Emma
Earl Ferdinand Chapoisson and Carac the Butcher
The Mizzen, Tonate Proper

 Ferdinand had never actually been to the Southern Isles, which was quite ironic, because they were responsible for much of his business. It was common for the unmarked packages that he so generously transported across his lands to have started their journey right here in the Isles. That was mostly why he was here, of course, business. Not that he didn't like a good festival, but if he wanted to get drunk and feast, then he wouldn't take a week long voyage to do it. But he couldn't find a collection of influential, connected folk hanging around in Astorian villages. Perhaps if he played his cards right, this festival could be very profitable for him. 
His guard was escorting him to the seats where the nobility could view the jousting match, and afterwards, the duels. He had paid a pretty penny to ensure he got a seat near King Bradi Maith, after all, if he wanted to increase his particular brand of 'trade' with the Southern Isles, then he had to talk to the man in charge, the Hangman's Harbor was proof that doing things any other way was a bad idea. Many of his men had been here before, some were even born on these isles, and they knew the best paths to take, and which ones to avoid.
Of course, with Carac at his side, he wasn't worried about any attacks from street toughs or assassins. The Butcher, standing a head taller than anyone else in the street, was an intimidating sight in his full plate armor, the sword at his side, custom made by the finest smiths Ferdinand could find, was perfectly fitted for his immense size. He would be participating in the duels at the festival, and hopefully would win Ferdinand both glory and coin.

Carac The Butcher, terror of Feyshore, slayer of shifters, Monster of the North, Reaper of the South, was enjoying himself from beneath the thick steel plate of his helm. He didn't show it, of course, but he had to admit, the festival was impressive. The celebration in the streets, the cheers from the people as they looked upon their King, it was all very... Festive. Normally he wouldn't care much for these displays, but this time it was different, because at the end of it he might get to kill someone. Oh, he assumed that these duels were a non-lethal sort of thing, but he had a bad habit of hitting his opponents just a little too hard, and was he to blame if these noble-born fools couldn't take a hit? That's what he hated about these 'noble' knights, pampered things that they were, they couldn't take a blow for shit. Put them in real combat with someone on equal footing, and they froze up, then died quickly after, from his experience. 
Of course, Ferdinand had told him not to 'make a scene' here, whatever he meant by that. Ferdinand, for all his craftiness, didn't understand this place. This was a kingdom built by pirates, built on blood and steel, they wouldn't mind a little more at a festival.

"Carac! Are you listening?!" 

Carac's thoughts were interrupted by Ferdinand's exclamation. He turned to face his employer, looking down at the rotund man.

"Carac, I'm trying to tell you about the duels, were you listening, do you understand the rules?"

Carac didn't make a sound, he rarely did, he just slowly nodded his helm.

"Good, well, the King of the Isles will be watching you, so try to put on a show, eh?"
Ferdinand grinned at him, patting him on the back, something he had to stretch to do.

"You can count on it." Carac spoke, his raspy, metallic voice sending shivers up Ferdinand's spine involuntarily. Hiring The Butcher as a bodyguard was a wise choice, surely, but he was still The Butcher, and that meant that he was always audience to his terrifying nature. Ferdinand would never get used to that voice, thankfully he didn't speak often, but when he did... Ehhh.

 As the party made their way to the Festival grounds, they split, Ferdinand and Carac heading to the stands to take their seats, while the rest of the mercenaries either made their way to their far less expensive seats, or to the fighters area, to prepare for Carac's bout. 
Ferdinand smiled, tonight would be a night to remember, though he had an unsettling feeling Carac felt the same way.
Felicia
Cyprien de Lysse
The Mizzen, Tonate Proper

Cyprien didn't know if he wanted to feel condused or surprised. In spite what the islanders had nearly convinced him of, Bradai Maith did look like a pirate: a wise and wealthy one yes, but a pirate nevertheless. The king of the isles may have left the sea long ago, but the sea had never left him. He truly was a Pirate King. Was that a bad thing though? The king of the isles posessed a rugged majesty to him that inspired more respect than the gold and silks of the continent's rulers.
Cypren would describe it as the mark of a man who dictates his own fortune. That same aura hung over men like John de Burgh or Cyprien's own father, Aurelien. Deep down, he suspected this was the reason why Cyprien had never quite managed to live up to his legacy.

