Felicia
**Cyprien de Lysse | Conservatory of the Maith Mansion**

Lie down? Cyprien was willing to play the seneschal's game, but there was a limit to what he would tolerate. He had followed Asgarov expecting to discuss serious matters, not to indulge in more islander frivolity. 
He took the pipe from the seneschal's hands, or rather, he seized it.

"If you are using this to test my worth, the only thing you will test is my patience. Speak your mind, seneschal."

Still, he did as Silas had instructed and took a sip from the pipe. Asgarov's simpering voice came back to taunt him:
"This is more a test of trust than anything else, my Lord. As I said, I do not discuss business with uninteresti—" 

The voice of the seneschal faded away as his rearing overtaken by the sound of rushing blood. He had been right: Cyprien should've taken a seat. It was not the case that his legs would fail him, but that they would cease to exist altogether. His his head and limbs were plunged in some invisible water, moving slow but seemingly supported by nothing at all. And then, bliss. 

The numbness quickly gave way to something more interesting, something golden. It was if he was falling, like in a dream, but there was no sickness or anxiety to it. It was shining, shimmering, twinkling happiness. He was suspended, but then, as the Senschal had told him, he began to tip to one side.

Just as he began to fall, Asgarov was already there, hands on his shoulders to keep him upright. From the ether, there was a muffled and honest laugh in his ear. A hand reached out and removed the pipe from his hand and sit it on one of the desks beside him. A light hand traced across his shoulder, the fingers rimming the fine fabric across the back of his collar. 

"We should really be going," Words from the seneschal rverberated in Cyprien's head. "There are grevious matters to discuss."
Rhonda
The Sapphire Senschal, Silas Asgarov
The Water Gardens

Silas practically led the lord from the conservatory, one hand on his lower back and the other opening doors and beckoning away servants. He brought him back through the darkened hallway, into the poppy room, and then out through the great brass double doors. When they exited the gardens were alive with revelry, and although they were outside the mirth itself seemed to radiate a kind of fire like warmth. There were Islanders smoking poppy all around them, lounging languorously in the great outdoor baths and laughing as the two of them passed by. Smoke poured from their smiling mouths and took off in the wind, the smoke twisting and curling like the silken scarf of some exotic dancer. Beyond the pools stretched the forest of Banyan trees, dark and twisting. Jars of fireflies hung from the branches, pulsing in globes made of teal glass.

"Never forget that you are safe inside these walls," Silas paused, looking to the man. For as small an amount as he smoked, there was no denying that it had a potent effect. He shouldn't have had him smoke the redrocks. His eyes were bright red. "You are under my protection and _this_?" He motioned around, "Is _my_ estate. Is there any place you'd prefer to talk, my Lord? I do recall you and yours receiving a tour, but there are many places that outsiders are not privy to." 

The Seneschal scoffed, and glimpsed the Lady Kolgrim from the corner of his eye. She was talking to the Dumagne boy. He gave her a glance, brief enough to be confused as a mistake, and continued walking. He would let her stew over that tonight.

"Still, it is a good night to walk. Surely you have questions that can be answered on a leisurely stroll. Or are all of them so dire as to require a private place?" 

A smile returned to his lips, "For instance..." Silas produced a letter from his pocket, sealed with the black wax of de Burgh, "Who currently rules over Iron Gate?"
Felicia
**Cyprien de Lysse | The Water Gardens**

The initial euphora had given way to a more subdued haziness, and that feeling would've morphed into something else had the drug not kept his humours chained when the seneschal revealed the letter.
He turned his head around, but smokers surrounded them on all sides.

"Surely you wouldn't want to discuss such matters with so many ears around. You may trust these people, but I do not. Why do you have a letter with De Burgh's seal? Why show it to me?"

Cyprien was proud, but he knew that Northwind had the upper hand. If De Burgh had cut a deal with the islanders, then many of his fears would be confirmed, and the war may as well be a foregone conclusion.
Rhonda
The Sapphire Senschal, Silas Asgarov
The Water Gardens

"And why not?" The Seneschal handed the letter over to him. The seal was broken, both of them could see it now. 

