Heather
Marsila Vema
Taemar, Vallen

Withdrawing her hand, Marsila simply raised a brow towards Siona's demand as it had caught her by surprise. She was curious as to how this woman came to the conclusion that she should be paid for her travels, though perhaps Marsila could blame the fact on mentioning payment towards the pirate. Exhaling deeply from her nose, her eyes flickered towards the pirate before quickly returning towards the woman. "I don't understand why I should be paying you since we were simply arguing about the existence of this beast. I simply wanted to prove you wrong and I don't expect paying you to do so. I don't even know how you would be of any use to me." 

As Arin brought himself closer towards the two, Marsila noticed he also had the same thoughts as herself. Though as soon as he mentioned it, he began to stray from the conversation and instead, questioned their names. She looked towards him with confusion as he mentioned a name other than his own before realising she had never given him hers. *Oh shit. I completely forgot to tell him my name* Marsila mentally berated herself for her lack of manners as she reached towards the strands of hair that fell in front of her face to behind her ear. She needed to find some way to keep her hair from her face, having lost her ribbon when she arrived at her parent's house. "Sorry, I'm Marsila. I should have mentioned that earlier."
Michael
Wisdom Serafina
A room in Castle Grunewald

Serafina had risen early that morning, unable to sleep after her conversation with the Pirate King. Of course, it didn't help that the Queen was feet away, her chest rising and falling to the lethargic rhythm of sleep. The Wisdoms eyes fell upon the current ruler and a pang of guilt stabbed her chest. The Queen had been kind to her when she joined as the religious advisor for the Southern Pantheon. Yet, the act of kindness wasn't enough to deter her from the path the gods had put her on. She had a purpose and she would fulfil it, no matter the cost. 

With the council still hours away, Serafina decided to pass the time by studying a series of historical texts of Terresol she brought with her. An urgent knock distracted her from the book and she quietly made her way over to the door, moving the items they had piled up the night before as a safety precaution.

"Good morning, Kenmath." She greeted him with a smile. The man didn't respond, instead thrusting a scroll into her hands before scrambling to the next room. Serafina stepped out and watched with a raised brow before rolling her eyes and returning to the room. After skimming through the contents of the note, she handed it to Charity - who had been woken by the knock. "The council is beginning, Your Majesty. We should make our way to the Throne Room soon."
Rosa
The Islanders
The Throne Room

"Why do tha Ibbish move so slowly up stairs?" Gitten asked. 

Bradai felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his face turn hot when he heard his men laughing behind him. Gitten had said some dumb shit again, he could just feel it. He had left his cane back in his room, and was gripping the handrail tightly as he ascended up the third flight of stairs. Why Gregor wanted to have the Council in the most inconvenient place possible was beyond him, but it was clear to see that it was pissing everyone off. If they were lucky, someone would have the solution to this plague, they'd take it, and never return to this Gods-forsaken swampland. 

Bradai watched as the Queen of Ibethiel leaned up against the wall, huffing and shrieking at her servants like some wounded animal. The Pirate King took a few steps downwards and held his men off. The last thing he needed was to offend Lucrezia Scheer shortly before the beginning of the Council. His men didn't look pleased to be stuck on the stairs. 

He had caught Gitten in the middle of her jape. "Fat." Gitten spit on the ground. Bradai grit his teeth and descended a few more stairs to get in her face. "Fat Mainlander women. Big as a cog, can't even get up tha stairs." She puffed laboriously, and the men behind her began to snicker. It stopped when Bradai turned around.

His tone was calm and even, "Admiral, if vhis is going to be too stressful for you, you and your men can retire to your room and try again tomorrow morning. I don't need anuvher Jester." 

Gitten looked up at her brother and briefly considered knocking him in the jaw, but she could have sworn she saw his eyes inspecting her balled up fists. "No."

Bradai shifted his weight onto his good leg and wrapped his hand around the railing, turning his attention from Gitten to the rest of his countrymen. "Tha Mainlanders want to run vhis one. We don't 'ave to do a damn fing. Count tha fucking bricks in tha walls if you 'ave to, but speak out uff turn and you'll face due consequence when vhis is all over. You'll work Amoroffian ports until your fucking fingers fall off." 

The Pirate King turned around and sighed, continuing up the stairs. He prayed that Vronti Kelwynd wouldn't come up like it had at dinner. The Islanders entered the throne room and began to take their places at the Council Table.
Edith
**Captain Retto Elbaroda**
**The throne room**

Elbaroda held his tongue as the other Islanders laughed around him. *'Mainlander or no' laughin' at a queen can get ye in a lo' o' trouble'* He thought to himself as he watched the Ibethelian Queen throw a fit. Whoever had the stones to marry a witch such as that had his respect, and his sympathies. As for Admiral Gitten, Elbaroda had his own opinions on her, but those could be saved for another time. She looked as if she was ready to deck Bradai in the face. Admiral or not, and despite the trouble it would have caused him, Elbaroda would not have let that stood. 

