Antonio
**Ser Samsom Dumagne
Tonate Proper**

A gleaming twilight was at hand as the *Aaylor's Tongue* Slid past the sea walls, entering the Hangman's Harbour. In the blood-and-gold rays of the tropic sun, the great dromon appeared to glow like a blade in the forge. Its two crimson sails were filled with fire, licking the dark sky as it sailed along. It was a sight to invoke the god of scale and sulphur from which she earned her name, and she truly looked to have sprung fresh and hot from his mouth.

Samsom rested his weight against the wooden railing as he watched the city grow great and near. Below his eyes, two long levels of rowers heaved their oars through still water, chanting a two-syllable rowing-chant as they bore their lords to land. Their rhytmhic movements were the heartbeat of the dromon, slowing as it came into Tonate Proper's safe embrace.

The oarsmen reversed their motion to ease the ship into port, and he heard a new sound then. Behind him, discordant twangs rang out from catgut strings. He looked back. Lutur was sitting on a chair in the middle of the deck, tuning a long-necked bouzouki. His eyes were slack and serene as he worked; it was the only thing that made him look so at ease. With no ocean wind, Samsom could feel each awkward note grating on his ears, but once Lutur finished and seized the plectrum that hung by a string from the neck, he began to play as fine a tune as ever. It was a melody to his song, a paean to the gods, thanking them for deliverance into safe harbour after so difficult a voyage.

And a difficult voyage it had been. They'd nearly been blown off course to Amoroth as they'd passed south of Araedia. The oarsmen had laboured hard to get them back on track towards the Isles. And even when they'd gotten there, one of their two accompanying ships ran aground. Thankfully, they had fallen within leaping distance of dry land, and the sailors had escaped mostly unscathed to redistribute themselves between the other two ships. Fortunate as they were not to lose a ship's worth of men, they had still lost a ship's worth of supplies in this accident. Food, salt, and small beer that would need to be replaced with whatever they could find in the Islander markets. Mixing with Islander merchants and coming into the sights of the thieves and pickpockets of this barbaric island was a thought that pleased none of them.

The bouzouki sounded low tones, but the sweetwood of its make made them as bright and clear as spring sky. Lutur's voice was high and fine as he sang. For all the deficiencies that Samsom could find in his brother, a lack of musical talent was hardly among them.

By the time Lutur's tune of praise came to an end, they were a minute short of the quays. Samsom watched his brother lay the bouzouki down in his lap, saw the blissful smile on his squat, pale face wither away into a hard line. 'A pigpen, dressed up like a whorehouse,' he said with a faint sneer. Looking sidelong at Samsom, eyebrows raised, he asked, 'Are you sure, brother, that some queer wind didn't steal us away to Vallen?'

'I believe Vallen is an *Inland* City, my lord,' said Samsom. 'I'd avoid making such comparisons once ashore, if I were you. The Pirate King isn't known for his fondness of insults, and I doubt his people feel any different. These are a well-abused folk. They have tender bruises, my lord.'

Lutur tilted an ear to the clamour of the harbour. 'I scarcely expect them to hear me over their own catterwauling.' He handed his bouzouki to a servant, and went to stand by his brother at starboard. 'You'd swear they started with nothing but rum-houses and brothels, and ran blindly from there. Come to think of it ...'

Samsom turned his back to the railing. His brother was shorter than he was, and not as broad, though his face was fuller and sharper. Lutur wasn't a warrior, nor much of an archon, either. In terms of ideal merits, the two were one in the same among Falsans.

He thought back on Father. The great Baldarian Dumagne would have slaughtered the city with just as if not harsher words, but when he would disembark, every red-haired head would have spun round to watch him go. Tall, full-bearded with the look of a consummate warrior. What would they make of Lutur? He only had the shadow of a beard despite being a grown man of some years now. It was the most he could do to uphold essential rituals, like the paean of safe harbour.

Even through the perfume, Samsom could smell the Archon of Falsa sweating under his red slip. Over the tunic, Lutur wore a black dalmatic, turqoise weaving across it in patterns that scintillated with gems. The silk brocade he was wearing was too heavy; if they hand't arrived late, Lutur would have been boiling like a turnip as they walked the streets. He'd stayed below deck to avoid the beating sun, but that had probably only worsened his state. Samsom could see beads of sweat glistening on the skin below the dark curls of Lutur's fringe, and there was a tired look in his eyes.

'Bring me my coronet,' Lutur said after a long silence, as the dromon finally came to a halt and the deckhands scrambled to moor her. 'I suppose it's for appearances, and that.'