"You act as if we are still in the Grey Hills. If this de Burgh was say, _Araedian_, then perhaps our dear party-goers might have some cause for alarm. But they seem to have no care for us. We discuss news happening on the other end of the world," Silas glanced over where a group of men were rolling a keg of rum down the stairs. 

"And I show it to you out of good faith. You sailed here on a prayer because you know we understand what is coming. The King will use this very same letter at this meeting tomorrow, to prove to your more stubborn countrymen that the threat is real. If it was not for Caderyn..." 

The Seneschal shrugged, "Well, I would rather not consider what might have happened to you if the Regent Protector had been slain by Kelwynd in that swamp." 

As they continued walking, they exited the press and moved back to the ballroom floor, up the double stairs, "But I repeat: who _is_ this man?" A pale hand reached out and flicked the top of the letter, "The King was impressed with his candor."
Felicia
**Cyprien de Lysse | Water Gardens**

"He is a tyrant and a demagogue, like all those who claim rule to that accursed land. Fiery rethoric is his lifeblood and that of his empire.
Unfortunately, the guillible throng of those steppes is quite fond of such speeches, and have amassed in numbers uncounted to ravage our lands... The lands of prince Caderyn."

It was a relief to know that no deal had been sealed with De Burgh, apparently. Now however, curiosity devoured him. He had to know the contents of that letter. Perhaps a clue to De Burgh's plan, one that might've gone unnoticed to the islanders. Glancing at Silas, he unfolded the letter.

```To the King of the Southern Isles,

Receive this letter as confirmation of what you've likely surmised my intentions to be. Hearing of the festivities you have planned have inclined me to believe we have reconcilable interests. Your unmatched reputation as a man of business causes me to be comfortable extending this offer of mutual benefit, where I receive your machines of war and you receive their spoils.

I require southern craftsmen to construct me three trebuchets branded with my sigil. Spare every liberty in birthing these horrors, craft them with extreme prejudice and with full knowledge that their purpose is to irrevocably destroy. Moreso, I require one of them to be a truly hulking monstrosity - a beast of proportions never before seen. Once my armies have received confirmation of your acceptance, instructions of delivery will be hastily provided.```
"Siege engines," Whispered Cyprien. He'd known that this would be Northwind's largest invasion since the bygone days of the Empire, but reading it from his ennemy's own handwriting made it so much more dreadfully real. If these were allowed to be built, De Burgh would have a way to deal headfront with his greatest logistical obstacle: the walled cities of Pemberlum.

"Have you built any of these yet?" He asked Silas.
Rhonda
The Sapphire Seneschal, Silas Asgarov
Deeper into the Gardens, the Maith Mansion


_"Seige engines._" 

When Cyprien whispered those two magic words, Silas could not help but titter. His second question didn't not stem the flow,

_"A few,"_ Silas lied between laughs. There were plans and outlines for construction, but the things were truly monstrous. Bradai had told him they would not take long to build, but the wood would have to be cut and shaped ahead of time. They had not built any, but Cyprien didn't know that. "The King has gone so far as to test them father inland, where the teak is good for building ships. They are in an undisclosed location." He stopped himself from going any further.

"But it seems that for all of his eloquence, he lacks spies. He seems not to know that we've hitched our cart of a horse of royal blood," Silas extended a hand for the letter back. "These trebuchets will be ours instead. The King had mentioned using them from the Leviathans, if any islands prove stubborn against the rightful Queen, but I have my doubts."

Silas knew he was not the only one with doubts. He could see that the letter had almost made the Lord the Islander's loyalties. _Good,_ he remembered the King saying, _Let 'im wonder. We will not be pieces on 'is board._ 

As they moved deeper into the wood, the path grew narrower and narrower still. The trees grew larger and their branches seemed to shade them from the rest of the party. The drooping vines seemed to eat the noise like a collection of mossy, verdant tapestries. All that remained were Silas, Cyprien, a swarm of fireflies that hung on every surface. 

"I assume he will build his own anyways, but you have scouts enough to know yourself, I trust."
Felicia
**Cyprien de Lysse | Water Gardens**

"I have," Lied Cyprien. Scout reports had turned out to be contradictory. The most reliable information came from their vassals of House Koern, but even they were unsure as to the full numbers and location of the Northwind army.

