Cedric
Bastien de Lysse
Tonate Proper | The Shrouds
 
Bastien felt an odd tingling throughout his body as Calypso stroked his arm again, her voice teasing as she listed his own past trespasses of offering her his arm, or lowering his voice in her ear. He opened his mouth to rebuttal her points.

They were simply formalities, he told himself.
But before the words could leave his mouth, she was pressing her soft chest against his arm. His mind ceased to function for a few moments, and when it was working again properly he had to remember that they were in a public setting and she was just seeing what he would do. Certainly there was no deeper meaning to it. 

Then, she casually mentioned the dreaded veil incident with a squeeze before pulling herself away from him.

They continued to walk, apart now. Bastien was silent for a few moments, his cheeks slightly flushed but not because of the heat of the evening. That damn incident. It made him want to jump into the sea. He seemed suddenly interested in looking out at the booths around them instead of at Calypso.

After a few moments of silence, he cleared his throat and then said, "I attempted to apologize for that... Incident. Though I suppose I never did get to hear whether you accepted my... Apology." Bastien did not apologize often. And to be reminded of such an incident where he had was a bit painful to him. For him to apologize meant he must have done something simply unacceptable.

There were a few more moments of silence as they walked, and then he took a small step closer to her, almost unnoticeable to the naked eye, but he knew Calypso would notice. "I didn't know it would make you uncomfortable by offering you my arm. And with the lowering of my voice..." He cleared his throat again, scratching one of his high cheekbones in a subconscious manner. "I suppose I didn't think how it would affect you, but I certainly didn't plan on it making you uncomfortable."
** **

Looking back at the booths in the other direction, he lifted his arm to her yet again. "I'm not uncomfortable right now, " He said quietly. He glanced down at her again, his normally cold and austere expression softening slightly, for a moment, as he asked, 

"Are you?"
Antonio
Gyavin Drase, Head of House Drase and Lord of the Shrouds
Maith Mansion

Gyavin earned himself more than a few black looks as he lurched towards starboard. He took no notice of them, of course, wearing only casual indiference on his face. Below his waist, bells tinkled along the hem of a varicoloured poncho, like a pack of tiny, yipping pets following his feet. 

"Make way, m'lords and m'ladies," He said, a flat-toned command in a thick Islander accent. "The Shah of the Shrouds is coming frough."

"M'lord, you really shouldn't say that," He heard Connard plead behind him. Judging by the man's voice, he was struggling to keep after Gyavin as the crowd thickened towards the edge. "Not when there might be Amoroffis about."

He scoffed. "Sod them. A few jokes aren't gonna cost the King any friends for is jolly little picnic up norf."

Just short of the deck's edge, he found a small table bearing a jug of wine, and oblivious foreigners blocking the ways around. He pursed his lips, and pushed the table with a small nudge from his black leather boot. The jug nearly toppled and spilled its contents all over the fine white silks of a blanching noblewoman, but a speedy attendant managed to catch it just in time. Gyavin paid them no heed, strolling through the gap and laying his hands gently on the wooden railing.

Gyavin pushed some rogue strands of inky black hair out of his eyes, and smiled blissfully at what he saw. This wasn't his first time at the Mansion, but it was looking as handsome as ever. The Water Gardens flowed splendidly before them, and the dancing floor held an alluring promise. "That looks like a good evening, I reckon."

"Certainly, m'lord." His guardsman, small and quick, and dressed in a crimson tunic overlain by a fish-net jacket, came up beside him. "Will you be seekin your bruvver-in-law tonight, m'lord? The king, peraps?"

The elation sloughed off of his face. "I've no business wif Braddo today." Lifting a calloused hand to rub his face, he sighed. "Suppose I might av a few words wif Kafolou. We'll see. Bearer grant me at least an arf-pint before anyone comes accostin me for smalltalk."

"Who ere would come to *You* For smalltalk, m'lord?"

Gyavin shivered into one of his long, nasty cackles at that. "So true, and so sweet, friend." His eyes lit up as he felt the ship shudder against the dock. Turning around, he channelled his voice with a hand and cried out, "Wifeling! Oi, wifeling! Party's startin over ere."
John
Valria Drase, wife of Gyavin Draise and last remaining heir of Clan Drayim.
Maith Mansion

Valria would shortly follow after her husband, hearing his shouts echo across the barge and dock. She took long strides, her heels clacking across the wood. She wore a magnificent silk dress, decorated in black embroidery that shimmered like the night above them. Valria'd step onto the dock, looking at her husband.