Fortunately, she didn't, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "This council is off t' a fuckin' great start" He muttered to himself before listening to Bradai's threat of permanently porting any one of them at Amoroth, and he knew that they would be realized. 

"Aye sir" He responded to his King, and they continued on. Once they reached the throne room, he spied a naked... Person? Guarding the door to the room. "By th' Tides, What th' fuck is *Tha'*?" He whispered to another Islander who just gave him a shrug in return. He quickly walked past it and took a seat a couple chairs down from his king.
Lawrence
**Bennard Wrencrest
Vallen**

Bennard sank into his seat, fiddling with the chaperon in his lap. They were entering Vallen. As he watched the city's drab sights begin to fill the view of the carriage windows, he thought back on their long journey.

Merely leaving Wrencrest had brought him to tears. All along the secured path to the main gate, Bennard was sure he'd seen ruddy eyes staring through the boarded windows of the plagehouses. He shuddered to think of what it was like behind those partitions. Every measure that the expert's said would slow the disease brought him deep sadness to execute. Last summer, he'd still been a friendly lord, a sanguine face familiar to citizens of all strata. What was he now to them but an obscure tyrant laying down painful commandments from his lofty, louring manor? It made him ill. 

Once outside, he'd gone to meet his vassals on Darald's Hill for affirmations and adieus. The plague remained aloof from their manors, and he hoped it would continue as such until it burnt out in the city. The family had then come to holy Negenhal, where the vagrohl invoked a blessing upon them, then led them in silent prayer. In his thoughts, Bennard had asked the gods for protection. *Lords of the Land, Faces in the Frost, please watch over not only the wife, daughter, and niece by my side, but also the son and uncle I leave behind, in case the two come to—or cause—any trouble.* Half the Witherlands knew Hulward to be a bright-eyed glory-seeker and Lackner to be a feckless drunk; he was sure the gods were no poorer informed.

Then it was Roadfork Manor to join the rest of their train. Altogether, they were two carriages, two open wagons, and a big mounted entourage. The first carriage was for himself, Adelhayd, and young Ivagneth; the second for his niece Feineth, and Lady Persephoen Timtams, who'd brought twenty-five soldiers. He'd been baffled when the obscure island house had approached him, asking to join their group. It was questionable enough whether or not the Wrencrests were of sufficient status to attend the council, let alone the Timtams, who were of even lower status. Adelhayd had persuaded him that having an extra house from the Iron Plaines would only help their representation, no matter how high or low they were. Once everything had been packed up, they'd set off for Great Walk.

They'd stayed a night at Snowhall, hosted by their in-laws, House Torck. In the warm company of Lord Angelo, they'd had a joyful time. There was good ale, fine wine, delicious bread, deep laughter, and cordial conversation that mostly skirted around unpleasant topics like the plague or the rising threat of Vivayn. Nevertheless, Bennard had still noticed flashes of pain in Adelhayd's eyes when she passed certain rooms, or when she looked down certain halls or through certain windows. For her, he knew, there was ever a haunting void in that home. As they'd been leaving Snowhall behind the following morning, she'd stared back silently at it until it was out of view, and then subsided with a sigh against Bennard's shoulder.

The folk they'd encountered at each stop had often been afraid of contact with outsiders; Adelhayd's silver tongue had always managed to disarm their apprehension. They'd eventually reached the triple border on the western coast. After hurrying through the west extremity of Vivayn's traitorous territory, they had finally been abroad, onto the moist, pungent path to Vallen. And yet, even now that they'd arrived safely at their destination, Bennard still felt a stormy tension hanging over them. Its cause was no mystery.

Ivagneth sat opposite from Bennard in the carriage, next to her mother. With her chin resting on her knuckles, the seventeen-year-old was staring vacantly at the cityscape. Jade, her elegant cat of the Trenton blue breed, was sleeping soundly between her lap and her tender caress. Bennard gazed upon in desolation. He wanted to her cheeks dimple as she smiled, to see the twinkle in her big, expressive, sardonic eyes. When last had they woven tapestries together, or spent a half-hour fawning over Jade and the kittens?

Noticing the icy distance between the two, Adelhayd beamed at her. "It's always lovely going to another kingdom. I can't believe it's our little girl's first time in the Middlelands! What do you think of Vallen, darling?" When all she received in response was an absent shrug, she turned her attention to Bennard, giving him a pointed look to rouse him from his melancholy. "And what say you, my love? What's your expert evaluation?"

Bennard looked out the window. The most immediate sight was of dull stone buildings with thatched roofing. Beyond this muted facade, he could see what looked like a godless bedlam of human-porcine cohabitation that defied all standards of both architectural practice and compassion for man or beast. After his six years in the South, he'd thought that Wrencrest and the other cities of the North were the ugliest settlements in Marin. But seeing Vallen, he thought his own city looked like more of a *Royal capital*–and his wasn't even a Great House!