More worrying still, Asgarov had made casual mention of using the weapons against Terreme cities, which under no circustance could be allowed to happen. Cyprien had sided with Caderyn out of principle, as he would've done with Carney or any heir of the royal bloodline. He would like to see them restored, but not at any cost. Not at the cost of civil war. 
All the more so since it was the regency at stake, not the crown itself. And said crown could have its very existence challenged if De Burgh was were to prevail in the upcoming war.

"So you plan on using De Burgh's weapons for your own ends. Fair enough. I'm happy as long as they don't reach the tyrant.
But that cannot be the only reason why we are here. House de Lysse has already pledged its support to prince Caderyn, so I assume there is something else you want from us. Something we can afford to give in these times, I hope."
Rhonda
The Sapphire Seneschal, Silas Asgarov
Deeper into the Gardens, the Maith Mansion

When Cyprien asked it there was further payment required, Silas shook his head.

"My King is simple. All he requires is payment once the war is over and the promise of friendship. The King is good to his debtors, and better to his friends. Of course..." Silas turned around the trunk of one of the trees, and found what he was looking for. 

There was a simple tea table with a board of Ibbish Sliding Knights. He walked away from the Lord and took a seat at the table, "While the majority of the repayment will be done through communications with the crown, vassals will be taxed accordingly."

Silas crossed one leg over the other and let his blue slippered foot bob lazily, "There is nothing my King loves more than to hash out these kinds of agreements. If he was not currently prosecuting some violent partygoers, he would sit with you and discuss levies and rates of return until the sun comes up. He said that although he has never been to the Grey Hills, he _is_ aware that you have inland ports. I can only assume that you will give his grace a more than honorable deal?"
Emma
Herin Farensun
Waters outside Tardide, the Southern Isles

It was one of the largest poppy farms in these waters, a plantation defended by an entire garrison of house Maith troops, wooden walls taller than two men, and constant patrols to ensure no scags even made it close enough to shore to bleed on the beach. It was more than just a plantation, it was a symbol of House Maith's power in these waters. A monument to the strength and control held over the isles by their rightful king. 
On the windward side of the wall, two men patrolled in the dark. Haral and Yaral had been stationed on this farm for two years now, and every night was the same. The plantation was built up against a natural rock formation, with three great wooden walls protecting the rest of the grounds. Guards worked in patrols of two, with several patrols on each wall, walking back and forth to ensure that every foot of wall had eyes perched atop it. Not that they needed them, there hadn't even been an attempted attack since before Haral and Yaral were assigned here. The two men stopped, spears in their hands, staring out into the darkness of night. They couldn't see anything but for the torchlight in Yaral's hand, and the lighthouse shining above the plantation, guiding the ships to harbor. 

"Why do we always get the windward side?" Haral spoke, breaking the silence between the two. "It just ain't fair, night's already cold enough without the bloody wind chillin my bones."

"Shut yer trap." Yaral spoke gruffyly, keeping his eyes focused on the dark expanse before them. "It ain't even cold, we're in the bloody isles."

"How come I'm shiverin then?" Haral held out an arm, pulling back his sleeve to show his bare flesh. "Look, I got bumps on me skin from the chill!" 

"I think yer just scared." Yaral chuckled, waving away his comrade's foolishness. "You terrified of scags coming in the night, eh? Don't worry, they might mistake you for a fattened hen in the dark."

"Shut up Yaral." Haral shook his head, pulling his sleeve back down and humphing to himself in displeasure with his friend's antics. "We don't even get scags out here." 

There was silence between them for a few moments after that exchange, neither looking at the other. 

"What about the Hanged Men?" Yaral spoke up finally. His tone was more serious than before, and he seemed to peer out into the inky blackness with more ferocity, or perhaps fear. 

"They wouldn't... Would they?" Haral shivered again, his eyes darting back and forth in the light of the torch. "I mean, they're scags, they couldn't take a place like this... Right?' 

Yaral shrugged "Maybe, they say that the Hanged Men are already dead, that their leader is a wraith who lights the very seas afire, and commands a livyatan come from the grave." 

