John
Puckgordon Snæch and Maren
The Maith Ball

Puck stared up at the Seneschal with minor concern as he was stopped, Silas' words slipping through his ears like leeches before he truly understood what they meant. His mouth parted, his arm still steady-holding the young girl against his hip. He was about to protest, but once Silas mentioned his last lashings, he zipped up again to simply nod with mild concern and reserve himself to his duty. 

Maren, on the other hand, was filled with some weird dark feeling as she started at the pretty man who stood towering over both of them. Her fun and relaxation she had felt soaking in had quickly dispersed and been replaced with this mild discomfort in the Seneschal's presence. He was the one she saw before, that she had felt the taste of blood and ink in her mouth. She bit the inside of her cheek nervously, watching the exchange. And by exchange, it just meant that Puck stood there quiet and respectful while Silas spoke.

Pick dropped Maren carefully onto her feet and squeezed her hand as Silas finally noticed and took account of her. "No, she's quite important, Sir." He looked at Silas with mild satisfaction, and a little annoyance. Be that to Silas interrupting the nice dance and prod for information, or the idea that Maren was held like a cushy prisoner. He looked down at Maren who looked between Puck and Silas for a moment.

Maren curtsied just as she was taught. "My name is... Uhm. Maren. Of..." She hesitated, her eyes glancing about. "My name is Maren of Vik!" She came up with, her sky blue dress dipping as she did. "I'm looking for uhm... My brother and I got scared... P-Puck helped me. He's very nice." She could just be seen as nervous from Silas' intimidating presence. She hoped so. 

-

Puck seemed dumb founded that Maren just lied to the person who would probably dissect her for fun, but he didn't have time to explain what she was doing or what was happening. Silas *And* Puck had better things to do that would help the crown, whilst Maren had the need to hide herself in plain sight from those who would think she was loyal to anyone this far.

Puck bowed graciously and looked to Silas and Maren. "If you'll excuse me, I must be off. Maren, you should go play with the other kids. I'm sure that... You'll find whoever you're looking for." He glanced at Silas. It was obviously not the truth, even if Puck was a good liar it was hard to be dishonest before the person he valued more than most. He quickly spun on his heel and dismissed himself, being swallowed into a crowd.

Maren stood before the Seneschal with mild dismay, taking a deep breath. "You are a very pretty person. I like your rings, they're really shiny." She complimented, forcing a smile onto her face. "I thank uhm... That its nice you are Puckgordon's papa. He hates his old one." She wrung her hands together. "Even if you do taste like blood." After that, she spun around and darted toward a group of kids to mingle with.
Kendra
Arch Seneschal Reginald Cyroven 
The Ball, the Maith Mansion 

Eventually, a retort was offered not by the instigating privateer, but by the Pirate King himself. Cyroven looked upwards when the Ruler of the Southern Isles interrogated him up from his dais, barking out his barbs and scepticism across the entire hall, echoing about like some shrill bell being tolled by a demon sent from the hells. Bradai pointed his ringed finger at the Diplomat and, even in that moment where armed guards threatened him, his associates and his mission, he found himself examining the trinkets that donned the man's hand. They flashed and sparkled in the torchlight, each and everyone that draped the extremities of the most powerful in the Southern hemisphere had their own characteristic and beautiful exceptions. But they were ill-suited to him. Reginald, being an educated jeweller, did not doubt the authenticity of any one of the gems around the Pirate King's hands, just the matter of how they ended up around his calloused fingers. He was a Shitblood. He did not care for fittings or proper sizings. He wore them as a symbol of status and of power, over all the underlings that rallied at his speeches and laughed at any quip he would make.

When Maith had concluded probing the Arch Seneschal, he remained in much the same way: with his arms behind his back, his posture straight and his features unmoved. In regard to question the Pirate King presented him, where did he think he was, he looked around the hall, analysing all their faces, their garbs, their jewels, their open, stupid mouths as they gawked at Bradai. He looked at the Islanders, as primitive as they were, and their leader who sat so comfortably next to Shaydrin, believing he was royalty himself. When he finished looking *Exactly* Where he was, he returned his gaze to the man who confronted him with the question to begin, up there on his dais. "Up until five minutes ago, I thought I was at a ball. A gathering of esteemed individuals to embark on all matters of class and sophistication. I believed I was at a ball where guest rites and the honour of status and birth was respected, regardless of nationality. It appears from where I stand now, that is all to the contrary."

"You called for the unwarranted arrest of myself, members of the Skagerlly family and David Brass, and did not expect so much as a retort? If that is the case, you may not be the man I was hearing so much about. There men on the Winged Watcher. Armoured men," He let that hang in the air for a moment, as he heard the torque of strings of crossbows aiming from the balconies and around. "Lay siege to *This* City? No. Never in a millennia. You've ensured the walls of Tonate Proper could withstand the harshest and coldest winds a couple of Northern savages could conjure up. But the people. The people is what you are concerned with. *Your* People," He stared up at them all, with his black ember eyes. "All I know as of this second is there are armoured men and knights stepping off the Winged Watcher to ensure the safe retrieval of myself and my associates. What they will do to achieve that... I could not say. A gathering such as this certainly does attract a lot of *People,* And I am currently not in the capacity to send the order that no harm should come to any civilian of the Southern Isles." Finally, Reginald broke the clasp of his joined hands behind his back and raised them in an air of civility, revealing similarly prestigious rings around his lithe fingers. "I am not a violent man, Your Grace. I am just a humble envoy from faraway lands that - unfortunately for those in attendance with itching trigger fingers and twitching sword arms - is concerned with legalities and the proper procession of events. Sir Shaydrin and Lady Kelsafyr have not even been confronted with the 'crimes' they have committed since they have entered your halls, they were just to be ushered away like cattle."

