Harvey
Captain Valkrin Farensun
Maith Mansion

"Cecilia," He started, completely finishing the mug of rum she'd sat in front of him in one sip, "I can't believe after all this time you'd forget I don't drink ale." 

Valkrin handed the mugs off to a servant, who brought him back an entire bottle of rum. "How's my favorite subhuman? And did you see the way those bastards nearly killed each other over Kelwynd's skull? Imagine if they figured out I have his crown too." He had no love for elves or their ilk, nor any other race below men, but the Shifters he admired. To change one's shape was a skill he found useful, and the reason he'd worked with this woman in the past. 

Cecilia Lyannah was one of very few people that Valkrin enjoyed the presence of, and possibly the only woman on the planet more dangerous for him than he was for her.
Christina
Cecilia Lyannah
Maith Mansion, Tonate

Her shoulders shrugged in an uncaring manner when he mentioned her failure to remember his usual drink. "I just remember you drink... Heavily. In all honesty, I'm still trying to decide who is the worst alcoholic between you and Heath." As a servant made her way towards their table after being signaled by Valkrin, Cecilia grew silent whilst the two exchanged the mugs and bottle of his chosen liquor. Once she left, Cecilia returned to their conversation. 

"Let's just say you'll probably be seeing me around the isles a lot more than you're used to." She decided to avoid telling him how she'd been to avoid the risk of embarrassment, considering she had fucked up big time on the mainland. So when he mentioned squabble from earlier in regards to the skull of Kelwynd, Cecilia's eyes lit up with a devious thought which was replicated with her cunning smirk. 

"Why would you tell me this? Do you know the urge it gives me to yell out that fact?" She questioned before resting her back against the chair's wooden frame and crossed her arms gently over her chest in a relaxful manner. "You're lucky I'm trying to avoid any attention coming my way."
Erik
**Galt-Drake Geare
Maith Mansion, Southern Isles**

As the court of wealthy nobles proceeded on with their dinner and general intermingling, talking amongst one another and enjoying the revelries of the festival at the Maith Mansion, one pirate dwelled in the midst of it all, shadowed by his crew. Galt-Drake quietly sat at a separate table with a group of his crewmates from his own ship, drinking a cup of wine. Time went on, though, and the nature of the gathering shifted. The dinner changed trajectory, and slowly but surely, the congregation of nobles began to get up and head out to the balcony. Some attendants began gathering different colored ribbons. In accordance with Islander culture, dark ribbons were reserved for men, and lighter ribbons were reserved for women. Everything about the dance that was starting up was lavish and rife with the best of Islander culture. Musicians began gathering throughout the balcony and started up a generally jaunty type of music, using their drums, fiddles, hurdy-gurdies, and other such instruments to great effect. Nobles from all over began getting their ribbons and dancing as best they could, although most mainlanders were easily being shown up by the Islanders. Galt-Drake looked towards his crew, and the group of scoundrels shared a mutual nod. Galt-Drake stood up with his lads and headed over to the ribbon providers, each man grabbing a dark ribbon. He then addressed each of his men in a calm but commanding fashion, which was normal for him.

Galt-Drake boldly stated, "Alright, lads, here's the plan! Each of us are gonna try gettin' a dance with at least one noblewoman. Anyone who can work their charm on at least three gets a pint on me. Go get 'em, lads, and remember to be classy!"

Galt-Drake's men then sauntered off, surprisingly sober, and each of them attempted to get a dance with a noblewoman, to varying degrees of success. Galt-Drake, though, seemed to have pretty much no success at all. The first noblewoman Galt-Drake approached didn't even acknowledge him, and the second lady he approached immediately went off towards another nobleman. Galt-Drake shrugged, not putting too much stock into all of this. All the same, the dance was finally underway.

Galt-Drake put his ribbon down on an empty table somewhere and rolled his eyes slightly, no longer possessing any real desire to try dancing with anyone in that current moment. This just wasn't the time or place for him to work his charm, it seemed.

