John
Iver

The coast of the Tonate Proper, Southern Isles


He was never approached so off-handedly before, but he didn't seem surprised when she asked him about his eyes. He wondered if she was slow, like the mind of a child, with how curious and open she was, but looking at her showed that perhaps she was simply bold. He blinked slowly, staring at her with his odd eyes.


"I woke up with 'em one day." He said. "It makes me no different though." With a nod, he reached into his pocket to pull out a kerchief, in which he dabbed his brow. "Doctors called it an illness. I can't see well, now. Fortunately, though I can still make out the stars..." He nodded. "It must've been from some odd fish I ate 'n all. There are mysteries out in these seas..." He nodded promptly, looking wistfully out toward the ocean. "I 'spose I'm a part of the mystery now... Aye?" He glanced back at her, smiling slowly again. Be it lie or truth, what he said didn't matter. The ocean's secrets weren't his to tell, they were his to keep. And his devotion was quite convincing.


"Say, I wouldn't confront just any old sailor about his ailments, you know. There comes a lot less kind than me." He warned, tucking his kerchief back in his raw leather coat. "Unless you fancy a swim," Iver added, a little warier now. "With rocks tied to the ankles 'n such."
Frank
**Ciron Searle
The Court of Skulls, Tonate Proper**

Ciron had met many people in their life. They'd seen faces of most nobles that not even their closest aides had. It was an odd thing to be able to touch vulnerability like that, even at the cost it came. They were used to the staring, the gawking and the puzzled looks. The way they seemed to float between man and woman was troubling for some and a fascination of others. 

He could tell Bradai was less than impressed, sins of the flesh couldn't be the problem for the Lord of Tonate proper, Ciron suspected he wasn't fond of brothels. Despite the many that had occupied the Emerald row. It wasn't much of a reach, they could be particularly troublesome places in the wrong hands. 

"Brothels are necessary, *Are they not?*" They retorted. "It's a profitable trade. Good to tax." Ciron looked him in the eyes, an unwavering stare. "I own a handful. Served as head Passionate in more. I've served in the trade longer than I've owned it~" They mused, the smirk returning, though it was more mischievous than anything. It was a game to make people uncomfortable, to be the object of such polarity in a royal court. The passionate was sure he could hear the faint gasps and hard glares that gouged into the back of their head. The Pirate king and the brothel was all that mattered but there was no rule saying they couldn't have a little fun while they were at it.

.
"It's the oldest profession. I keep my creatures of the night safe. My passionates. My whores. I look after them. I pay them enough to feed families. Why deny that, your Grace?" He asked in return. As much as they rarely served as company these days, with all the travelling. Ciron was still aware of their roots. It had been a long journey to get to earrings of true gold and stones that glittered in the sun. It was common knowledge that whores were often left shunned and abused and Ciron, as disingenuous as he was, had always felt a sense of loyalty to his flock. An instinctual protection of people who had grown up in dire circumstances or less. Ciron understood its value. Their body and company was a small cost to avoid the hunger pains and squalid poverty he had been born into. Still, loyalty was important in the business of keeping secrets, of spreading rumours. Ciron was keen to keep those they employed on side, by coin or *Otherwise*.
Shirley
Lament de Coochie
Maith Manor

Countess Lament de Coochie floated down the corridors of the Maith mansion with two prunes clutched betwixt her claws. She smiled gummily at the staff that passed, her gelatinous cartilage teeth gleaming in the candlelight. The Pirate King had personally invited her to his chambers so that he could sample her wares. In her excitement, she had forgone the satchel that she would normally transport her prunes in, and elected to house them in her sweaty palms. She hoped that the salt of her sweat, coupled with the 16 day journey it took her to reach her destination, would add a pleasant brine to the prunes that the Pirate King Bradai Maith would very much enjoy.

Thus, she found herself waiting anxiously outside his door. Her breaths came out in a quick succession of rapid wheezes and she smiled widely. 

"Let me in!" She shouted, holding up the poster.