Kendra
Arch Seneschal Reginald Cyroven
The Ball, the Maith Mansion

The Diplomat had conveniently placed himself away from most of the hustle and bustle of the ball. He watched onwards like a druid in the night as the Southerners preached and pranced around, completely drunken on their laurels. He watched from the upper balconies as the procession of events went underway, watching intently as each and every guess played homage to the Pirate King. The two Vivayn knights were still by his side, as he was a foreign dignitary, protected by international law. 

He looked on as his associates, the Skagerllies, brought fourth their baseborn siblings for the Pirate King's use, whatever that may be. They were so finely dressed in their garments, Kelsafyr and Shaydrin. Perhaps too finely dressed, and this was thought of a man who ever only purchased the most prestigious, the most refined robes of any corner of the world. They matched the rest of gaudy, gratuitous garbs of the Southern elite, strutting around like the Gods' gift to civilisation. But that was the thing, their attire matched the colours of House Skagerlly, crimson red and blinding white. Those colours, like the sigil, represented unbridled brutality and destruction, which made them stand out like a sore thumb even in a pool of hapless sheep and ostentatious aristocrats. The shining satin of their fineries beamed out amongst torchlight and moonlight which made the roofs and mantle pieces dance in blood and aggression. The Skagerlly twins were far beyond the rest of their ill-gotten brood, but they had a penchant for standing out, even if it brought them unwanted attention.

Then came Reginald's companion from one side of the continent to the other, the man he could not seem to spend one waking moment away from, the self-proclaimed Sea King, David Brass. As bold as ever, he stormed to the Pirate King's make-shift dais uninvited and blurted out words of rhyme of riddle, the chances were fifty-fifty. Then his gift was unveiled, the beautiful coat of the shell-nosed seal and continued to bellow out his exploits whenever he rode his mistresses' waves, to the Pirate King himself. For whatever he must have said, David Brass seemed to pique the interests of Maith, as a he was offered a seat right beside the King of the Southern Isles himself. What they were discussing, Reginald knew not, only that he misliked it greatly; one of his associates so close to the host of the entire ball. Misliked it in much the same manner his other associates stood out so prominently.

Arch Seneschal Cyroven was about to make his move and intervene to mitigate damages, so they could move forth with their plan. He even had the servants at his along with the knights ready with the chests of gifts the Pirate King expected. In one, a dagger, finely crafted in the forges of Wingsway. It was had a stainless steel blade, serrated upwards across the edge almost like fangs... Or talons. Then, the pommel had two finger grooves to fit nicely around the owner's hands, whilst being etched with feathers from a wing, to remind the Pirate King where it came from. Reginald was instructed to recount Nathaniel's admiration of Bradai's proficiency on their shared hunting trip, up in the forests of Ibethiel at the Council of Marin before last. Of course, Nathaniel believed him to be nothing more than an unwashed reprobate, and a king of peasants and 'Shitbloods', certainly not worthy of the weapon being bestowed upon him. Secondly, Lord Vivayn had provided him with an exquisite cloak, trimmed with cloth of gold, accentuated with wolf fur that comfortably wraps around the neck in the cold winter climate. This was supposed to a form of invitation from Nathaniel to Bradai, as it's well documented the Pirate King has never been that far North.

But before he could descend the balconies, a haze of whirls and smoke broke out from the centre of the ball. Different forms of animals and shapes of obscure creatures formulated until an entire beacon of white reached even Reginald up in his fort. Pale hands danced around with wands of perfume and incense. A mysterious herald appeared on the stage, most likely one of those charmers or tricksters from that unholy cesspit that harboured many of the unnatural. The herald made dark turn to light, light turn to dark, appearing and reappearing until they landed on a stage behind the scene and exclaimed, "TWO BROTHERS." Reginald held up his hand to his entourage to cease their movements. He'd stay and watch the entertainment their illustrious host had provided for them.