His seat wasn't next to the king's, but he honestly preferred that way. Better not to speak with the Islander king right away: doing so before the Ibbish did would come across supremely as arrogant. No, the person who had caught his attention was the one to his left.

He was a corpulent man, with a fiery red mane. His attire, decorated with wide stripes of mirror coins, was more similar to that of a merchant lord than a noble, but his air of severity was undoubtedly that of a ruler. In Cyprien's opinion, corpulence had a tendency to make a man reasonable, pleasant, or phlegmatic. It was always the nastiest of tyrants who were invariably thin.
Emma
Ferdinand Chapoisson and Carac the Butcher
The Mizzen, Tonate Proper

It was Carac who noticed the man first, out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't an assassin, that was for sure, but that meant he was something worse, a noble. The Butcher did most of his business at the behest of nobles, but that didn't change the fact that they were dreadfully boring. Honor, respect, nobility, all these little trappings of life they held close to their chest like a child with their favorite toy, it really was sad. That was why he liked working for Ferdinand, he didn't care about any of that, that, and he always had something for him to test his sword against.

A few seconds after Carac first noticed him, Ferdinand finally saw Cryprien to his right. He was certainly a sight, white hair, but his face didn't betray age old enough to warrant that, and reddish eyes, he was nearly an albino. Ferdinand didn't recognize him, which meant he wasn't a lord of Feyshore or Astoria, or at least, not an important one, and only important ones would be sitting so close to the King of the Southern Isles. That meant he was probably a lord of Araedia or Terresol, his money was on Araedia. 

Meeting Cyprien's eyes, he decided to make the first move on introductions
"Ah, almost didn't see you there!" He said in his most jovial tone "Allow me to make your acquaintance, I am Earl Ferdinand Chapoisson of Astoria, and your name...?" 
People always expected that from him, a jovial, slightly awkward man who seemingly blundered his way into power. He assumed it had to do with his weight, but that only worked to his advantage. They never expected him to be the one to twist the knife in their backs.
Felicia
Cyprien de Lysse
The Mizzen, Tonate Proper


As he had predicted, Earl Ferdinand was surprisingly pleasant to speak to, but it was hard to make small talk with his guardian looking over his shoulder. His presence was menacing. Cyprien could sense bloodlust.

"My name is Cyprien de Lysse, Marquis of the Grey Hills of Terresol," He said. "Our House guards the kingdom's northern frontier, though over the last decades, our main contribution has become mercantile."

Chapoisson was from Astoria, meaning he was most likely a merchant lord. Bringing up commerce would hopefully grab his attention. Astoria was far from the cold gulf of Emin, but House de Lysse had a reputation for it's patronage of the arts, perhaps Chapoisson would've heard of his family.
Edith
**King Dennon Bigsby and Kirk Pinewood
The Mizzen**

The two men were enjoying some pre-joust jerky when a few underlings from house Maith came to them to bring them to the royal box. They quickly followed behind after they heard about the complimentary concessions that would be waiting for them.

"I wouldn't have wasted time dealing with that vile jerky-peddling woman if I'd known there'd be free food," Whispered Kirk as he walked with Dennon.

. . .

"Bradai!" Dennon said warmly upon entering the space where'd they'd be enjoying the view of the joust. Though he wasn't sure if his voice could be heard above the roaring crowd. He assumed the Islander king was likely also focused on his role in managing the festivities, and Dennon did not want to be a distraction.
Emma
Ferdinand Chapoisson and Carac the Butcher
The Mizzen, Tonate Proper

Ah, House De Lysse, so his guess was wrong, he was a Terresol lord after all. Ferdinand wasn't an expert on Terresol by any means, but his passing knowledge of the noble houses told him De Lysse was one of those noble families that prided itself on honor, art, and trade. Of those three, only one interested Ferdinand. 

