Barbara
Sir Fulton Coxe 
The Siren's Call, Brindelle 

"Sir Oreson, I'm glad you're here, means I've finally got competition. Perhaps in a bit we'll take to the table if you feel up to the challenge." Fulton gave Oreson a nudge on his rather round midsection after handing him the sherry he'd inquired about. "I was going about my duties earlier and was asked if you'd lost weight," He said to his longtime friend, "And all I replied was 'If Sir Buckle has lost weight, he needs only to check under his shirt to find it.'" 

He'd heard Tate's whining about women, and let out a loud groan before addressing the man. "If you want to bask in your fellow man then that's your business, good sir, but there's nothing wrong with Sir Meese asking for Miss Partridge's assistance in polishing his lance. You've no business telling another man where to sheathe his blade, and I personally don't want him to be exercising his sword arm for the rest of his days." Fulton jested as he turned his attention to the squire and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Be careful with Sir Tate here, you can read about knights and practice your manners all you like, but pleasantries won't stop steel from rending your flesh." He passed a full mug into the boy's free hand, "And for the love of the gods, boy, drink. It might turn you into a man one of these days."
Nancy
Ser Oreson Buckle
The Siren's Call, The North Shore

 When Ser Fulton commented on his weight, Ser Oreson did not seem to recognize. Instead, as he descended down to stairs, he leaned heavily against the railing. He gestured to the young knights at the table before him. A young boy, no older than seven, came beside him with his cup, and the goblet of sherry sack fell into his fat hand. "And now be a lamb and fetch the chair for this old knight, would you?"

"These sober blooded boys..." He took a deep sip from his goblet and when he pulled away, his grey moustache was sodden. "There has been many a battle over your cups.. But such thin potations do not inspire me so. Wine and beer make for foul replacements that spoil the humors and drives the pleasure of fools and cowards and tavern brawlers but this..." He held the cup aloft, "Is perhaps your greatest gift to me. And for that? I shall sup with you." He downed the cup, tipping it backwards and spilling the contents down into his mouth. And just as he began to sit, the boy had just managed to push the great red chair beside the table. When he fell ponderously backwards, the great leather chair creaked, but held. The boy, who was nearly crushed, had not seemed to notice. "And another, on these fine golden knights." The boy took the goblet and ran back to the bar.

There were speckles of sherry in his beard when he looked at Ser Meese. If Ser Oreson was to be believed, they had once been the same height. 

"And lo, Ser Sterling. You must hold tightly to that catspaw. There is old magic in these things."
Dorothy
Sir Sterling Meese
The Sirens' Call tavern, Brindelle

Everyone at the table seemed to thankfully be distracted by the arrival of Sir Oreson. He sounded like he had just woken up and looked as though he'd be dead before the end of the year, but he had looked that way for several years now. "Do I appear to be a man in need of luck?" Sir Sterling asked, nursing his most recent whack to the head. "Especially from magic as bloody as this." He noticed the rabbit blood congealing as it leaked down his forearm.
Frank
Sir Heath Romanov
*The Siren's Call*, Brindelle 

Sir Heath blinked at Sterling's story, barely able to make out his words over the roar from the table over. It astounded him that a knight of his guard had so little insight when it came to women. He cleared his throat and shook his head. "It'd be a shame to let Miss Partridge's affection toward you go to waste. Though if you were to bend yourself over for men, as Sir Tate suggests, I'd rather not hear of it, " Heath said, leaning his chair back on its two legs and slowly rocking as he considered his commrade's predicament. He grinned good-naturedly at Sir Tate, offering over a drag from his own cigarette. The booming voice of a god came down from above, causing everyone to lift their heads. Sir Oreson, the oldest man Heath had ever known, lumbered down the wooden stairs and joined the group. Heath did not estimate it would take long for Oreson to catch up to Fulton's state of intoxication. He figured he should pick up his own pace. 

"Another rum, love," Heath said to the passing barmaid, "A round for the entire table, if you don't mind." 

"Of course, Sir Romanov," She smiled. Heath joined his palms together in thanks. She came back shortly thereafter and Heath passed a glass to Sterling. 

"You're the *Unluckiest* Fucker in Feyshore," Heath said, tipping back his glass.
Amber
'Sir Heath!' Oreson called, 'To see you in such good spirits should make the mouth wet for a spirit itself.' Well-said, thought Tate. 

He loved the old fellow for his honesty, deeper than perhaps even the man himself was aware, and always had a chuckle to give at his comrade's seemingly unquenchable thirst for his choice of wines. Fulton going on as freely as ever about his games of chance was not so amusing to him, but his sour regard could not keep up against Fulton's rib at Oreson's weight. The man's usual manners belied his sparkling wit; that much Tate had to admit, if only to himself.

'You're the *Unluckiest* Fucker in Feyshore,' said Heath. Tate barked a laugh.

'I'll second that,' he put in with a grin. 'And if you need 'old' magic to sort it, there's surely no better man than our good friend here!' He nudged Oreson's arm, snickering his cattish little snicker, as he claimed his glass of rum.
Wallace
**Squire Valentyne Drayton
The Siren's Call, North Feyshore**

Valentyne drank more of his ale and smoked his cigarette as Sir Sterling told his long-winded story. Ever the polite young lad, Valentyne set his mug down and nodded with acknowledgement when Sterling was done speaking.

"Don't worry, Sir. I believe you," Valentyne calmly responded. Not long after this, though, Fulton made his way over to Valentyne, and the boy very softly sighed as he was semi-forcibly subject to the brutal knight's attempts to indoctrinate him into full barbarism. Valentyne simply listened, accepted the full mug of ale, and began drinking lightly from it as he smoked his cigarette. He was about halfway down already, and it took every bit of him to not cough his lungs out. He hated it, but he smoked it regardless. In for a penny, in for a pound, is what he always said. Thankfully, though, Tate came to Valentyne's rescue from such nonsense, ensuring he didn't have to say a damn thing. Valentyne nodded again towards Sir Tate, smiling very lightly as he listened to his master's advice. Soon after that, though, the group of knights and the lone squire were joined by Sir Oreson Buckle, another well-renowned knight in the lands of Feyshore. The table was definitely a full house now, and Valentyne took the typical silent option, opting not to say much of anything as he lightly drank his ale and began finishing his cigarette.