Rhonda
The Pirate King Bradai Maith and First Admiral Gitten Maith
The Royal Balcony, The Mizzen

Bradai did not look up at Valkrin when he had mentioned that Arin Cragton was bleeding to death in an alley. "And is it clean, Captain?" 

Bradai had long trusted Valkrin to execute whatever order he had given him. He was like a dog in that respect. Dogs were excellent at keeping people safe, at barking orders, at finding things. Dogs were not particularly good at covering up their own tracks. "Do make sure vhat your men wash vheir 'ands uff it. I don't like stories. Do you?"

Gitten ignored Dennon for a long while, preferring instead to pick out the dirt from underneath her nails with the tip of her dirk. She didn't talk to Mainlanders if she could help it, let alone a King ordained by the Lightning God of Terresol. But there was something about his voice that caught her attention. She had heard it before. Just as the conversation seemed to lose any sort of flow and the silence had all but enveloped any time reserved for a response, she looked up at him. She pursed her lips and stood from her chair, sheathing the dirk and crossing her arms. 

"You're the fella whose married tae the Queen who sent that wee boy tae 'ang." 

A chuckle rose up in her throat, "Is she fat? A canny remember her for the life ae me, but a swear a wis comin up the stairs in that gods forsaken castle in Vallen n A could hear her complainin. She's got that wraith ae wrath within her, tae be sure, but a didny catch a look at 'er in the Council. A wis drinking, n a couldn't focus long enough tae tell ye wit she looked like. Every time a think yer wife a think ae a fat woman. Naw shame in bein fat, shows ye eat well. Ma father wis fat, until Bradai kicked him oot. Aye." 

There was a long pause.

"Now he's all skinny like. On account ae the 'omelessness. Are ye as bored as am wae all this jousting? A suppose ye've got strong horses in Ibbithial. Not whatever scrawny things we've got 'ere."
Edith
**King Dennon of Ibethiel
The Royal Balcony, The Mizzen**

The king felt out of place in the silence following his introduction to Bradai's sister. He had offered the greeting thinking the brash woman might be civilized enough to return it without incident, but with one sentence, Gitten harshly reminded Dennon of why he avoided starting conversations with other people. He really should have had a decent response by now for questions about Lucrezia executing Cheston. Shrugging his shoulders and saying, "What can ya do?" Like a dolt seemed a bit too cavalier of a response for such a grim subject. Then again, perhaps it wouldn't have seemed like such an out of place response to an Islander, considering the fact that they seemed to open jousts by executing their in-laws. The king also wondered if he even deserved the luxury of a response that could dismiss the subject so off-handedly. He did bear a fair bit of responsibility for what led up to the deed, even if he did everything he could to stop it in the moment.

Dennon had once made the mistake of sharing his feelings of guilt to the queen early in their marriage when she could tell that something was on his mind. She responded by telling him that the child was a usurper that deserved to die. It wasn't necessarily what she said, but the casual, matter-of-fact way she said it that bothered him. On those nights when he was kept awake by the haunting memories of Cheston's desperate cries and his mother's anguished screams, Dennon would turn to the queen, who with a smile illuminated by the pale moonlight, would whisper the execution order in her sleep.

"Yes, there are many great horses back in Ibethiel." Dennon said, grateful for something Gitten spouted off after the comments about Lucrezia's weight and Maith family troubles that he could latch on to. "The queen and I occasionally take walks to the stables to see them, even down to the fields as well. Quite long walks." He added, implying that the queen exercised too.
Terence
Noma de Cuisinaire
The Mizzen Market, Tonate Proper, The Southern Isles

Noma was puzzled.  She was right, it was unusual for there to be two people with that particular name.  He wanted to brush it off, but he was a curious man by nature.

"Young man?  Close cropped hair?  Carries a cutlass on his hip?  He captains a red sailed Junk ship called *The Sparrow's Wing*?"  A drunkard called for another mug of ale, so Noma excused himself to pour a fresh batch.  He gave his usual soliloquy about it being from the finest brewers in Astoria, but the man waved him off, only interested in getting drunk.  Noma returned to his stall just in time to take another order, and plate his last one.  After a few moments he had another lull, so he returned to Catarina and their conversation.

Noma was too busy to notice the guards dumping a body into his waste pile, but Bertram did, sending a defensive moo at the pair when they drew close.