Wallace
Squire Valentyne Drayton
The Siren's Call, North Feyshore

Valentyne, quiet as ever, simply nursed a mug of ale that his master, Sir Tate Earnshaw, had purchased for him. The antics outside and inside the tavern were easily heard by the attentive young lad, and he found it all quite amusing, even if his consistently neutral facial expression failed to betray it. Upon being looked at by Tate, Valentyne returned the motion with a calm gaze of his own, followed by the faint hint of a smile whilst he silently nursed his beverage. Valentyne set the beverage down gently as Tate spoke, and decided to actually say something in return for once. The trip alongside the boy was probably a little boring thus far, considering Valentyne very rarely chose to speak. His eyes were plenty expressive when he wanted them to be, though, so Tate probably had a general idea of what Valentyne was thinking when he chose to betray it.

Valentyne calmly and coolly stated to Tate, "I'd much rather you be the knight I serve under than most of the gentlemen here, to be truthful. You're the kind of knight I actually read about as a younger lad. I generally just chalk this arrangement up to fate and good blessings."

Valentyne then promptly shut up, going completely silent again and resuming the quiet drinking of his mug as Tate called over Sir Sterling Meese. Valentyne paid enough attention to know who all these knights were, along with their general reputations, so he found it far more favorable that Tate called over Sterling, as opposed to Fulton. Then again, Fulton was piss-drunk and pissing on the flowerbeds, so it was highly unlikely he'd be able to saunter over even if requested. Regardless, Valentyne watched quietly and waited, interested in seeing how events would unfold.
Frank
Sir Heath Romanov
*The Siren's Call*, Brindelle
The North Shore

"It's a shame you have a mortal liver. Another year or so of drinking like this and you would easily be as rich as a Romanov," The barmaid commented to Sir Fulton as she whisked away their emptied mugs. Heath laughed and flicked his cigarette ash to the sticky ground, side-stepping the staggering man as he made his way outside. Lord Edward was unconscious on the floor, likely drowning in a puddle of his own blood. Graciously, Heath used his foot to turn Sir Edwards face to the side before spotting a pair of his own and making his way over to them shortly after Sir Sterling.

"Sir Tate, Sir Sterling," Heath greeted each with a nod. Cigarette dangling between his lips he pulled up a chair with both hands and sat, lacing his fingers behind his shaggy, sandy locks. He motioned toward Sir Fulton's retreating back, "I trust you enjoyed the show. Fulton will be footing the bill for the rest of the night. He made a small, bloody fortune."

Sir Tate was one of Feyshore's more polished knights, known for his impeccable appearance and apparent inability to stray from decorum. It was these attributes that earned him the queen's favor, though nobody aside from Heath knew it. His squire, it seemed, was cut from the same, silken cloth. When he originally joined the knight's academy, Heath had assumed he was of Araedian blood. His name was unusual for a Feyorian and he carried himself with a silent grace. 
The pair appeared to still be on their first drinks of the night. Heath reached into his pocket and unearthed his leather cigarette case, holding one out to the squire. "Have one," He said, keeping it extended until the boy took one. 

It was then that he noticed the sick expression on Sterling's face. "What happened to you?" He asked. It seemed that, more often than not, something *Always* Happened to Sterling.
Dorothy
Sir Sterling Meese
The Sirens' Call tavern, Brindelle

Upon entering the tavern, Sir Sterling was beckoned by Sir Tate to a table with his squire. He gave a wave of acknowledgement while attempting to sidestep Lord Edward on the ground, making him unaware of the low-hanging wooden beam that smacked him in the head. With a grunt of pain, he continued to the waiting seat with Sir Heath following immediately behind him. Before he could get a word out, Heath began to fill them in about the events thus far of the evening.

"I stayed late for the night guard transition, and then after I left some children were committing mischief in the street. Dealt with that... Hit my head on a wagon in the process." Sterling droned on. "I also ran into Miss Partridge outside her flower shop. I might have mentioned her. Makes a good soup. She asked me to help out with her cat which is... Uh... Is missing." A few seconds passed. "How about you lot?" He asked quickly to change the subject.
Barbara
Sir Fulton Coxe 
The Siren's Call, Brindelle 

As Fulton finished up, he clasped his belt and let out a loud burp. On his way back into the tavern, he came across the corpse of a mangled cat, and tore the back right foot off for a good luck charm. 

Ducking his head to fit through the door, he bellowed out to the rest of the outfit, "Boys, drinks are on me tonight. Well, technically on Lord Edward and the other fella I didn't catch the name of, but it's still free." He walked over to Sir Sterling and deposited the cat foot into his hand, grinning. "Can make a necklace out of that, give it to your Miss Partridge, for good luck." He clapped the man on the shoulder and leaned himself on the bar, the wood creaking under his weight. "Consider that my wedding gift for you, mate." 

Fulton ordered another round for the lot of them, shooting a wink at the barmaid while she passed out the mugs. "Heath, we might have to accompany good Sir Meese to his dinner, don't want him embarrassing himself in front of a woman like that."
Frank
Sir Heath Romanov 
*The Sirens' Call*, Brindelle

"How thoughtful. Miss Partridge loves cats," Heath mused, eyes fixed on the cat blood that began to trickle down Sterling's pale wrist.
Wallace
**Squire Valentyne Drayton
The Siren's Call, North Feyshore**

Valentyne, as usual, watched and waited alongside his master. Upon noticing Sir Heath approaching, Valentyne regarded the man with a polite nod of his own. He expected an exchange of nods to be the extent of the interaction, but it appeared Heath wanted to be gracious and offer the young lad a cigarette. Valentyne wasn't a smoker. In fact, he despised the damn things. However, Valentyne would be damned if he was going to be impolite, so he politely took one out of the case. Ever curious, Valentyne sniffed the item and raised a brow due to the strange smell. 