"Pah, to hell with all that. I'll find somethin' else to do. I owe some of my lads a pint anyways," Galt-Drake muttered to himself. He then grabbed a mug, filled it with ale, and scoured the area with his vision to see if there were any tables worth sitting at. He eventually spotted such a table, populated by the legendary Valkrin Farensun and... Some other lady. She definitely seemed to be a tad familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it at the moment. All the same, that was the only table that looked interesting, so Galt-Drake decided he'd sit with the two of them. Galt-Drake calmly walked over to the table Cecilia and Valkrin were sitting at, and then took his seat right next to Cecilia. The young privateer set his mug down on the table and nodded politely to regard Valkrin, before looking over at Cecilia with a brow slightly raised. He waited until there was a pause in the conversation before fully entering and saying his piece.

"I know full well who Valkrin is, but who the hell are you?" Galt-Drake casually inquired.
Antonio
*Cursed with greatness*—that was how the Seneschal went on to describe it. It was a bastard's place to watch and learn from their queer, twilight seat in the affairs of men, a place between power and insignificance that no other man or woman could ever really achieve, or even understand. With the wisdom they learned, some went on to be great. The stuff of legend; the most inspiring a hero could be. When the hearts of praised rulers failed, and the masses trembled, one bastard sagacious beyond his years would step out of their path-in-between and into the breach of danger. One careful stride forward into the line between life and death. There were always between life and death, in a way. Most of these years, ***He*** Certainly had been.

' Who am I to get in the way of fate? ' the Seneschal pondered aloud. And truly, when Samsom looked at the man, he saw right through him. He gazed into Samsom's emerald eyes, and he saw a gateway to the path he'd always felt with his feet, but which he had never truly seen for its length, and its breath, and its divering ways. Above all, never had he realized how much father he had to go. He was twenty-seven this year, and was sure that the end of his road was in sight, be it death or some acceptable satisfaction that would ease his soul out to its audience with the Most Perfect. Something in the Seneschal's oozing, noxious spirit seemed to flicker at him, lure him forward. On this path of his, he had barely learned to walk. His legs were on the verge of tremulations.

Maybe. Or maybe this was just the Black Asp with whom he was dealing, but six times as venomous.

' Those are some dangerous suggestions, friend. Especially for a knight of Terresol.' He looked down a moment, then turned a slight, mirthless smile up to the Seneschal. ' Maybe I've got no place talking about risks.'
** **

Samsom diverted his gaze to one of the blue lamps, hanging from a crudely hewn banyan branch by a chain. He took a step astray of the Seneschal and reached out for one of the lamps, catching in the lowest ring of his vision the way that the oceanic luminescence danced all across his silver-pannelled tunic, lighting it up underneath the lip of his short cloak like a sunstruck bay. He gazed into that light, letting his eyes turn soft so as not to be hurt by the light, but only to absorb it. Where once there had been a chilling lack of ease, his brain felt pure now, and his thoughts ran clear with only the faintest ripples of a deep, unshakable anxiety in the revealing of them.

' Maybe I'm a mage, maybe I'm not. But I know people in Terresol who certainly are mages.' He felt the smooth texture of the glass, warm with the power that glowering out from within. ' To be honest, they've got me around their little finger. Not ashamed to say that.' He let the Seneschal see his eyes again, schooling his expression. ' What I did to end up that way, I'd do it again. But it's how things are for me right now.'

There was some shift in the foliage, and Samsom found himself snapped away for a moment. His eyes darted around, and his hands ached for the feeling of a sword hilt. He was as good as naked out here; so the Seneschal certainly made him feel. Little to be done about it now. He was over the hump of the dark business now, anyway; past the most crucial confession. Maybe he could allow himself to be just a little bit afraid now.

' These people get me to do things. Asked me to come here, and do my best to bring Lutur along with me. It's going more or less my way so far.' Not that any of this was really going ' his way '.
** **

Samsom studied the Seneschal. The Black Asp had taken a massive leap in expecting the man's confidence. Samsom was less and less sure that shadow-man had made the right choice sending him here with every word the Seneschal spoke. This Azaryan saw things, and moreover, he wanted to see things a certain way, and had a mind to twist and pull them until they were closer to that vision. That was his assessment, at least. This was not a man to serve someone like the Pirate King as a mere magic dog.