He looked at Ivagneth with pursed lips. She didn't meet his eyes. "As I've said before, architecture is 'an endeavour to serve man's basic needs using the bones of the earth.' That's how the great Arturo of Estigarde described it, as related to me by the Marble King of Vasilios, Leandros Mavrokeri, may he rest in peace." His confidence faltered; she clearly wasn't paying attention. "Well, anyway," He stammered, "Some cultures go further beyond basic necessity than others. Perhaps this is just the Taemish ... Aesthetic." He contemplated the city for a moment, then affected a playful smile. "Here, I wonder if we'll be brought our food on plates on the, uh, the backs of pigs!" He chuckled, but then his brows came together, and he pouted. "Oh, well ... I suppose we're actually too late for the dinner, but—"

Ivagneth turned her head to give him an uncomfortable, appealing look. "Father, just stop," She muttered, bitterness rolling off her tongue, and then she resumed her city-watching. He met Adelhayd's eyes; they were sorrowful, but they held no pity for him, and rightly so. She brought her frowning face close to the window, perhaps to ease her mind with some fresh air. *It's no use, Dell,* He thought, *Everything about this city is soiled.* He shrank back into his chair, weighed down against the velvet seat by the heft of his guilt.

Eventually, the shadow of Castle Grunewald fell over the cart. Bennard leaned over and stuck his head out the window to study the crooked, imperious structure. He noted the preternaturally large tree that stood next to it, seemingly as tall as the highest tower of the castle itself. He wondered how King Grunewald would receive them, and that low-ranking lady who rode in the carriage behind.
Kathleen
Valentine Godwin
The throne room, only screaming internally, Vallen.

By the time Valentine had arrived at the castle, many of the other attendants seemed to be up and at 'em. Especially the islanders - whom she had the displeasure of being stuck behind on the staircase. Normally she wouldn't mind the long winding staircase walk up to the tower but being stuck behind a group of rather loud and brash pirates she thought that she would have rather it be held in the dining room.

When the islanders stopped for a moment, she heard little more than a rather loudmouthed lady gossiping, a few laughs, and then the muffled, deadly calm voice of the pirate king from about a floor above her. Terrifying. She waited a few steps below until they started walking again and she could progress upwards.

All the way to the top of the stairs she felt as though the tower would tip over or the floorboards would give way under her feet and she silently prayed for protection (though whether it was from the other council attendants or the questionable architecture she couldn't be sure).

Entering the throne room, she gave a bobbing bow when appropriate and took a seat on the left-hand side of the table, somewhere near the middle but not quite, and rested her document canisters between her legs and her journals on the table in front of her with a deathlike grip on top.
Robert
Sir Heath Romanov
Castle Grunewald, Vallen

Heath stirred from his sleep at Anya's voice and touch. He sat up and pressed his knuckles to his eyes, groggy beyond belief. He was a creature of the night and awoke with the daily ritual of cursing the morning light that streamed through the moth eaten drapes. His hair fell into his eyes and his stubble had darkened. He could already hear Elle shrieking at him to clean up his appearance before the council. *The bloody fucking council*. He had the misfortune of attending every council since its conception. If there was ever an instance where Heath Romanov wanted to fall onto his own sword, it was during the never-ending council meetings. 

 "Fuck the council. How'd you sleep?" He asked, giving her hand a quick squeeze before coming to a stand. "I imagine your shoulder feels like murder. Danico left something to help alleviate your pain," He said, eyes scanning the bedside table. "Here. Apply the salve every four hours for pain and the medication here to help you with your energy level," He said, picking up the items. He opened the lid to the salve and dipped two fingers in, taking a seat at the edge of the bed and moving her red locks off of her shoulder. "We should get you loaded before the council," He joked, gently applying the salve to her wound. "Danico was adamant about you eating before you take the oral medication."

He could hear Elle and Daniel arguing faintly through the walls. Elle's cutting tone was unmistakable. Through the adjacent wall was the sound of someone attempting to tap dance and repeatedly falling down. Heath let out a heavy sigh. "I need to go see Elle before the council begins. I will see you up there later, Anya," He said, flashing her a quick smile before striding out of the room.

Within an hour, The Romanovs walked into the throne room and took their seats. They were impeccably groomed. Heath almost looked like a different man, with his hair neatened and face cleanly shaven. His tailored dark suit buttoned up to his neck. Queen Elle opted for a black gown with silver detailing and her curly locks were pinned tightly in a low bun at the nape of her neck. King Daniel sat next to his wife, looking coldly ahead without so much as acknowledging her presence. Heath thought that perhaps that was why Queen Elle sat so stiffly; that, or the fact that there was a naked figure lingering in the doorway, not six feet away from her. 

"Welcome to my throne room, Queen Elsinore. I hope it is up to your standards," King Gregor drawled from his seat, "I know you Feyorians are more accustomed to ostentatious settings. A waste, if you ask me."

"It is lovely," Queen Elle answered. She purposefully refused to acknowledge his remark, aware that he intended to prod her all day. 

King Gregor barked with laughter and Queen Elle bit her tongue with enough force to draw blood. She hoped that wine would be served to mask the stains.