"Thank you kindly, Sir Heath," Valentyne calmly delivered, along with a polite smile to drive the point home. Valentyne committed to the bit in spite of the fact cigarettes smelled strange, and subsequently put the cigarette in his mouth, before walking over to a nearby lit torch. The young lad then held his jaw-length hair back to prevent it from being singed and then leaned forward towards the torch, lighting the end of the cigarette up with an impressive degree of precision. Valentyne then stepped away, let his hair back down, and returned to his place at Tate's side, letting the smoke from his cigarette drift up towards the ceiling. Just as he returned with a lit cigarette, though, Valentyne noticed the proper arrival of Sir Sterling Meese and the subsequent return of Sir Fulton Coxe, who came straight out of the gates grilling Sterling in a most ruthless manner. Valentyne found this, as well, to be very amusing, but he was perfect at maintaining a calm and neutral expression in even the funniest of situations. Sir Tate's statement regarding women was similarly amusing, but it also left room for contemplation. Valentyne wondered, though, if Tate really was onto something genuine about the issues of knights and their dynamics with fair maidens, or if the gallant man was just battling for a different court. Valentyne would not dare raise such a question, though, evidenced by his continued silence.
Dorothy
Sir Sterling Meese
An uncomfortable situation in The Sirens' Call tavern, Brindelle

Sterling's hand shook when the bloodied cat's paw was placed within his hand. "Thanks," He was able to manage, voice breaking.

"It was just dinner." Sterling said at Sir Tate's implication that his mind was clouded by Miss Partridge, putting the foot away as he spoke. "It's probably just to say thanks. You see, Valentyne," Sir Sterling turned his attention to the squire, who he assumed may not be as familiar with the details. "I knew Miss Partridge when we were kids. We played a lot of games, pretended to be married. Silly kid things, you know. We even had an old hidden wooden crate that was our 'house.' We drifted apart as we got older. She travelled a lot for all the beauty pageants she won. Then after became a squire, I spent a few months away from the city, and in that time her father died, and her mother had to move them away to somewhere more affordable. Since I was away for training, she just left me a letter of goodbye, but no return address because she didn't know where they were going. I didn't see her for years until not too long ago when I walked in to the shop she now owns the exact moment she was being robbed. The guy quickly shifted his attention to me because I was wearing my guard garb, and she ran into the next room. I went at him with my sword, but I hit my head on one of her shelves, which knocked over a stone flowerpot that caved in the thief's head. I woke up with my head in her lap saying, 'Sterling, it's you.' She was crying a bit, which I assume was just from the stress of the situation. She asked if there was anything she could do for me to repay what I did, I said I came to get some flowers if she could help pick some out. She asked for whom, and I said for my mother's birthday. She said 'GREAT!" I assume because they would be less of a write-off, which is understandable in this economy. She also invited me over for dinner." 
** **

"So, you see, it's just a simple way to say thanks for the robbery stopping."
Nancy
Ser Oreson Buckle
His House, Brindelle

His head had a dull ache. Whatever was going on, it had woken him up. He sat up, removing a hand which had settled in his breechcloth during the night. There was a scream and a crash, the sound of cursing. He groaned, propping himself up into an upright position, his stomach taut and round against his legs. His throat was dry. _A good sherry sack,_ he thought. He smacked his lips and rolled over onto his side, pushing one thick leg, then the other off the bed. Something cracked when he stood and when he straightened his back and bent his knees, more pops followed. _A good sherry sack would wake up the old bones._ 

Another crash from beneath the floorboards sent the small taper candle wobbling, and he held it steady with a meaty fist as he lit the wick, although that only made it seem to wobble harder. The noise from outside was growing unbearable.

"A good sherry..." He muttered, leaning over and stumbling to the door. He searched for his shoes, the fine leather boots the color of wine, only to find that they were already on his feet. He watched as another shake sent sprinkles of dust from the boards of the ceiling, and the candle he had lit fall of the side of his writing desk, plunging the room back into darkness. When he opened the door of his house and stepped out onto the upper balcony of the Siren's Call, he slapped his hands on the railing and began to spy for those he knew. Ser Oreson Buckle was fat for a priest, let alone a knight. His entire body was draped in a massive swath of bright red cloth, with a great green sash across his swollen belly and a great leather belt, synched with a tarnished silver buckle that, had he been given a squire, would have been shined. When he inspected the room, he did so over the great crest of his red round cheeks, which settled down his neck and right into his rounded chest. 

When he saw Ser Fulton Coxe, who was always good for a fine sherry sack, burst through the front doors, the fat old man meant to call out to him, until he saw who he was walking to. It was not every day that a Romanov bought drinks.

"Ser Heath!" Ser Buckle placed a hand on his stomach, "To see you in such good spirits should make the mouth wet for a spirit itself."

Ser Oreson was an old knight, and when he was sober, he spoke in fine poetry and song. He was not sober now, or was he often.

"And a good sherry sack, I should think. With good castle sliver."