Initially, when the actors came out and their names were announced, he was surprised to see the Brother's Rebellion was the choice of play. As the scenes moved from one to the next, highlighting Felix Carter as nothing more than a womanising degenerate, and the Ice Lord a dour, worn down shell, Reginald's thin lips almost curled upwards into a sly smile. The jokes, the energy and the rhymes even caused him to exhale in amusement, along with the cacophony of laughter and bluster the crowd below. Marshall with his fat, greedy daughter that weighs him down and breaks away his spirit, and Felix with his gathering of whores and harlots, believing buying their companionship was akin to earning it. Oh yes, Reginald found it all very amusing. That was until act two approached, and the Vivayn banners flung down from the makeshift battlements. On stage appeared a decrepit, hunched looking monstrosity, hobbling towards Felix's actor. The gathering below continued to guffaw and bleat in utter joy as his liege was made a mockery of. Reginald felt himself grip his ringed fingers around the bannister at the announcement of the "VIVAYN SOLILOQUY", whereby the playwrights characterised Nathaniel as the reason for the descent between the Carter Brothers, as the cause for an entire Kingdom being torn in half. Any Southerner who was half-literate knew that the Carters brought that war on themselves, yet none of it mattered. Hundreds of thousands of lives lost and they were laughing. The saviour of the Witherlands and the Chosen One was being disrespected in the most egregious manner. By the time the play had concluded, Reginald was staring daggers at everyone.

Matters were made worse when he eyed a woman fitting a certain description going to Maith and then requested to speak with him privately. He followed her out, and the Diplomat sighed lowly, knowing exactly what was coming next. Those flashy attires... A person without sight would have made them. Cyroven, in a sudden flare of anger, reached out and slammed his fist down onto the chest the servant was carrying, making it fall and the cloak spill out, flapping about like a marauder's idea of fame and wealth. "Go to the Winged Watcher and summon all the knights and guards. Run. If the gates are barred on your return, take hostages or find another way in," The Arch Seneschal commanded the servant, to which he responded by immediately dashing off.

Cyroven made his way down to the scene, joining the Skagerllies and the privateers, the Vivayn knights on either side of him. "They shan't be going anywhere," He announced, his tall and slender frame appearing from the staircase. "They are honoured guests, just like the rest of these *Fine* People in attendance. Under what pretence would they or anyone else here be ushered away to dark, dank cells most unbefitting of their birth?" He directed to the main privateer, the one that seemed to be calling most the shots. "There are several things not being understood here, things that could be untoward for all parties involved," Reginald joined his hands behind his back in a regal, dignified manner. "Whatever you have been told is false. Granted, you're following orders. But the order is misinformed. It comes from an unreliable, unrepentant source that seeks to cause nothing but strife for my associates and myself. You have no jurisdiction over any members of House Skagerlly or David Brass, nor does your liege have any stock or purpose in politics in the Kingdom of the Witherlands and its subsidiaries," He stared at him, with cold, ember-black portals for eyes, "Lest he wants to incite an international conflict. There are men outside those gates you barred as we speak. They'd be prepared to parlay with you if you are prepared to parlay with them. If not... Who's to say what they'll do. I'm sure the Pirate King would not want his magnificent ball ended with such ugliness."
James
Kelsafyr Skagerlly,
The Southern Isles, Braidai Marth's Mansion.

The evening progressed so quickly, and yet so slowly at the same time. Naturally, Kelsafyr had begun to gravitate towards Shaydrin, sitting quietly at his side while he conversed with those around him. At one point, she had thought about attempting to strike up a conversation with Maren before she banished such a decision and instead elected to welcome herself to the never-ending supply of wine and drink. She wasn't quite sure what she was expecting the evening to entail for them, as it was far different to what few parties they had in the Witherlands. She didn't exactly know why, but she began to feel a certain tightness in her chest, genuine anxiety.

The next hour or so began to blur for Kelsafyr, her heart pounding so hard against her ribs she thought it might rupture. She had started to feel fatally far from her depth, reaching beneath the table to grasp at Shaydrin's hand, only to realise that he had stood from his seat and was speaking to a man surrounded by armed guards. The colour very visibly drained from her face, and she looked as if she were ill to the men surrounding her and her kin. She was so confused. Why was she feeling this way? Why was she feeling so genuinely terrified? Slowly but surely, she began to recall the conversations that had been happening around her, having been tuning out the noise of the ballroom to try and recollect herself and calm her rapid breathing. 