Haral's eyes nearly bulged out of his head, staring at his comrade with terror painted across his face. "Then it's true then? The Hanged Captain? He's real? The... The Tide Barer returned?" 

Yaral turned to his comrade, stone faced, and put a hand on his shoulder. He opened his mouth, and laughed. 
"Haral you bloody idiot! You should have seen yerself!"

Haral's face contorted into a mixture of surprise and anger as he realized what had just happened, knocking aside Yaral's hand from his shoulder. "Wait... You were foolin with me?"

Yaral kept laughing, nearling doubling over in his fit of good humor. "Of course I was! Wraiths and fiery oceans? Its tall tales my friend, the Hanged Captain is a my-"

His laughter was punctuated with a crossbow bolt flying through his throat, turning throating laughter into bloody gurgling as he slumped to the ground, his death throes splattering blood onto Haral's boots. 

"W-wha-" Haral had barely any time to feel the blade in his back. It went in and out in one quick motion, and Haral felt himself falling. His body lay across the ramparts, looking towards the ocean with the last of his strength.

And in his last moments, Haral saw the ocean burn.

Hours later, Herein Farensun sat in the heart of the manor that had once been the beating heart of the plantation. The room still had a few bloodstains in the corners from the fighting, but his men had removed most of the remains, allowing him to use it as a temporary command post. The map stretched out on the table in front of him showed the entirety of the isles, with the waters around Tardide being dotted with red x's. Herin grabbed a quill from an inkwell and made yet another mark on the parchment. 
Herin leaned back in his chair, and let his thoughts drift towards the future. War was approaching, and not just in the Isles. He had heard talk of rallying forces in Northwind and turmoil in Terresol, and rumors that Maith himself had a role to play in both. Part of him felt dwarfed by the size of it all. Maith's empire faced down empires in Araedia and toppled thrones for sport, by comparison the Hanged Raiders were little more than gnats. But that was how it needed to be, was it not? Let Maith play his game of kings and queens, let Northwind and Terresol burn each other to the ground, none of them would notice until the flames had already consumed them. 

They had been raiding Maith for weeks, every plantation, garrison or outpost in the area had been burned and looted by the Raiders, carving a path to their final target. The Dwyer Shipyards, surrounded by the wrecks of scags and raiders who failed where Herin would succeed. A challenge to Maith, one he could not refuse. 
It was an obvious thing for anyone to see that the next target was the Dwyer Shipyard, and so Maith had two options.

The first was to ignore the threats and allow the local garrison to deal with it. It had worked in the past, but Maith was too smart to leave these things up to chance. Herin had waved the red flag, challenged his power directly, if the Dwyer Shipyards fell, then Maith looked weak, unable to defend his territory. It could cause a schism in the Isles, perhaps even splinter the great houses. Maith would not risk such a thing, and so he had only one option left to him. 
Sending a fleet to defend the Shipyards would allow Maith to show his power and send a message to anyone who might threaten him, ensuring that his allies knew to be loyal. A show of force against a subversive element was what men like Maith lived for, but it came with a risk. If the show of force failed, then he would appear even weaker than he would by simply doing nothing. And nothing kills an empire faster than weakness. All of Maith's enemies would descend on him at once, and Herin would rally them all beneath his banner. 

Stepping out from the manor door, Herin looked at his men assembled before him. They had taken a number of prisoners in the raid, and upon Herin's orders they were to be assembled in the poppy fields, bound so that they could not run. In another time, he might have sold these men as slaves, but those were the actions of a simple raider, now they would best serve as a message. 
His first mate approached him, saluting. 
"Sir, it's ready."

Herin looked at the fields, he could smell the foul liquor burning in his nostrils. His men had poured barrel after barrel of the cheapest liquor on the fields, and the prisoners they had left in there. It was time to send Maith a message he could not ignore. 
Herin struck a match and tossed it into the field of green and purple. 

As the ships sailed away from the plantation, the flames from the fields still burned. Massive pillars of fire sending smoke into the sky for all to see. It would attract attention, the kind Maith could not ignore. 
Herin had waved the red flag, now it was time to see if the bull would charge.