"You don't need to shout so loud, I'm right here," She chuckled, taking his hand, "I'm pretty sure the entirety of Tonate Proper has heard you by now. Even of you, they'd call you 'Gyavin, the loudest man to ever walk Marin'."

She'd clear some dust off his shirt. Her gaze averted towards the mansion, as she pulled him towards it, forcing him to follow. 

"You'd better behave yourself this time!". Her tone was half serious, half light-hearted. "Now let's enjoy ourselves tonight, shall we?"
Tom
Calypso Kolgrim 

Tonate Proper | The Shrouds

Calypso was basking in the glory of her small victory a satisfied smile store in her cherry lips as her eyes followed the flow of people around them. Surely it was quite petty of her to dig up that memory, knowing already how much Bastien felt guilty towards it. But still, no one called her a wild animal and expect to walk out of it untouched. It was nice to finally have put the high lord in his place, his presence nothing more than a silent ghost at her side.

But soon the silence was broken and Calypso's eyes went back to study the nobleman's expression as he spoke. It took every inch of strength in her body to not roll her eyes. How sensitive... And cute. Part of her enjoyed seeing that helpless expression on him

. Her smiled took a slightly more sharp angle as she chuckled in response to his question. "You have a very docile image of me in your head, my lord, for you to think that I would even be speaking to you if your presence made me in any way uncomfortable," Spoke her, mirroring his movement and stepping closer. " Actually I would go as far as saying that if you truly had made me *So uncomfortable* That day, your hand would not be attached to your arm anymore my lord. " Her tone was playful and light but that feeling didn't reflect in her eyes. "But I'm glad to know that you learned from your mistakes." Ended her in a more soft tone. 

Calypso was about to wrap her arms around Lord De Lysse's arm when something caught her attention. People in front of them seemed to be moving aside. Calypso tried to understand what was happening around them to cause such movement, until she turned around. Eyes immediately catching on the bander. Gold shells on black and red background. 

Her breath catch in her throat. 
Calypso's hands quickly fell in front of her skirt, her playful expression completely disappearing from her face as she fixed her dress and veil. Making sure that everything was in order. 

"Turn around and fix your shirt my lord." Was the only warning Calypso offered to her companion as she moved aside imitating the crowd but staying close to bastien.
Antonio
Ser Samsom Dumagne
The Mizzen Market, Tonate Proper

"Will you be fighting?" His sister asked. Samsom favoured her with a sliver of a smile, but it broke soon enough, and he contemplated the way ahead of them.

"Probably not. I ..." He was going to blame uneasy sleep aboard the ship, but she knew that he'd travelled much, and that strange conditions rarely fazed him so. "Perhaps I might. I'm not sure." He squinted at the skyline, which was starting to grow indistinct under the dying light. 

"I'm more interested in getting a chance to meet so many foreigners lords and ladies. We've never had many connections abroad." He saw Lutur look at him pointedly, open his mouth, but Samsom cut him off, "Ibbish mercenary contracts hardly count, my lord." And to that his brother's face blanked for a moment, then Lutur looked away with a sigh. Samsom gave his sister one of his characteristic mild smirks. "An axe or a blade 'connecting' with a Northwinder neck doesn't count either."

The bustle of Islanders thickened all around them as they came upon the marketplace. Samsom glanced around at children chasing hoops, merchants drawing customers to long boards lain out with spices and silks and jewels, their stalls shielded from the sun by sheets and skins, while timber and red-stone walls formed an extensive perimetre around the market.

Lutur hmphed at the sight. "Very—" They watched a rat scurry out from a shadow, and stop to nibble at a small sprinkle of ... Something. One of the guards kicked a shower of dust at it, and it scurried off to the next embrace of shade. "Very colourful," Lutur finished flatly. "Not quite as serene as Elegorgou or Potruuxou, but let the heathens have their heathen inclinations, I suppose." 

Onwards they went, Lutur being careful to sidestep the filth at which the rat had been pecking. Samsom found his eyes drawn hither and thither to the strange, foreign figures they passed. 

A man of considerable years sat on a stool, bare, sagging chest bissected crossways between shadow and sunlight. He murmured a broken tune to himself as he pared an orange with a small, unsteady knife. When their proffession marched past him, his dark eyes met with Samsom's. Father used to bring him grapefruits when he'd stop by Elegorgou after tours to the south. He'd shown him how to cut them, but when Father had worked the knife on the fruit, he'd been quicker, more reckless. The old man's swarthy, weathered face cracked into a big smile. Even though the man's teeth were yellowed and rotten from citrus, he still kept on peeling his orange.

