Terence
Captain Jax Brightwater
The Mizzen, Tonate Proper, The Southern Isles

Jax took the breastplate briefly, passing it on to his squire.

"Make sure everything is packed, and feed Argon before dismissing yourself."  Aleks nodded in response, saluting again.

Jax didn't take the time to dress again, closing the distance behind his queen, still half dressed in his armor.

"He was just a boy, Anya, no more older than Aleks.  If the Pirate King wants to play with the lives of children, I will not be party to their execution."  He was mainly muttering to himself, trying to justify the hit his honor will take for surrendering the competition.
Steven
```
Anyanka Durkhan
The Mizzen, Tonate Proper, The Southern Isles
```

The sound of footsteps caught up quickly, and she dropped her pace just enough to let him gain on her before matching once more. Her arm fed into the space between his arm and side, hooking in the crook of his elbow as they walked. 

"Maith seems to think children going to battle is a rite of passage." She reminded him, thinking on how Mikhail was very likely going to volunteer himself to fight alongside the Maith bannermen despite her pleas not to. Technically, she could forbid it, but she knew her son and his loyalty to Maith. As much as she hated it, it nearly outpaced his loyalty to her. If he was charmed by Maith and the idea being battle hardened would make him a better king she doubted she'd be able to convince him otherwise. 

She didn't dislike the Pirate King, but they disagreed in matters like this. Their alliance held out of mutual respect, but could use a good rekindling. Maybe this trip to the isles would help- or maybe it would just infuriate her fellow Astorians. 

"You won't be dishonored for refusing to take up arms against a boy, Jax, don't fret over it." As she spoke, they made their way back to the box, and she could see Stafford rising, murmuring something to his wife. 

"How long do you think his opponent will last, about as long as yours?"
Terence
Captain Jax Brightwater
The Mizzen, Tonate Proper, The Southern Isles

Jax shifted his elbow to make an easier rest.  Matching his pace to Anya.

As they approached the box he nodded at the Eclipse stationed on either side who saluted them, quite proud at the discipline the newest recruits showed.

"It may not dishonor me directly, but surely this could be seen as a slight against the local government and their... Festivities."  He recalled the execution at the start of the day.

He noticed Eric as well, smiling at the thought of finally seeing his comrade in action.

"If our Lord Stafford is half the knight I've heard of in the stories, the next opponent doesn't stand a chance."  He beamed at the Lord of South Feyshore.  "Don't embarrass our Queen after my spectacle, My Lord."
Steven
```
Angelica Stafford
The Mizzen, Tonate Proper, The Southern Isles
```

Eric had turned, kissing her quickly before gesturing to the field. Her own shoulder raised in a shrug. The South Feyshorian policies on youth and training were different than other places she'd lived, but she wasn't quite convinced this was intentional. 
"It seems unlikely the boy was intentionally chosen to fight. More likely something else has happened here. Even if you and Cromwell allowed squires the opportunity to compete in something like this, you'd think you'd have spent time assuring they wouldn't embarrass us." Her voice was low, not particularly caring if anyone else in the box overheard, but the conversation wasn't really open for someone else to pique up into. 

"Besides, Maith doesn't seem the type to host and intentionally throw a shit-shot squire into the field."

Eric stood, and when she watched him do so, movement caught her eye just behind them. The Queen had returned, her arm in the possession of the Eclipse Captain. It wasn't an unusual sight, as just about every time she saw the pair now they were intertwined in some kind of way. The woman certainly had a type. 

"Congratulations, Captain Brightwater, though they probably feel tainted." Angelica offered, moving to stand at the change of guard in the box from her husband to the Eclipse. "He won't embarrass us, or he'll have me to answer to after." A jest, but a little truthful.

```
Anyanka Durkhan
The Mizzen,Tonate Proper, The Southern Isles
```

Anyanka couldn't really argue the point it might come across as a slight. It was something to be handled later, after the tournament was won. Hopefully Stafford would pull through and any offense given would be replaced by victory instead of it tainting it for the Astorians. 

Not that they had come for the fights anyway. 

They returned to the box as Eric was preparing to leave, and Anyanka caught the tail end of Angelica's opinion on the last match. So it seemed it was already starting gossip. Her lips pursed, dropping Jax's arm to offer Eric's a pat. 

"You'll do wonders, Eric. Keep sharp, you don't have to worry about embarrassing me, just don't embarrass your wife." Angelica gave a sharp laugh at that.
Harvey
Valkrin Farensun
The Mizzen

As one of his men reported they'd stopped the Cragton boy on his way up, Valkrin stepped out of the balcony, and instructed they drag the boy up to him. 