Prisoners, bloodshed, "If you'd follow me, ska..-", severed fingers, concealed steel -.

A hand pressed against her thigh, where she had strapped a dagger. Her face turned an ill sort of green, and the evening of drinks began to bubble in her stomach. She swiftly rose a hand to cover her mouth, and she released something that was a combination of a sob and a retch.

She didn't understand why was she being arrested, too? Her brothers, she could understand, as they often worked closely with her father, but she had never done an untoward thing in his name in her life. Well, nothing untoward on such a drastic scale, anyway. If only she had kept her mouth shut, she might be back in the Witherlands, safe and away from those who might do her harm. If only she had listened to Shaydrin, Mallsrek, too. He was right. She was a fool, a stupid little girl, a dull-witted mare -..

"There are men outside those gates you barred as we speak. They'd be prepared to parlay with you if you are prepared to parlay with them. If not... Who's to say what they'll do. I'm sure the Pirate King would not want his magnificent ball ended with such ugliness." Uttered Reginald Cyroven, the diplomat that had accompanied David Brass. She hadn't met him, and yet she had never been so glad for his presence.

She looked as if she had been more than willing to cooperate with Galt-Drake before the Arch Seneschal's arrival, but with his aid, she slowly began to calm down. She gracefully folded one leg over the other, hands clasping to rest within her lap as she lifted her chin with indignation, eyes settling upon the privateer. She began to pick at a bunch of grapes, gently settling one between her lips, before biting down. Perhaps she'd make it out of here alive after all.
Antonio
Shaydrin skewed his lips and threw a cursory glance towards the high table. It seemed that His Majesty King David—though in truth he had no basis on which to claim any title but 'Lord' David—had already been subdued by the Pirate King's harridan of a sister. Quite a humiliating bind to be in, he thought to himself, but no less than the fool deserved. By all the gods, the man had fancied coming all the way south and trying to kidnap a queen in the midst of all this? It felt bad enough being dragged around by a brute like Mallsrek on their rangings and rovings; at least their half-brother was driven by nice, predictable desires and insecurities rather than such ethereal fantasies as this.
** **

'Nothing to be done now,' he whispered to himself, and half to his sister. He looked back to her as he pondered the Islander's words, and observed a clash of gut-wrenching terror and dignified resignation on her face. He wasn't sure if he was afraid, or resigned; in his heart and in his head, he felt that familiar sensation that evoked the grinding of rough stone slabs. In the crush of darkness, all he had to off of were the few stray sparks.

'Alright,' he managed with half a voice, and took his seat beside he who had accosted them. 'I'll wait. I'll make your king wait.' Laying his hands flat on the table, he met eyes with an Araedian noblewoman sitting across from him. Once he had inspired an acceptable amount of disquiet on her dark face, he reached over and slowly relieved of her wine cup, replacing the one that the Islander had stolen from him.

Shaydrin took a long swig of that wine before turning to the Islander. 'Might I have your name, at least? If you fancy dragging us good, well-bred noblemen to some tower cell.'
** **

—
Galt-Drake, from his reclined but very able position, was able to observe the doubts and unease on the faces of every Skagerlly present at the table, as well as every minute movement they made. They were as readable as an open book to him, and even if they were to walk free at the end of the day, Galt-Drake still had plenty of fun putting the fear of the Isles in the hearts of these godless mainlanders. Galt-Drake cocked a brow at Shaydrin's own act of theft of an Aeradian's wine cup, which elicited a hearty little chuckle of his own. This entire chaotic situation was the kind of stuff he lived for. Sailing for days on end sometimes got boring, after all, even if the sea was his home. Galt-Drake clapped briefly, seemingly proud of Shaydrin's act of wine thievery.

Galt-Drake humorously stated, an uncomfortably charming smile gleaming over his face, "Disrespect a mainlander noble like tha' again, and ya may 'ave me fooled for one o' me own."

Upon hearing Shaydrin's decision, Galt-Drake nodded and folded his arms in his reclined position, seeming to also be waiting a bit as well. He heard a request for a name, and he'd be damned if he didn't at least introduce himself.

Galt-Drake boldly responded, "Name's Galt-Drake, me good Skag. I already know who ya are. Put 'er there."