"Ah, House De Lysse! Tales of your nobility and honor have even reached my ears, it is an honor to meet you, good sir!" Ferdinand bowed his head slightly in a sign of respect
"We Chapoisson's are also a mercantile people, though I doubt my humble operations are anywhere near the level of yours." *He chuckled warmly at this, the very image of a jolly fat lord*

While his employer played the part of a jolly fat fool, Carac watched Cyprien from behind his steel helm. He wasn't aware of House De Lysse in any sense other than he knew they were nobles and therefore most likely arrogant fools. He detested this act Ferdinand put on, but he recognized it's purpose, as Ferdinand explained it, 'deception is the broadsword of the nobility'. Besides, he could feel how uncomfortable he was making this white-haired fool, and watching him squirm was a pleasure unto itself.

"Ah, how could I be so rude!" Ferdinand exclaimed, still a spitting image of an slightly inept but well-meaning lord 

"Allow me to introduce my guard captain and personal bodyguard, Sir Carac." 
He gestured to the imposing figure standing to his side. He didn't know if Cyprien would recognize the armor-clad giant, but if he did, it would certainly be a powerful, yet subtle, gesture of his influence.
"He'll be competing in the duels later as well, so if you're a gambling man perhaps you should make your bets now before they get a look at him!" Ferdinand gave a friendly laugh, amused at his own joke, Carac also chuckled slightly, though his was far from friendly, more like a rasping exhale, like the last sounds of a dying man
Felicia
**Cyprien de Lysse - The Mizzen**

A gamble.

He had taken too many gambles. Soon, one of those gambles would become one too many. But Cyprien's luck had not quite ran out yet. 

"I'd be willing to bet against you. Since I assume you will be betting on your champion, I will place my bets on his opponents. I won't fork out much silver for all his contenders, but as long as your champion manages to stay in the fight, I promise I will keep betting against him to some extent. Do we have a deal?"

Carac... He had indeed heard the name before, but he couldn't remember where. Chapoisson's bodygaurd laughed, and his laugh turned into a cough. A vicious cough. It made Cyprien uneasy.
Emma
Ferdinand Chapoisson and Carac the Butcher
The Mizzen, Tonate Proper

Ferdinand smiled, apparently unaware of his bodyguards horrid laugh
"Ah, that sounds perfect! I was told the De Lysse's were good sports, and you've confirmed that for me!"
He smiled at Cyprien, offering him a hand
"Shake on it?"
Behind the cheery facade, Ferdinand stifled a cruel laugh, he knew Carac would crush any opponent he came across, the man was a absolute monster in the field of battle, and he doubted any warrior here could match him.

Carac was confident in his skills, he knew he'd be the one to take the prize in this tourney, and if that also meant stripping this fool of his silver, then all the better. He had fought in a few tournaments before, though never one this big, mostly smaller fights for petty nobles to settle their differences. He guessed this was fairly similar, but covered in a guise of frivolity that disguised it's true brutality.
Felicia
Cyprien de Lysse
The Mizzen

Cyprien shook the man's hand.

"It's a deal then," He said. Then he added. "If you don't mind me asking, where in Astoria is your fief?"

It was an innocent question, but one that Cyprien's father always asked to any Lordsblood he met. _A man's mettle is defined not by how he treats his fellow lords, but by how he rules his subjects._ What would his father think of him now? The Grey Hills had grown bountiful under Cyprien's administration, but by the same token, the House had also become soft. Too soft. Even Cyprien himself was but a shadow of Aurelien's character.
Emma
Ferdinand Chapoisson and Carac the Butcher
The Mizzen, Tonate Proper

"Ah, my humble holdings are on the shore of Lake Fey in Astoria, not much to speak of, but they're mine." *He said, trying his best to sound humble. He doubted Cyprien had heard of his lands, but if he had, it was best to be vague. There were rumors of corruption in his lands, and it was one of the only places in Astoria where magic users were unwelcome. Not that they were banned outright, but it seemed any who wandered into his lands were always guilty of some other crime. He allowed doctors and herbalists, of course, they were useful, and those who practiced the fine art of chicanery were always welcome, but those who pledged themselves to true magic, or devoted their lives to one of those awful cults were something he'd rather not have polluting his land.