"Excellent loss, boy. You've made me a sight wealthier." Valkrin patted the boy's face twice, reaching farther back and closing his fist before striking Arin on the jaw. "But you've embarrassed the Isles, and the King at that, so you can understand why you deserve this." He hit the boy a few more times, then produced a rag from his pocket, wiping the blood off his knuckles. 

"You can give me my blade back now, and I'll cut you in on my earnings because of that beautiful loss." The captain chuckled and lit one of his cigars.
John
Puckgordon
The Depths of the Mizzen

Puck followed diligently as Silas lead him through the winding halls, the torches glowing ethereally certainly washed Puck with a sense of dread. Although, in the end, Puck felt ten times more comfortable within the confines of morbid dark and unnatural light than in the sun and sweat of the arena or stables. 

Puck took a deep breath, slowing and stopping before the blue light kissed the edges of his clothing, still wrapped in the dark like a mother's warmth. His blue eyes reflected in the torch-light, making them twinkle and shift, standing out from his pale complexion and dark surcoat. 

They stood in silence for a while, Puck just watching the Seneschal who seemed right at home, perhaps even excited. Puck knew that Silas was a man of science, and the deepest, darkest science there would be, but still, in the end, Puck liked him. Even if the affection wasn't true, even if Silas hurt him, he still was the only one to care for the Melsi.

-
Puck inhaled as he tried to wrap his mind around the words he wanted to say to funnel them out from between his pursed lips, the edges of his mind had frayed, and words still tried to escape him before he could say it.

"My full name is Puckgordon Havel Dead-speaker Snæch." He started, stepping into the light and brushing his hair back nervously as his hushed tone seemed to mute itself on the red walls of the Mizzen.

 "And the dead visit me in my dreams." He took another deep breath. "I've always seen them since I could remember, sir. When I was little, I screamed at the top of my lungs until they bled, watching men and women claw at my legs... But screaming got me in trouble, so... So I just... Bottled it in, but the... The sensation was still there. So I would Uhm... Puke. Instead. I don't sleep if I can help it, but when I do sleep, it ends the same way every time, and my mind doesn't seem to get used to it. Even after all these years, the fear remains the same..." He glanced down, looking ashamed and embarrassed. "The only one that really talks to me, that I'm not afraid of, is the Puckgordon before me. The one I told you I uh... I poked." 

Puck was uncomfortable, fiddling with a thread at the edge of his sleeve. "I've just dealt with it... But I think I've puked so much my tooth fell out." He brought up his shoulders as a shiver traveled down his spine. "I... I'm sorry, I think... I think I just keep getting worse. My mother tried doctors to shamans, but in the end, I think she just gave up."

No wonder this boy acted as vicious as he did, being neglected and left to speak to the dead that gnawed at the edges of his mind whenever he closed his eyes.
Emma
Herin Farensun
Libertalia Fortress, Uncharted Waters

Deep in the bowels of the great fortress that overlooked Libertalia, Herin Farensun took a look inside a small wooden box. It was small, fitting easily inside one's pocket. It had a strange shape, almost like a miniature coffin, a custom made parcel for a very special item. Putting it in his breast pocket, he turned the doorknob and stepped into the dungeons beneath the great fort. He was going to deliver a present.
The fortress itself was an impressive thing, literally carved into the side of the small mountain that overlooked Libertalia. Full of hidden rooms and storages for everything from wine to weapons, it was a final bastion against any invaders, one that it's original owners never got to use. Herin found the irony funny, putting so much time and money into making a completely hidden fortress, built in a place that was nearly impossible to invade, and then dying before you ever got to use it.
Though Herin did wonder why they thought they would need such extensive dungeons in a secret hide-away. However, when he put more thought into it, it seemed quite logical. Hiding away on an island, mutiny becomes more and more likely the more time you spend trapped in this fort. Your allies are only allies until the food runs out.

The stairs took him deep into the depths of the mountain, the walls little more than carved rock, fungi and cobwebs dotting the crevices like blemishes on the stone skin of the stairway. He finally arrived at a massive steel door, guarded by two men in full plate armor.
These men were his most trusted lieutenants, for they were true believers. Other scags fought for coin, or revenge, or just because they thought it was fun, but these men truly believed that they fought for a greater purpose. When Herin gave his speeches to the troops, speaking of freedom from oppression, a return to greater days, these two ate up every word he said. To them, he was a prophet, a messiah. That made them fools in Herin's eyes, but useful fools.

"How is his work going?" Herin asked to the leftmost guard.

"He's... More relaxed, sir." The man replied, looking through the cracks in the top of the door to check on their 'guest'.

