Rhonda
The Pirate King Bradai Maith
The Royal Balcony, the Mizzen.

The back of the Pirate King's chair was high and sloped, with a side seat that allowed him to comfortably sit back and enjoy the show. His fingers tapped dryly against the keys of his accordion, errant chords wheezing idly from his lap. 

"Dennon!" The chair barked, "Come up 'ere and sit tha Kings, will you?" There was an empty chair between he and Caderyn. "The view is much better from 'ere, I assure you."
Edith
**King Dennon Bigsby
The Royal Box of The Mizzen**

"Are you sure he didn't just say Dennis instead?" Dennon asked quietly before Kirk discreetly pushed the reluctant king forward. "Ass!" He hissed while acting like he was saying goodbye to Kirk for Bradai's invitation. "Thank you for the seat." Dennon said cheerfully once he was close enough to be heard by Bradai above the noise of the crowd. He sat down between the two men, pressing his knees as close as he could together with his elbows brought in so that he wouldn't accidentally get too far in to their personal space.
Rhonda
The Pirate King Bradai Maith
The Royal Balcony, The Mizzen.

Bradai turned to fact the Ibbish King while the crowd erupted into cheers and bursts of feverish drummings. A group of servants came around with trays of exotic fruits, cheese and meat tarts. He narrowed his eyes as he saw the way the Ibbish King was sitting. 

"Do you..." It was slowly beginning to dawn on him that Dennon Bigsby was, in fact, henpecked. When it came to rumors of royals, it was often prudent to take whatever came with a grain of salt, but it was true. He wasn't soft spoken, he was a prisoner. No one had heard of this man previous to Cheston's murder, and now here he was, supposedly commanding one of the most powerful countries in the world. But he hadn't talked about matters of state once. Bradai had considered it to be Dennon holding his cards close to his chest, laying in wait for an opportune moment to strike. Looking at him now, with his knees and arms pinned together by invisible nails, he didn't know what to think. "Relax." He said, passing him a cup of rum. " 'ow often do you get away from vhose mountains? You should unwind."
Edith
**King Dennon Bigsby
The Royal Balcony in The Mizzen**

Dennon relaxed his pose to more naturally hold the cup he had been given, still not fully at ease between the two men who had only minutes ago made speeches of war and revenge against people on the mainland, not to mention the public execution they had all just witnessed as part of the festivities. "Not often. In the last four years, I've only been outside of Ibethiel three times, including this. The other two occasions were both in Taemar." He took a swig of the rum. For a hot day, the warm rush of the drink felt pleasant, and the ice provided a nice balance. "I suppose I could ask you the same thing. How often do you leave the Isles? I can't imagine wanting to. The weather is quite agreeable."
Tom
Calypso Kolgrim - The Mizzen 

Her dark eyes skimmed through the crowd, observing who was seating next to them to see if she could recognize anyone. Her hand fidgeting nervously with the single golden right on her annular. She eyed the two men Lord De Lysse was entertaining himself with, not minding their words. Her gaze wandering towards the King's Box where he and the Terresol Crown Prince were seated. The Terresolian lady had a very different idea of what King Bardai would have looked like, partially influenced by the member of his court that had welcomed them at the palace, Silas specifically. His opening monologue put her on edge. Her attention was brought back to the Joust as the crowd erupted, the two challengers making their way in the field after being announced. 
Calypso had attended similar events back at home, but it seemed like here on the Isle they weren't as popular as in the mainland. Her dark eyes studied the two knights, even from here she could see how massive the man answering as Sir Welden's was. But despite that, she wasn't ready to bet on his victory.
Antonio
Sir Wendel
The Mizzen, Tonate Proper

The deep, loud wail of the horn sounded throughout the arena. The starting signal. Cries and shouts and cheers erupted from the stands as the two knights began to charge at one another. The Raven Knight felt the gust of wind blow into his helmet as his horse began to gain more and more speed, the clopping of hooves and the roar of the crowd filling his ears. As Wendel drew close, the knight leaned far forward on his horse with his weapon outstretched. Being so low, he was able to barely evade Wendel's lance. His own made contact with his opponent's shoulder. In about a second, the splitting of wood rang in his ears as his lance broke.

Wendel had gasped when the lance struck him and ignited its lightning-quick battle against his backbone. It had evoked the memory of a monstrous paw pressing him down, folding him. *Not again!* He'd locked his thighs against the saddle and made forward! The battle-cry of every fibre in his being. And the lance had been reduced to splinters.

Though a small success—the other man *Had* Just scored five points—it exhilarated Wenel in a way that was months-estranged from him. He let out a mixed caw of triumph and shock as he rode on past the Raven Knight. 

A fence bisected the arena, stopping short of the wall at either side so the jousters could come around after each tilt. It prevented their horses from running into each other's breasts during the clash. Rounding the end and changing to the other side, Wendel levelled a stern gaze once more on his adversary.

The Raven Knight trotted his horse down the corner, still holding the broken lance in his hand. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, his face still hidden beneath his helmet. The crowd was cheering like wild, excited for the next run.

An attendant walked over with a new lance, and the knight took it in exchange for his fractured one. His helmet veered over to Wendel's direction, and it seemed as if he gave a small nod. Though, of course, it could have just been him readjusting his position on his horse.

He raised his lance again, and leaned forward as the horn wailed once more.