Reginald Cyroven stroked at his chin for a moment, feeling the hints of stubble forming. Being in that humid, rotten shithole of a city for that long had not allowed him the time to properly bathe or shave as he would usually like to. Nothing was neat there, on the Isles, it was all malformed and snaggletoothed. Any attempt at beauty and art was exaggerated and lurid, as with the apes that hung on their master's every word. It was the death of subtlety, everything about that peasant's haven. What was neat, however, was Reginald's reflection in his pristine ruby ring, he then looked up to the Pirate King's once again. "Those are fine rings you have there, Your Grace. All of them. Even the plain, simply wonderful. I have a penchant for all manner of gems and jewels from all across the world, and I can spy you have a multitude of them on your person. Sixteen is it? I do not think even I would deem to drown myself in that much," He stared up at him, then averted to whatever screaming match the Sea King and Gitten Maith were having. Reginald could hardly believe they were related. "One for every wife, is that correct? One for every clan that challenged your rule and were subsequently, conquered. But you are not a man to use brute force first and foremost," He said, gesturing to the scene around them. "There is always a deal to be made, Your Grace. If it is a trial you want, it is a trial you shall have. But before we begin, may I ask you, Your Grace, did Anna Barrmount show you anything of *Her* Innocence in writing at all?" The Arch Seneschal snapped his fingers, and gestured for the servants of House Vivayn to stand down, and then proceeded to whisper something to one of the knights before moving forward to await whatever ridiculous 'trial' these lunatics could imagine.
Antonio
** **
 Shaydrin turned to face his sister, offering her a gentle hand. 'My dear sister, and our brother, gods protect him.' Something fiery boiled up in his throat, but he let it sing as he levelled a tempered glare at the king. 'Frankly, Your Majesty, I take serious issue with your calling our own sisters 'bed warmers'. That was not the intention of our delivering them into your service, Your Majesty. Pay no heed to my sister's bawdy humour—it is for their own welfare, their own growth, that we give them unto you as hands of your court. I trust that they will be treated only with the utmost decency.'
 Half-genuine, enough to sound convincing. Big Tits and Muffy meant a pittance to him compared to Kelsafyr, but something about the thought of grubby Islander hands defiling any of his kin, even the bastard half-sisters, made him quiver.
 'Furthermore,' he continued, and allowed his brow to crinkle as he leaned a little closer, though without softening his voice at all, 'I would ***Personally*** Like to see no blood spilled by either side, for any purpose. That was not the reason for our coming here. We came eager to show you—to show ***All*** Of you—that Northerners can comport themselves no less handsomely than any other people, and we hoped to be treated no different than those we strive to emulate.'
 Frustration set his mouth in a hard, bitter line as he gazed past the king at the woman he knew now to be Anna Barrmount. 'As for myself, I had frankly hoped that the more ***Insipid*** Dramatics of our affairs at home would not chase us here. Surely you, Your Majesty, can see too how pointless this confrontation is?' 
 He threw an eye around the balcony, and extended one slender, languid arm to gesture all about them. 'Between the men and women here, I perceive no enemies. Do you, Your Majesty?'
Deborah
A Poor Squire
Maith Mansion

 The news of a fresh task had always brought upon it an extravagant excitement, usually followed instantly by immense disappointment. *"The Tides will change"* He muttered mockingly, anticipating the moment that the Pirate King would *Finally* Spare his work a glance. He had lost track of the amount of times he'd been summoned to the rookery - enough times where the scent of perspiration and bird shit clung to him like the waves on a summer's shore. However, this time there was a detectable difference. He was met outside by a peculiar man- one who was not the usual raven handler. His back was arched to a proportion that could not possibly have been human, and within his clammy claws he tightly held a parchment that shook as if it weighed ten stone. 

 "Make straight for the King. Consult no one about the paper you are delivering." The strange man said, violently grasping the Squire's hand, transferring the letter to his possession. Along with the letter came about an inch thick coat of a strange wet goo that was part sweat and part an indescribable concoction of coagulated fluids. *"This is it."* He angrily thought to himself. *"After this, I am going home. Fuck, even North maybe. At least they'll put me to work.*" Without hesitation, he turned his back on the strange old man and briskly walked in the opposite direction. The seal that etched the paper together was one he'd never seen before - a boastful concoction of reds and golds, emblazoned by a tight black fist. It occurred to him that his presence was once again about to be outdone by a mere piece of paper; the whole of his complex consciousness would once again go entirely ignored in favor of whatever inanimate and unthinking words lined the body of this letter.

__
He let out a sigh, knocking thrice on the hard oak that separated him from the King's chambers extending the gently wrapped parchment. For years, this poor squire had done nothing of significance. However, in his hand may lay the cause of the deaths of thousands. Yesterday, he was insignificant; today, he is destiny. 


*To the King of the Southern Isles,

Receive this letter as confirmation of what you've likely surmised my intentions to be. Hearing of the exploits that have occurred under your festivities have inclined me to believe we have reconcilable interests. Your unmatched reputation as a man of business causes me to be comfortable extending this offer of mutual benefit, where I receive your machines of war and you receive their spoils. I require southern craftsmen to construct me three trebuchets branded with my sigil. Spare every liberty in birthing these horrors, craft them with extreme prejudice and with full knowledge that their purpose is to irrevocably destroy. Moreso, I require one of them to be a truly hulking monstrosity - a beast of proportions never before seen. Once my armies have received confirmation of your acceptance, instructions of delivery will be hastily provided.

Lord John De Burgh*