He drew closer with careful eyes, laying a hand on the twisted 'seat' in the roots. ' Wanted me to talk to you in particular, Seneschal. None of them could do it. Back home, they're all either too obvious or too lowly to get things done in a place like this. Only me. You know—bastard's work.'

Samsom swallowed then. A frown bore down on his brow, and he let it come. ' Truth is, I'm going to be going a certain way in this war. I don't like it, but it's where I'm going. What my acquaintances want to know is that, if things go ***Your*** Way—' he looked off to the palace—'or well, ***His*** Way, at least ... '

This was the real kick. He drew a soft breath, threw another eye around, then met the Seneschal's gaze straight-on. ' They want to know if Bradai will lean towards their favour. They want to know that maybe you and the king'll take a leaf out of Anyanka Durkhan's book. You know—make something out of the ashes of Terresol that suits people like them, and you.' He tapped his finger against the root. In spite of himself, he found his eyes falling to the grass, contemplative, and the words came out like curious hounds sniffing through a strange new field: ' And maybe me too.'

His eyes turned sharp, his face straight and hard. ' But the kind of man I'd trust the way you want me to, against a threat of such magnitude? The men whose blood he bears would have taken back every inch that the barbarians had stolen by now. He would have borne the northern exarchates up on his shoulders. That's what I would have done, steward. That's what I ***Shall*** Do when my time comes. I'll have them all, steward. Their lands. Their smoking monasteries. Their women.' He leaned closer, too close, and one of his eyes was narrow as his face twitched, straining against the turgid ardour that raged against his boyish features from within that thick, blocky head. ' If John de Burgh comes, Cyprien, then I won't just hunker down and try to cling onto what I myself possess. I won't do so, won't follow the pitiful example of De Lysses past. No, I will strike ***Back*** As the viper does, I will ***Rage*** Across your hills and beyond, as the bull does.'

Lutur stood up to face the marquis, and smiled. There was some mirth in it, but something behind that mirth as well, something that made the sheen of content stretch and burn like cloth over a flame. ' And when I rage, Cyprien—if you keep my confidence in the calm before that storm—then you will be at my side. That will be a season of good things, Cyprien. I hope that the De Lysses will ***Not*** Fail, Cyprien. I pray with all my heart that Saris will lead your son—your proud, proud, stalwart boy-child—to an honourable death, one that'll teach him Saris' wisdom as he lays dying. That's the best you can hope for him. And for yourself, and the rest of your house? It's ***Redemption*** That I'll be praying for Cyprien. A merciful end to your sempiternal hermitage in that cold, godless eyrie you call a 'keep'.'
** **

He sat back onto the table, still smiling his brutal smile at the exarch. His lady companion, with some discernable unease, joined him at his side, and he laid an arm around her shoulder. The other hand took up a cup of spiced wine, and he lifted it to the small gathering of curious faces that his mild outburst had garnered. The way he revelled in their attention was plain on his face.

When his eyes settled once more on Cyprien, his simper broke into a bright grin. ' Will the eagles carry on picking at seeds, steward? Or will they ***Fly***? ' And to suit that word, he threw his arms up in an exaggerated caricature of flapping wings. A flick of wine flashed across the table from his cup, the lady at his flank jumped with shock, and the gathered nobility laughed. Most of it was fake; most of it was pandering to a man of high station who was strutting around his vassal with more peacock pride than any of the rainbow-plumed birds the king had let loose around the tables.

' I for one,' said Lutur, stopping to take a long sip of his wine, ' am positively chomping at the bit to see which way it will be.'
Elissa
Peraz Dumagne 
The Ball, Maith Mansion

Peraz had just opened her mouth to speak before her brother dismissed her.

"This is a conversation for men of import". Her face displayed a degree of shock for a moment.