Wendel breathed in sharp puffs as he sped forth. His soul was alight, his veins bulging beneath his skin. Excitement was buzzing in his arm as if it were a homely hive, full of yearning for that satisfying *Thump* Of victory. *Closer*. The thrill was deep within his bones. *Closer*. The air was growling, whistling through his helmet. *Closer*. It was like that the rangers charged against those whoresons at Bear Creek.

*Close*. He was going to miss.

If the blow hadn't instantly winded him, he would have cried out. The feel of his stirrups vanished, and for a moment, the earth was spinning all around him, but he felt like he hanging still in the air. Then the sand, not able to soften the harsh firmness of the solid earth below, rose up to put him in his place.

The Raven Knight's horse slowed as it neared the corner. Cheers erupted from the crowd at the action, and it was clear they were thirsting for more. Again, the knight slowed his horse as it went around the fence. His lance lowered slightly as he sat up straight in his saddle, waiting for Wendel to recover and remount his horse.

Wendel winced as he tried to rise. *Up on your fours, piggy!* That's what Big Rupert and his friends would say when they knocked him over. He fucking hated those days, and he fucking hated getting unhorsed before he'd even scored a light hit. It was true what he'd told Blae at the beginning; an understatement, perhaps. He felt more shaken than stirred.

Ever diligent, the slender stallion came around the fence, stopping opposite his master. Wendel crawled over to grab his lance off the ground. Another all-too-familiar scene. "I'm alright, I'm alright," He mumbled to the invisible people who had rushed to his aid. Sighing, he reached across the fence and grabbed the reins. "Back and at 'em, Blae."

When once again mounted and ready, he noticed that a hush of suspense had fallen upon the spectators. There were still two more tilts to go. The Raven Knight had fifteen points. If Wendel could get at least one unhorsing and one break, he'd match that; f he somehow managed to unhorse the man twice over, he'd beat him with twenty points. 

A sardonic spirit seized him in that moment. He flipped up his visor and grinned at the knight. "You'll pay for zat vone. I'll make a fine cap viss your feazers, Raven!" The laughter he heard trickle down from the crowd healed his morale a good deal. Back down came his faceguard, and he readied his lance. When the horn sounded, he gave his horse a kick into action, and took off along the fence.

As the horse's motions rocked him, he paid heed to the balance of the lance in his hand. *Closer*. He stopped giving attention to the ground between them, or long it would be until they clashed. With a settled mind, Wendel focused only on the end of his weapon, and its destination on the man's chest.

He remembered what his father had told him; how a truly brilliant warrior has to take a risk every now and again. *Combat voult be a longer ant much bloodier affair if fought betveen mints of absolute caution*. He leaned aside in his addle, and turned slightly, giving his opponent less breadth at which to aim. His shoulder blades ached as he struggled to keep the lance steady.

As the two grew closer and closer, The Raven Knight's lance aimed at Wendel's side. The cheering of the crowd, the huffing of breath echoing in their helmets, and the sound of hooves filled their ears as they drew closer. Closer. *Closer.*

As the two came into close contact, it was as if the next events all happened in slow motion. The mystery knight's lance, still aimed at his opponent's side, slowly grew farther and farther from its target as his opponent twisted away. Simultaneously, Wendel's lance outstretched and made hard contact to his chest. The blow made him rear back in his saddle, and he fell off his horse, landing on his back with a harsh thud.

The feel of the strike lit up Wendel's breast like flint and steel. He roared a beastly battle cry and bellowed "Down!" At the other knight as he fell to the ground. Galloping to his next position, he raised his lance high in the air, presenting the tool of the spectacle to the roaring crowd . Behind his face guard, he was smiling like a drunk.

"Amazing!" The announcer cried. "At fifteen points to a Taemish ten, it's getting close! Will the mysterious mask seal his victory, or will the bog-man *Just* Manage to snatch his opponent's crown?"
John
Puckgordon
The Mizzen

Puck ran onto the field to tighten the saddle and make sure everything was still put together, but his teeth hurt from clenching them in excitement. He looked up at Wendel as he gave the roaring crowd a show. He had remained silent until this point, but he felt his fingertips tremble as he checked the armor for both horse and rider. 

"Hey, Sir Wendel!" He called, trying to get his attention. "Win it for the Taemish, yeah? For us." He said shortly. Wendel may have been from the Steppes, but Puckgordon *Was* From the bog. 

"Win for us, fucker! I don't care where you're from." He said, excited and pumped up from the battle. "TAKE it from him!"
Emma
Ferdinand Chapoisson and Carac the Butcher
The Mizzen, Tonate proper

Ferdinand watched as the two jousters prepared to charge on another again. The secretive Raven knight was certainly a spectacle to behold, just as the rumors described him. This Taemish lad was putting up a fight, but he doubted it would be enough. After all, legends are legends for a reason, and this Taemish fool would be but a footnote in the Raven Knight's.

While his employer chuckled to himself and watched the two fighters prepare for the finale of their bout, Carac stood in silence. He knew better than most what combat involved, and now to see the winner of a battle before it was over. This Taemish boy had grit, that much was obvious, and his skill at jousting was undeniable. But he had something more to him, a drive that Carac recognized from the eyes of truly determined foes, the ones who scarred him before they fell. He may be fighting a legend, but Carac knew firsthand that legends were far more fallible than most would believe. This could go either way now, it all depended on what was stronger, the legend of the Raven Knight, or the will of this boy from Taemar.