"Relaxed? I asked for how his work was going, not the man himself." Herin snapped at the guard. "You know what 'relaxed' means? It means lazy." 
Taking a key from a chain around his neck, Herin unlocked the metal door, the massive object resisting his efforts as best it could, squeaking as it opened. 
"You both are dismissed." 

Without another word, the two guards disappeared up the stairs. Herin was now alone in the dungeon, save for the man who perhaps hated him more than anyone else in the world.

Ambrose Cainum was a brilliant man, an alchemist who was famed for his genius and incredible creations. He once worked in the highest court of Araedia, at the behest of royalty. But he left that life behind to raise his daughter, the apple of his eye. He moved to the coast, away from prying eyes, living off the land. The only alchemical experiments he did anymore were the meals he cooked for him and Eva, his daughter. Only 9 years old, and a budding genius in her own right, at least according to him. He planned on getting old and dying in obscurity, watching his daughter grow up, and leaving this world fulfilled. 
Now, he labored in this makeshift workshop in the darkest bowels of a pirate fortress, working at the behest of a madman in a golden mask. He wasn't allowed any blades or sharp objects for fear he might turn them on himself, so his beard had become a scraggly mess over the past months. Sweat dripped from his brow as he looked over the flaming reaction of his latest experiment. Grabbing a glass of water from the table beside him, he poured it over the orange flames, and swore wildly as they died in a pillar of smoke.

"Another failure, Ambrose?" Came a voice from beside him. 

Ambrose turned, his mouth hanging open in fear for a moment before he forced himself to adopt a more calm expression. It was him, the man who burned his home, who stole his daughter and his freedom, who locked him down here to work on his weapons of war. He only knew him as "Sir", but he had his own name for him, one used behind his back, "Monster". 

"The process is complex, sir. You're asking for something that's impossible! The fact that I've managed to-"

"Never tell me what is impossible, Ambrose. What I asked of you should be very simple for someone of your skills. And yet, you continue to fail me in this, why?" Herin paced the length of the table, making his way towards Ambrose slowly. 

"I-I assure you I'm doing my best, It's just the conditions you offer-"

"Am I not generous enough Ambrose? Do I not give you what you ask for? All your materials and ingredients, tools for your lab, have I not been understanding?" Herin spoke angrily, walking towards Ambrose with purpose, the older man flinching, moving his hands to cover his face.
"Perhaps you are right... I have not done all I could to encourage you, Ambrose, and I apologize for that. How can one be expected to do the impossible without proper motivation?" 
Herin took the small wooden box from his pocket and placed it on the table.
"A gift, for you, from your daughter. Hopefully it helps you focus on your work."

Ambrose looked at the box, a mixture of confused and terrified. He didn't dare open it, his hands were still shaking, the sweat on his brow like a tidal wave rushing down his face. 

"Come on then, open it." Herin said, standing behind Ambrose, guiding his hands towards the small box. He placed the alchemist's leathered hands on the top of the small, casket-like container, and let go. "Open it Ambrose, it's rude to refuse a gift."

Ambrose held his eyes shut, and opened up his gift. When he opened his eyes, he screamed, falling to his knees in tears. Inside the box was a small human finger. 

"Motivation, Ambrose, that's what you lacked. I thought your daughter would provide that, knowing your work kept her safe, but apparently I was wrong."
Herin kept walking around the table, looking at the glass tubes and bottles that held the alchemist's work. 
"I've been kind to you Ambrose, I've kept my word. I never harmed your daughter, I fed her and kept her safe from my men. I even let you see her every week, just to make sure she was still in good health. And what did I get in return?"
Herin stood over the blubbering figure of the alchemist, rage in his eyes. 
"FAILURE! Day after day, you give me nothing but excuses, nothing but failed experiments and half-hearted apologies. I wondered why a man of your genius had such trouble with such simple demands, but then I realized... You think you're protecting her."

"That illusion breaks today. Every two weeks that go by without progress, I take another finger from your daughter. Then toes, then I start to cut off her face. Piece. By. Piece." 
Dropping the box on the ground, Herin stood up. Ambrose began to regain his composure, tears still in his eyes as he got to his knees, his face now a mixture of abject fear and rage. 

"YOU BASTARD! SHE'S A CHILD!" Ambrose charged forwards, grabbing Herin by the collar and raising up a fist to attack him. He was going to kill this monster, end his reign right here in this lab, the guards wouldn't get here in time, he could do it, he could end him and no one could stop him. 

As if reading his mind, Herin simply spoke as Ambrose held his fist inches from the Hanged Captain's golden mask. 
"But it wouldn't save her, would it? You could kill me, but she'd still die. And let me assure you, she'd die painfully. There are a lot of *Nasty* Men in my crew, men even *I* Despise for their abhorrent behavior, and without me to protect her... Well, It's best not to discuss those things."