Peraz could have laughed! If their father had lived to see what the boy had become he would have been livid. It took every ounce of her strength not to take it from his head and toss it across the ground like a vexed child.

She picked up her glass and downed the remaining alcohol within it, letting whatever the drink within to burn all the way down inside of her throat before setting it back down, just lighter than a slam, and standing.

*What am I meant to do now*? She thought, frowning. Her eyes scanned the crowd to see if Samsom had returned from his conversation with the Azaryan and felt her face drop further. She truly felt like a child, wanting for her best friend to link arms with and huff with the familiar feeling of a trembling lip.

*I am the dragon of Falsa*, she thought, *I will not cry*.

It was then that the dance had begun, it was something jaunty and new. The music was so loud and quick that Peraz found herself drawn to its unfamiliar sound, free of holy hymnals and psalms and perfect for getting your annoying little brother's words from your head.

And that's how she found herself twirling and tripping over her feet. The drink had brought out her true unrestrained laughter as a red headed Islander pointed to his feet and tried to teach her the proper steps before twirling her into another partner.
Christina
Cecilia Lyannah
Maith Mansion, Tonate

Her attention was taken from Valkrin when an unknown male brought himself to the table, her gaze lifting from one man to another with an amused expression. The way he introduced herself was something that intrigued her, enjoying the bluntness of his lack of knowledge in regards to who she was. She didn't bother to stand, instead her brow rose as the skin on the outer corner of her eyes crinkled from withholding a small laugh. "I'm nobody." Was her simple reply before a grin took over. "But you can call me Arabella. Now, who the hell are *You*?"