"I assume the only reason I was invited to this festival is because I often do trade with the Southern isles, enough that someone felt that I should be here, I suppose."
Antonio
Sir Wendel
Tonate Proper, Isle of Tonate

"Hold on. So, yer feller 'cross the street tells me that my fair hair's liable to catch fire in this sun. Now *Yer* Tryin' to push this here balm on me to stop me turnin' into a brunet?" Wendel skewed his brow. "Sir, those two things can't both be true."

"That blaggard is trying to have you for a ride, man," Asserted the merchant with an accusatory finger. His swarthy face looked fit to burst. "He's the type to try and lead good travellers like you astray. *My* Only desire is to help prevent a fine-looking lad like you from losing your lovely golden sheen."

A flush came to Wendel's pale cheeks. He looked up at his forehead, but couldn't actually see any strands, brushed as they were into elegant, knightly waves falling down to his neck. They were probably going to be sweaty and matted by the end of the day, just like the one before. He felt uncomfortably foreign. All around were vivid colours and flamboyant rumbloods and fine architecture of ruddy stonework; half a world away from Vallen. The heat was biting at the back of his neck.

"I'll, uh ... I'll take two bottles."

The sound of an Islander crying out over the din cut into his ears. He felt the man's voice more than he heard it. Understanding anything these people said always took concentration. Narrowing his eyes towards the centre of the marketplace, he saw what must have been a crier, decked out in resplendent attire complete with a feathered, jewel-studded cap. Wendel frowned, wondering how much blood has been spilt across wooden decks to get those jewels. He attuned his ears to the Islander's lilt.

"—day! Hear ye, hear ye! A glorious spectacle awaits ye all at the Mizzen! Go thither soon to witness the height of martial prowess! Warriors from all corners of Marin, ready to knock the shite out of each other to prove their valour and skill!"

"So it begins?" Wendel whispered. He turned back to the merchant and grimaced. "I'm afraid I'm goin' to have to put this transaction on hold. By the end of today, I'll either be richer'n ever, or have barely enough coin to buy my way home." He looked away and frowned, fingering his coin pouch at his hip. "If even that ... Goodbye now."

Wendel made his way out of the marketplace, ignoring the muffled curses he could hear the merchant making as he left. He smiled, eager to feel the weight of a lance in his hand, and the gentle caress of a chainmail hauberk draped over his shoulders.

So it began.
Harvey
Valkrin Farensun
The Mizzen 

Valkrin had been in the advance party of the king's escort to the tournament grounds when he got reports of suspicious activity, and hoped the king hadn't noticed his absence. He'd apprehended a few men who were being 'interviewed' in a back alley by his guards right now. 

After returning to the tournament grounds, he set to work giving his guards their postings and briefing them on certain individuals that might cause trouble. Though he hadn't issued any kill on sight orders, his men were told if they had reasonable thought that their lives or the lives of civilians were in immediate danger, they were allowed to eliminate the threat instead of apprehending them. 

Valkrin checked his dress uniform for any dirt or imperfections, and made sure his guards closest to the King were sober, before entering the area that the Pirate King and his guests would be watching from. He stood behind the King, far enough to not impose, but close enough to stop any attacks.
Emma
Ferdinand Chapoisson and Carac the Butcher
The Mizzen

Ferdinand turned from his conversation with Cyprien to look upon the gathering horses and their riders. Jousting was a fine sport, and one of the few he enjoyed, though what he really looked forward to was the duels that came after. After all, it wasn't just coin that was on the line, but glory, both for the warriors and the lords they fought for. 
If Carac did well enough, he might be able to gain an audience with the pirate king, something that would be very lucrative, or at least, so he hoped.

Carac didn't care about the horses assembling, instead looking to the new arrival in the booth, a man who he could only assume to be the king's bodyguard. He'd heard a bit about the man, Farensun, the 'branded captain' according to drunken sailors and mercenaries with a penchant for sea shanties. From up close, he didn't seem like much, a little disappointing to meet another legend in the flesh, and end up realizing they were only human after all. Maybe he'd be in the duels as well, maybe even offer Carac a challenge for once.

As the Jousters began to line up, Carac made a quick glance in their direction. He could ride for sure, but jousting wasn't his area of expertise. Too top-heavy, it made him easy to topple. He was best on his feet, with a sword in his hand, and soon enough, he'd have a chance to prove exactly how good he was.