After they were well past the man's little corner, Samsom's nose was struck by an assault of striking aromas. He looked right to see a man and a woman standing behind a broad display of perfumes, some contained in simple flacons, others in elaborate bottles styles with what he knew to be phoenix imagery. Araedians. They both had their dark, wavy hair pulled back into buns, bronze skin smooth and glistening with oil. They were speaking to each other in the nasally flow of Petaltongue, of which he could catch a few words. During the Vronti's reign, he'd gone down and sworn his sword to an Araedian lord for nearly two years. He couldn't stomach what that man had been doing to Terresol. And while he was away, Father had been slain on the road. *What if I'd been there with him*? After he heard of that, he withdrew his service to the Araedian, and vanished into the clamour of Erba for weeks on end to blow half the money he'd earned on all the wanton pleasures he could find. Such rakishness had been unlike him; before then, he'd been pious, and even timid. But so had it been unlike Terresol to put men to the flame for their love, or for Dumagnes to bow down to a heretic and a usurper. He remembered the smell of wine and sweat. Perfume to banish the ugliness of it all. Araedian perfume, alive with the essence of flowers.

He saw another couple then. They seemed foreign, but not Araedian. In fact, the woman looked like she was from Sol to him, judging by the design of her blue, embroidered dress, and the light veil about her black hair. The man she was linking arms with couldn't have been Terreme, for he had hair so fair that it seemed almost burning-white in the sun. He was taller than even their dragon sister, and dressed only in an airy white shirt and pants. There wasn't a man in Sol who would dress so modestly, especially in such a charged setting. It seemed like they were heading the same way they were.

After a while, he felt the impulse to call out to his countrywoman, beckon their company along the way. When he saw the shorter lover soften against her partner's side with considerable intimacy, he reconsidered. "Those two make a fine couple," He murmured to Peraz. "I think the woman is Terreme. Look at her dress. And the man... Ibbish, perhaps?" He could imagine a patriarch in the great city marrying his daughter off to some Ibbish mercenary lord. "Probably trying to catch some a golden hour together before they have to deal with the likes of us." He smirked ruefully, then went on more quietly, "Or at least the likes of..." And he nodded to their lord-brother.

His eyes returned to the couple, and he noted with a grimace that they were walking apart from each other now. "Oh. Maybe I cursed them with my words." Despite himself, he became quite invested in the air between these two strangers, and felt his heart flutter a little when he saw the man slowly inch closer to his lady. "Seems they've put aside whatever it was. Auryn has blessed them."

Lutur looked up to the sky. "This won't do. We need to hasten ourselves, lest our tardiness miconvey our honour to everyone at the mansion. Come!" He urged them on with waving arms. His guards quickened their pace alongside him. Samsom followed suit; he didn't share Lutur's anxieties, but the energy to walk like this always came naturally to him, so he offered no complaint. He only worried about the two up ahead. 

"I fear we're interrupting a delicate moment," He opined to Peraz with a hint of a frown on his face. The woman turned her head—he didn't recognize her—and something seemed to change about her bearing after she took note of the banner being carried aloft by one of the guards. It was quite an alarming thing, he thought, with the sharp crimson and the black and the stark golden scallops punching through in a trio.
Cedric
Bastien de Lysse
The Mizzen Market, Tonate Proper

He saw Calypso step closer to him. A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips as she spoke of not being uncomfortable around him, and if she was how she would have removed his hand from his body. He doubted that, but admired her spirit. *'Cute,'* He thought. He saw her move to put her hands on his arm, but then suddenly stopped as she glanced behind them.

At Calypso change of demeanor and warning words, Bastien's face lost all of its faint traces of a smile as it instantly reverted back to holding its signature genteel, aloof, and icy expression. There was someone of importance behind them, no doubt, with how the crowd was parting and staring. He casually brushed a hand down his shirt and pants to remove dust as he straightened to his full, towering height. His posture, poised but relaxed only moments before, was now rigid and elegant as he held his head high before he turned. Calypso stayed beside him as he looked at what the crowd was staring at. He knew his clothing, though high quality and fashionable, was simple. His posture and expression, however, displayed his highborn status.

The stark red and black of the banners caught his eye immediately, and the golden scallops not a second later as the small parade of guards continued walking closer at a brisk pace. Lips parted slightly as his amethyst eyes widened a fraction of a millimetre, for only a moment, as he noticed someone in the procession: a tall woman, wearing a traditional Terresolian clothing and a kemenike. He managed to look away after a few beats, thankfully having not made eye contact. Not even a second later his face returned to its normal frigid appearance as he gazed down at one of their arbitrary guard. His mind raced as the woman's face burned in his mind and brought to light memories of the distant past. With the pace at which the procession approached, it seemed he wouldn't be able to reminisce for long.