She cocked her head slightly as she spoke while attempting to slip her voice into Val's mind, hoping he wouldn't fight her on speaking telepathically. *Just go along with the name*. She wasn't sure if he heard her, she simply hoped he was inebriated enough for her to break through.
Felicia
```Cyprien de Lysse
Maith Mansion```

Cyprien bowed respectfully when Lutur finished, in deed if not in heart. He saw himself out even as the young lord returned to his harlot.

He moved trough the dancers at an an hastened pace, gaze darting everywhere yet nowhere at all.
Lutur. Lutur Dumagne. Thinking of him made a burning hatred raise from his troat. Why was he so angry? Was it the complete and utter lack of awareness of the Falsan lord? The way he insulted him and his House? How he had implied that Bastien deserved to end as food for carrion animals?

Perhaps it was everything at once. He had treated with entitled upstarts before, just not one that also happened to be his liege. Being the lord of a House of arrogant scions had taught Cyprien that the calibre of a man was in reverse proportion to their need to make their worth known.

It was a belief that had yet to be proven false.

He saw Peraz struggling to retain balance in the dance floor. He averted his sight. He'd had enough of the Dumagnes for one evening.
His head turned towards Fleur. The sight of his daughter went a long way towards washing the bile of his choler, but the woman standing next to her prevented him from purging it entirely.

Kolgrim. One of his vassals, at least in theory. Truth be told, Thorne couldn't be considered anyhting other than a liability. But he was dead now, wasn't he? Who was now in charge of the House? The Kolgrim woman would know.

"My beautiful daughter!" Announced Cyprien as he grabbed Fleur around her shoulders. His eyes were already moving towards Calypso. "And Lady Kolgrim! Forgive me for not being able to offer my condolences earlier. My mind has been troubled by all sorts of preoccupations. Issues now solved thanks to the generosity of House Dumagne," He lied.
Cedric
Bastien de Lysse
The Ball, Maith Mansion

Bastien saw how Calypso's cheeks flushed slightly, and she was smiling. And then there was distance made between them, the smile disappeared, and she excused herself. It seemed urgent. He turned as she left, and saw that she had disappeared in the crowd. *'Hm,'* He said to himself, staring at the ground blankly, trying to process what they had just done. What *He* Had just done. A faint blush crept on his cheeks as the boldness of his words echoed in his head.

He had indeed drank a good deal of alcohol.

It seemed that many began to flood the dance floor, much to his dismay. Before he could escape, he knew that a new song was about to begin. He had no choice but to dance. *'Gods, why me,'* He asked the sky as he looked up. The eyes of women were once again upon him. He needed to find a partner before a partner found him.

A loud laugh made him turn his head, and he saw the Dragon of Falsa twirling and dancing in a manner that made him almost certain she had a good bit to drink. *'Great minds think alike,'* He thought dryly as he wove his way over. The sight of her made him oddly nervous, and a bit self-conscious. It seemed like it had been so long ago that they had last seen one another. And yet she seemed ultimately the same, perhaps even lovelier. Young love was painful, and yet the fondness he had felt for her so long ago felt to bubble up as he heard her laugh once more.

The music was starting to meld into a new song, and he saw Peraz being instructed by an Islander man on how to dance. *'Has she not much experience with dancing?'* He wondered as he approached, his expression curious as he watched her. Her feet seemed to be unbalanced. Perhaps it was due to the alcohol. Before he could ask her if he could have this dance, she twirled right in front of him and stopped, facing him.
** **

"Ah," He said, and he seemed a small bit flustered. The mix of what he had just said to Calypso and the sight of seeing his childhood béguin before him was a bit overwhelming. The slightly tense and bewildered expression turned a bit more genuine and soft as he smiled down at her, offering his hands for her to hold, wordlessly imploring her to dance. "You twirl as beautifully as ever, Lady Dumagne."
Matthew
|Fabian Ambrose|

|Sixteen Rings|

Now in his armour, Fabian watched as chaos broke free around him. Much like when he had been relaxing before, he stayed to the sidelines and attempted to avoid as much attention as possible. But of course, this was a grand melee, he couldn't stay away from it forever without being disqualified. Hearing the sound of steel against leather, he lurched to the side, avoiding a would be disabling blow. Now he turned to face his sudden attacker with his own steel brandished. He had always admired the sword he had taken from his former and unfortunate master, being a almost masterwork of a blade- and much to high-quality for him to have purchased for himself, but he doubted anyone would notice that in the clumped bodies of the melee. Looking past his weapon, he spotted the man who attacked him, he was old and scarred, perhaps a former soilder or a Knight who fought one to many battles. His Pondering was cut short as the man lunged again, sword clashing against Fabians, it was easy to keep pace with his opponents slashes, stabs, and feints. Moving back a few steps, he saw his opponent attempting to slash at his neck, prompting Fabian to duck. To his surprise, he heard the sword strike home- not in him, but some other poor fellow fighting some other soul. Fabian shot out his leg into the knee of his the man who was attempting to pull his sword back, sending him tumbling from his blade and the poor soul it was now stuck in. The sounds of battle faded as he put a foot on the mans chest and put the tip of his blade to his throat.

"Yield."

And with that the man made a noise, it was clear he was yielding but Fabian hadn't the time to care about the exact words. He pulled his blade away, and looked around the field, cursing as he watched a large man crush some poor fop in golden armour's head- and decided to avoid that section of the brawl completely. It wasn't long before another body came and Fabian was forced into another duel..
Harvey
Captain Valkrin Farensun 
Maith Mansion

*The name? Dear, I'm going to have more fun than that.* He'd heard her words faintly, and allowed her to slip into his mind. As he spoke to Cecilia, he slid his hands over the table on top of hers, and turned his attention back to the new face. 

"Boy, you come to my table uninvited, you immediately interject into a conversation you're not part of, then have the *Gall* To ask her who she is? Do you not recognize the face of Arabella Farensun immediately? Or are you and your boys too inclined towards me that you'd rather forget my wife?" Valkrin's expression remained a serious one, years of experience lying his way in and out of anything taught him a confidence in everything he said. 

The young man had disturbed him, no matter the flattery he put on, and needed to be reminded that this was not a shipdeck where actions would be discarded in minutes. This was a Royal Function, and the actions of any Privateer reflected on the Pirate King, and more importantly Valkrin himself.