'As you will, my lord.' Samsom pushed away from the railing and started towards the trapdoor that led below deck. He smiled over at his sister. 'What do you think? A pigpen, or a fine pirate city?'
Elissa
Peraz had spent much of the voyage doing her best to keep busy. She was used to long travel whether it be on horseback, foot or by boat but that didn't stop the occasional ache in the pit of her stomach or stop her breakfast from being thrown over the side of a railing when the ship rocked with a bad wave. 

She should have been in Togaira to attend to her husband's - no, *Her* - estate and land and the people in it but the empty halls of her home and the unfriendly coolness of a half filled bed called for a visit home, and then a visit furthest she'd ever been from any home she had known.

Tonight, with the help of her dearest friend and handmaid, Eidyg, she had readied herself in some of her finest clothes for docking. Her long hair had been piled high into a crown braid and covered with a scarf of deep yellow linen so as not to overheat in the warm weather, atop the scarf sat a half moon kemenike adorned with pearls that shone gold in the sun, bordered by goldwork embroidery in the image of sunflowers. Her tunic was a patterned dark blue, gathered at the waist along with her pale stola with a woven band. Powders and pressed berries had been dabbed onto her cheeks to hide the freckles she'd gained on the trip and the flushed complexion of seasickness.

An emerald green cloak hung from lady Dumagne's shoulder as she sat aboard the deck, staring towards the oncoming land and waves and letting the sights drown out the sounds of her brothers behind her. The city before seemed lively and colourful even under the night's sky and her heart ached a moment for her sister to see it. Poor Sun had been left behind, though Peraz knew how much she loved to travel.

Her head turned to meet her youngest brother as he spoke, sending pearls clinking against each other. The sight of her brother in his coronet always made her stifle a chuckle, remembering the years it would slip below his brow and leave naught but a mouth beneath it -

She had to suppress a small smile at the mention of it.

"I think I will need to carry my own sword tonight, if you don't learn to mind that tongue of yours, little brother." Spoke Peraz to Lutur, raising an amused brow at him,"And if I have to hear talk from either of my brothers of whorehouses, I'll fling myself from the boat."

As Samsom descended the ship, Peraz stood and crossed over to stand above the trap door and cupped her hands around her mouth in a mock yell,"Samsom, you'll keep an eye out for Lutur tonight, won't you? The poor little lord looks exhausted, I fear he may fall asleep in his supper!"
Antonio
**Ser Samsom Dumagne
*Aaylor's Tongue*, Tonate Proper**

Samsom laughed as he found the ornate box and parted the latch. 'Hopefully his fated partner won't be too energetic.' Only half-suppressing a giggle, he went on, 'Maybe he'll fall afoul of some overspiced Araedian dance-master who wants to dance the night away, seek out her true love in the passions of the ballroom floor.'

He heard Lutur draw near and scoff. 'I swear by Saris and Rueben and ... Emin! And Great Duma himself, and all his glittering scales! I will *Not* Be dancing.' All the lordliness tumbled out of his voice, and he sounded like the petulant child that Samsom knew to lie behind the enameled facade. 'I'd sooner join those poor wretches hanging off the harbour walls.'

When Samsom came up, cradling Lutur's diamond-studded coronet in his hands, he saw his brother leaning back against the mast with his arms crossed. Samsom simpered at him. 'Are you sure, my lord? No doubt that room will be host to a myriad of *Foreign beauties*, highborn daughters and young widows from all over Marin. They'll be looking for a suitable husband. That's half of what all these soirees are for, my lord. There'll be doe eyes on the look out for crowns big and small, and you *Do* Bear the mark of one of Terresol's principal lords, my Archon of Sulphur.'

He proffered the coronet to his brother, and saw the thoughtful, avaricious look in his eyes as they lay upon his symbol of office. Then Lutur blew air and shook his head. 'You're having me for a go, brother. I won't be distracted by womanflesh.' Samsom winced. He hated that word. Lutur always used it, and Samsom suspected he was the only speaker of Soltongue or Commontongue who ever did. 'I'm here at the behest of a king, and I shan't bother myself with anyone of lower station than I or him, not even for marriage.'

-

Samsom pouted, then looked to Peraz. She saw a twinkle in his eye. It was a familiar look; the kind of look he had when he was bent over a map, planning some great exercise of wit that would force his enemy into a helpless position. Normally, he let her know his machinations before he executed them, but whatever he was trying here, he was keeping it wholly to himself.

'What say you, dear sister?' Samsom asked with a hint of a smirk. 'Isn't it high time our brother found himself a bride?'