Once again, Ambrose dropped to his knees, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Herin smiled behind his unflinching gold mask, and walked past the sobbing figure towards the exit.

"Remember Ambrose, your work will free the isles." Herin chuckled cruelly as he said that, perhaps laughing at Amrbose's misfortune, or the words themselves. 

"Liar." Ambrose spat, still on one knee, but leaning on the desk to keep himself upright.

Herin spun around, marching towards Ambrose with rage in each step
"What did you just say? You should mind your tongue, Ambrose, unless you want it cut out!"

Ambrose looked the Hanged Captain dead in the eyes, there was fear there, yes, but also a burning ember of defiance, just enough for this one last act against him.
"You're a liar, *Sir*, the only thing I can't tell is if you believe your own lies or not. You speak of freedom, yet deal in slaves. You call Maith a tyrant, but look at yourself! You're worse than you say he is!"

Herin stood in silence for a moment, fists clenched, rage visible in his eyes, peering out from behind his mask like blue embers. Then, as quickly as his rage came, it disappeared. He stood in front of Ambrose, the very image of calm, and then he laughed. 
A short laugh, the kind one reserved for jokes that weren't quite funny, but still amusing in some way

"You really are a smart one, Ambrose. Smarter than most men I employ. So maybe you deserve to know the truth."

Ambrose was startled, he expected a reaction, but not one like this. What was this game he was playing? Was it a game?

"Tell me what you know of the Tide Barer." Herin asked, looking at the shocked Ambrose

"H-he's the god of the Isles, he-" Ambrose began to stutter more of his answer, but Herin interrupted

"No, Ambrose, he isn't anything, anything except dead, that is. He is worshipped as a god, yes, but he was simply a man, like you or me." Herin picked up a bottle of some strange liquid Ambrose was using, looking through the glass before putting it back down. "It was his deeds that made him great, that brought him to the level of a God. That, Ambrose, is true power. Not the power he wielded in life, no, but the power of perception, to alter how men see you, how they see themselves."

"You called me a liar, a hypocrite, for speaking of freedom while selling men into slavery, but tell me this, what is the difference between a free man and a slave?"

"A free man works by choice, a slave has none." Ambrose replied.

"Really? Tell me, what happens if a man in Maith's fleet refuses to follow orders? Do they simply let him stand there? Or do they flog him, or execute him for mutiny? What happens when the peasants farming the lord's land refuse to work? Are they allowed to do so, or do they send in the knights to brutalize them for their resistance?"

"But they are paid, a slave isn't! You can't simply justify what you're doing with your twisted logic!" 

Ignoring his accusations, Herin continued. "Paid? Yes, but what for? Paid enough to buy food and shelter, things a slave is already given. The only difference between freedom and slavery is perception, the fact that one believes himself free and the other knows he is a slave is all that divides the two."

Ambrose shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around what he had just heard. These words were those of a madman, that was for certain. 
"So is that your point? That we're all slaves, so it doesn't matter if you sell people like animals?!"

Herin laughed again, a mocking laughter, directed at Ambrose.
"Oh Ambrose, so smart, yet so simple. No, you were right the first time. Freedom, slavery, they're just words, meaningless dirvel we peddle to convince men to fight. You know how easy it is to convince people to die for you? All you have to do is mention their 'freedom' being in danger, and they'll line up for the slaughterhouse. I simply want to control what really matters, their perception."

Herin seemed to dominate the room, standing over Ambrose, it was like he was a giant, a demon out of myth, reaching for his soul. 
"And the most powerful tool to control perception is myth, legends, *Godhood*."

"Y-you think you can become a god?" Ambrose almost laughed, he really was mad.

Fast as lightning, Herin grabbed the man by the throat, slamming him against the wall.
"No, Ambrose, I simply know I will be perceived as one. I will be the next Tide Barer, the great liberator of the Isles, and you will help me do it."

He let go, dropping Ambrose to the floor. The older man coughed violently, holding his neck. 
"You think me insane Ambrose? Fine, just remember that this madman controls whether your daughter lives or dies."

Turning from the frail figure of the alchemist, Herin walked to the door, stopping at the threshold for one last look at the old man. 
"You should be honored, Ambrose, not everyone gets to be touched by God."

The metal door slammed, and Ambrose was left alone in the dimly lit dungeon, only the sound of his own coughing and the skittering of the rats. As he returned to his work, he broke down in tears again, his last ounce of hope finally lost. He and his daughter were the prisoners of a madman, a demon playing god, and he was going to help him burn down the heavens.