Rosa
The Pirate King Bradai Maith
The Castle Grunewald Library, Vallen

 There used to be a pit in his stomach, but not anymore. He had filled it with rum. He glanced down at the pile of papers on his lap, stiff pages of trading ledgers hastily ripped out, a few intercepted letters and at the bottom of the stack, a tightly bound leather journal. The cover was black with no inlay or engraving and had sat unopened the entire way to Vallen. Campbell had regarded it blithely, stating that it wasn't his job to look and that frankly, he hadn't even noticed it at the bottom of the courrier's satchel. Bradai, on the other hand, had opened it right away. It was the boy's personal journal, and he had only read up until the boy mentioned his mother and leaving home that he closed the covers and placed it at the bottom of the stack.

 They had killed him, Odette had sent a crossbow bolt through his neck once he stepped into the carriage. _That was fine_, Bradai had decided. The boy had information about the supplies in Sangeli and the Isle of Pythons, so naturally he needed to be dealt with. Rough fingers played with the edges of the papers, flicking repeatedly over the edges. There was something about this one, though, that had bothered him. The Black Poppies told him that afterwards, as the boy was bleeding out, another boy had shown up, wearing rags and speaking in choppy sentences. Against their better judgement and to protect him from the plague, they let him bury the body in exchange for a free ride to Vallen. Dead boys didn't usually bother him, but tonight, he felt a chill in the air.

Bradai fell back into his seat, laying heavy against the armrests. "Hmph." He sighed and ran his fingers over the top of the stack before tossing it, journal and all, into the lit hearth. An instant pang of regret shot through him when he did. He didn't feel the papers leave his fingertips, numb from the alcohol, but he could feel the heat on his blushed cheeks as the embers devoured the pages of unread thoughts from a dead boy. He had spent his entire night drinking, all to find an omen at the bottom of his glass. Bradai hoped that when they found his journals, they would read them instead. A hand rested lightly against the Pirate King's hand, and he recoiled away. 

"Your Grace?" Ollie looked perturbed, but not at him. "Your Ward, the Astorian Prince Mikhail Durkhan, has entered the library. He says that he's received a letter and he'd like to speak with you."

Another dead boy, and he'd make a dead man out of him by years end. Bradai pursed his lips before silently waving Ollie to go and retrieve him.
Kathleen
Jazzy
The burnt thimble, Vallen

Oh that pout was just *Darling*. Though Jazzy was a little surprised that Kallophon wasn't a lordblood as instruments were far from cheap, his farmboy looks made a little more sense now."Oh you'll learn plenty," He said, taking another drink,"How much you'll be able to sing about before they gut you is a different story."

Jazzy had a friend from the academy who'd been killed by a highborn family for simply alluding to a scandal in a poem. He couldn't remember the poem anymore, or the family... His head felt fuzzy.

"Besides, there's no fun 'mongst tight-laced corsets and sleazy old men for a boy your age." He hummed, smile returning to his features after his more somber tone a moment earlier.
Lawrence
Kallophon
*The Burnt Thimble*, apparently; Vallen

*How much you'll be able to sing about before they gut you is a different story.* Kallophon took on a rueful face and looked down at his belly. In Terresol, poets and playwrights were adored. They had an ancient, traditional power. Of course, they made enemies, but this 'Jazzy' fellow painting a much grimmer picture than what he'd imagined. He studied the man carefully as he spoke, and swore he saw some sort of dark remembrance in his eyes; perhaps even pain?

They were back to their playing again, and he snorted. "Even the tightest corset must eventually come undone. As for sleazy old men, I didn't see many of them in that dining hall; I saw the dashing Traitor Knight, the terrible Pirate King of the Southern Isles, the honourable King of Ibethiel–or is it 'prince consort'? I'm not sure–, and let's not do an injustice to the famously comely and charming king of this here pungent paradise, who raised a vote to have me strung up and hog-dangled for playing a decent tune."