Felicia
```Cyprien de Lysse
Maith Mansion```

"Indeed," Replied Cyprien. "The tides of fate have marooned us all at world's end. In the case of the royal House and my own, it has been tides of misforune. What about you, my lady?"

The mention of the dire straits he was in reminded Cyprien of something. He turned towards Lutur and asked.
"Forgive me sire, but I must know: why haven't you answered my requests for reinforcements? The threat of John de Burgh is unlike anything Terresol has faced in centuries. If the faithless barbarian triumps here, the entire kingdom will be ravaged. Even the faith of Saris will be in danger!"

He didn't have time to finish. His attention was suddenly seized by the the sight of his daughter holding his wrist.

Little Fleur wasn't so little any more, but this was still her first public event. He shouldn't have left her alone. Wait... Why was she alone? And where was Bastien? Where was that retainer of hers, or noblewoman, or whatever?

They were together. In the dance floor. Bickering with each other and oblivious to everyone else. Cyprien's hands curled into fists. Alas, there were more imporrant matters at hand. His son would have to wait. Not for long though.

"My lieges, allow me to introduce you Fleur de Lysse: my youngest daughter and the only member of our family that I believe you were yet to meet. I guess her mother can be very... Protective.
Daughter, these are Lord Lutur and Lady Peraz of House Dumagne."
Terence
Tiny Vik
The Mizzer Market, Tonate Proper

Vik nodded as he ate some more stew.

"Akno is a lovely little piece of farmland in Terresol, it's my home currently.  I would love it if you came and visited some time." Vik stopped to listen to him again, no longer watching with curiosity.

"And how will you find these men?  How will you get them to the Captain?"  He waited for Arin's reply before continuing.  "And what if I said I could help you with both?"
Antonio
He looked aside at the man, unsmiling, with a grave look in his eyes. ' That was before the Inquisition, of course. I don't know if Mother is still alive. She tossed me into Archon Baldarian's care before my teeth were out.' He flashed a mirthless smile, then looked away again. His voice slung low then, growing narrow and intense. ' All I know is that I was lucky enough not to inherit a single drop of her cursed blood.'
Rhonda
The Seneschal, Silas Asgarov
The Water Gardens

As Samsom began to talk, Silas began to walk, beckoning for the boy to follow him into the Water Gardens, away from the tumult of the ballroom crowd. He had judged correctly that the guests would stay up onto the balcony unless lead down the stairs by someone familiar with the grounds. The servants were just lighting it up when they arrived.

As they came down the right side of the large double stairs, the sprawling gardens of House Maith were revealed. Encircled by the Redstone Keep to the east, the Redwall to the west, and the Maith Mansion to the North, the gardens might have felt like a glorified courtyard, a trifle in the estate of any common merchant. But to the south was the massive conservatory, a manse within the mansion, a sprawling house of glass and green cast iron that held, according to Silas, every exotic spice, beautiful flower, and deadly poison in the known world. Beyond that was the royal harbor, the opulent pleasure barge His Sixteen Rings, and after a league of open, cool, turquoise water, the fortified Seawall.

The night breeze coming off of the water brought notes of sea and salt to the rich floral smell of the gardens. Fountains poured in every direction, most of all from the torrent of white water that spilled from the center of the stairs, beneath the ballroom floor. Anyone who walked the grounds could hear the water, pumped from the high mountain streams, rush beneath their feet, cooling the walkways and leaving the pools fit for many of Tonate's inland plants. Huge palms sprouted up into the air and smaller palms and bushes of hibiscus and other tropical flowers from great clay pots. Figs, oranges and lemons grew, falling off of their branches and bobbing in the cool, clear water, which was filled to bursting with reeds, rice, and great green lilypads fit for the fattest of frogs. When a servant reached down to grab the fruit and deposit it into a wicker basket, the Seneschal stopped him by picking up the fig, wiping it against his jacket, and taking a succulent bite. The juice ran down his chin and fingers before he handed it over to the bastard boy. "Did you know these figs require _wasps_ to pollinate them? There are no wasps in this one," He pulled out a blue kerchief from his breast pocket and used it to wipe the nectar from his fingers. "Pity that it is. I do love a good wasp." 

He listed to the boy intently, "There are no witches in Azarya, my boy. None that we call witches, anyways. There are Babas, Yeyes, Yagas, but no such thing as _witches,_ just old mage women that want to be left alone. And who can blame them? Not all men can be _Terreme,_ I'm afraid." He tittered again, watching as the servants ran before him to light the candles, torches and set jars of fireflies into the streamers between palms. Despite having gone before him, it always felt as if the Seneschal was leading his servants.

"It is no rare thing for a woods woman to be found doing terrible things and dragged beyond the walls, though." He did not recognize the last name of the woman he spoke of, a phenomenon which was becoming increasingly less rare with every day spent beyond the walls. Any time spent away atrophied your knowledge of the courts fast paced politics, but this woman was in the past, and so he did not feel the particular sense of betrayal, longing and madness that so commonly accompanied the forgetfulness of his homeland. "And anyone can rise high in Azaryan society, even if they are a woman. It pains me that you know so little of your homeland. It is _your_ world that turns women into broodmares, perfumed ladies in obnoxious finery. Your mother was not a witch, she was a _mage_ and..." The Sapphire Mage leaned in closely, removing a tiny cigar from a silvered case. He slid it between his lips and snapped his fingers, enveloping the tips of his two longest fingers in pale blue flame. "If _that_ is true, then only one thing _is_ for certain, my young Samsom." When it caught the cigarette, the embers burned black, until resolving to red. It cast them both in a pall of shivering grey. 

The Seneschal puffed once, twice, and removed the cigarette from his mouth. He laughed his shrill, twittering laugh. "You most certainly _are_ cursed."