He then offered Shaydrin an open, empty palm, seeming to desire a simple handshake.
—

Shaydrin arched a needly eyebrow at the man's hand. 'Skag,' he repeated to himself, not fond of the way the word tasted. He reached to meet Galt-Drake's hand, offering a limp reciprocation. Taking that woman's wine cup had probably been a straying from the image he would have presented. With uncomfortably pursed lips, he settled the cup and its meagre remainder of wine back in front of the woman, giving her a nod of unspoken and unfelt gratitude.

'You know my name, but have you any idea why your king's arresting us?' he asked, scrutinizing Galt-Drake. 'Do you even care, or are you just the Pirate King's half-trained little dog?'

—
Galt-Drake possessed a grip that was far more firm than Shaydrin may have expected, even from a privateer. As his handshake was reciprocated, Galt-Drake leaned in a bit close and spoke to Shaydrin in a somewhat hushed voice, still holding onto the other man's relatively dainty hand.

The privateer whispered, "Don't think I didn't notice the lil letter openers ya brought. Yer clever enough to fool most o' the room, sure, but I'm not so complacent."

Galt-Drake then seamlessly released the handshake and transitioned back into his reclined position, listening as Shaydrin spoke further. Needless to say, the man was startlingly quick. The attempt to insult him by calling him a king's dog was far from effective, as Galt-Drake merely brushed it off with a dismissive chuckle and wave of the hand.

Galt-Drake curtly responded, "Please. I'm not a king's pup, and I'm not clueless. That noble woman who revealed herself is more than likely why my liege declared yer arrest. Anna Barrmount, I believe her name is. I presume she's got major problems with yer house and the fact ya still draw breath. Unfortunate for yer end, though, but I'm sure somethin' will change the scales a bit more in yer favor. As fer whether I care or not..."

Galt-Drake took another sip of ale and placed the cup down, his arms folding once again and his expression remaining unchanged.

The privateer continued, "Yer mainlander politics hardly interest me, northman. I've got more important shite to worry about on tha day ta day. At the end o' tha day, whether ya get outta this nonsense unscathed or get flung into tha' cell, I'm still serving me liege, me own ambitions, an' earnin' me keep."
—

So he had spied their weapons. That meant that this mongrel had been staring at his sister's thigh, and that made him want to cut his face open like he had done to Ohan Delpsy just a few months prior. Even now, the way that bastard moaned as his tongue and his cheek were rent was still a honeyed confection for Shaydrin's ears. He could not, however, fathom how Galt-Drake had spied his own dagger. The weapon was tied up inside the mouth of the fox who's skin he was wearing. Shaydrin would have forgone bringing it, but Kelsafyr was dogged about arming herself, and he would have broken every taboo there was to make her feel she was not odd in doing so. Perhaps it would be his fatal mistake one day.

***Anna Barrmount***. That name splashed into Shaydrin's mind like a boulder in a pond, and his eyes drifted away from Galt-Drake to the woman on the dais. Yes, of course—it ***Was*** Old Yaron's idiot little daughter. They had picked up word of her on their journey south; she had gone to Vallen and begged the gathered Council for aid, and ended up married to some petty Ibbish courtier in return for vague promises of soldiers. He had struggled not to laugh, of course. The army had long since moved on by the time she had made that pact, and all had heard by now that Sibyl Barrmount had fully aligned herself with her supposed enemy. What a tricky situation the little whelp was in now. And no doubt very confusing. Shaydrin supposed she saw this as an opportunity to stab Nathaniel in the flank.

'Earning your keep, yes,' Shaydrin echoed, half-listening to the Islander now. He was dwelling on that revelation, and was just looking to his sister when a shadow fell over them. The king? He turned and saw a face that he never would have expected to relieve him so. It was Reginald, and he spoke the weighty, blackest truth to the Islanders.
** **

Shaydrin felt the nervous swell in his guts begin to settle. He leaned his back against the board and glanced to his sister. Her aspect had shifted utterly, giving way now to her usual poise and intoxicating elegance. Smiling a bright, fresh smile, he put his eyes on Galt-Drake, and drummed his fingers against the edge of the table.