, would play their hearts out on strings and pipes, yet he knew their art was almost taken for granted. Many crowds found such transitional scenes to be an opportunity to talk with their neighbors, neglecting the musicians contributions to art.
If Basilides had any artistic talent, he knew his annoyance and temper with such things would take hold in such a situation. How someone like Hesiodos could play and sing and tell his tales in a noisy drinking hall was beyond him, and yet, it never seemed to stop the man next to him from doing so. Basilides respected that, and knew that if it were not for the artists of the world, like Hesiodos and Zephyrus, then it would be quite the dull place.
And he would be out of a job.
A mildly concerned brow lifted as Hesiodos demeanor shifted, and the producer's jaw stiffened in concern, eyes slightly wider. As the man broke into his jest, Basilides let out an uncharacteristically loud laugh - mostly of relief, but also of wine-soaked amusement.
"See? There you have it! You had me fooled a moment there," Basilides said, the wine and nerves still sprinkling his voice with laughter, "You would do wonderfully with our troupe, should you ever venture to stay still long enough." Clapping a hand on the man's shoulder, he added, "Just be sure not to do your standard 'bard' trick and disappear without a trace. At least a word of warning so we can adjust the show, hm?"
They approached the harborside boarding house as night began to fall, and Basilides gripped Hesiodos strongly into an embrace, his hand clapping the man on the back more than once. As the bard pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, Bas felt a slight flush there, knowing the direction his thoughts had wandered before the group painting in the square. Now that the night had lingered on, he began to feel weary and knew that sleep would soon take him, making him terrible company.
"Let me know before you leave the city, Hesiodos," he said, clapping the man on the shoulder again, "I set out to reunite with the troupe in about two days time. If I don't see you again before that, then there is no doubt our paths will cross again at the Festival of Dionysus. Take care."
With that, Basilides tipped his head once more before venturing into the boarding house, eager to shed his clothes and fall fast asleep, only to find speckles of brightly colored paint lingering around his ankles and fingertips in the morning.