Sarah
Arin Cragton
Taemar

Arin's eyes grew wide as she pulled out the coin. He couldn't hide it, he never did have a good poker face. He shook his head and stood up straight, frowning. His stomach growled and he looked down at the ground, before looking back up. "I may have.. Lied. Things aren't going so great. Maybe I will join you." He said, lowering his head. He wasn't lying, exactly. It was true that the coins in his pocket were all he had, but he also wasn't lying about the people in the town. He just didn't feel right about taking money from people who did no wrong. He looked up and nodded. 

"When do we leave?" He asked, before whistling sharply. Arin's horse began trotting over from where it was resting. "I can be ready whenever." He said.
Kathleen
Jack MacLerie
Increasingly living up to the family disappointment, Vallen

Jazzy was of the opinion that a gentleman was to never see two four o'clocks in a single day so, naturally, he slept long after the rooster had cried for morning, far into the afternoon until night was drawing close, the last flickers of sun beginning to die atop the horizon.

Jazzy, as he had come to be known, woke not to the smell of baked bread below his apartments but to the shaking tremors that a lack of substances left him with. From under a pile of soft duvets, a hand slowly shot out from the depths and felt around the bedside table, picking up bottle after bottle until one felt heavy enough, then sitting up (groaning from a pounding head ache), he took a swig.

His throat had dealt with harsher liquids before and the vague burn almost felt therapeutic, grounding him in the reality around him. Reality like, it was sun down and he hadn't left bed yet.

Getting up, he readied himself for night at the nearest tavern (*The Burnt* Something - he'd never bothered learning the name). In front of a mirror, he layered powder over the purple under his eyes and he dressed in his cleanest deep green doublet and trunk hose which almost disguised the gauntness of his frame.

With one last look in his mirror Jazzy ruffled his hair, gave himself a lopsided smile and an encouraging thumbs up then shouldered his lute and began his walk to the tavern.

The walk was uneventful and unmemorable. If the way to the tavern wasn't already muscle memory then Jack was sure he would have disassociated long enough to find himself on the other side of the town. Instead he found himself inside a warm, slightly crowded bar. His eye caught quickly on a comically large lyre and a grin tugged at his lips, recognising the group as he confidently strode towards them.

Plopping himself on an empty seat, he rested his cheek on top of his fist and looked round the table,"Image! Bertot! Arn-whatever! Great seeing you guys, how's that whole council gig going?" He asked, saying everything in a single breath, then looking to the stranger with a devilish wink,"Who's the pretty one?"
Robert
The Musicians
*The Burnt Thistle*, Vallen

"The Durkhans and Romanovs? There's a history of syphilis, if anything. They fuck like rabbits," Arnaud said, "You saw them at the dinner. Simpering looks, as if no one can see."

"Her son looks like a Romanov, through and through," Imogen said, tilting her head back and blowing a stream of smoke up toward the ceiling. 

"But he carries the Maith name," Bertolt said with a nasty smirk, "*Cuck*." It was true that the Musicians knew more about the royals' love lives than the average shitblood. They performed enough for them and were wholly ignored at the events they played at. They were background noise, an ambient for the nobles and royals. They saw more than their fair share of lechery. 

"Do you want to see something?" Bertolt asked Kallophon, leaning in with glittering eyes. He reached into his breast pocket and whipped out an ornate, silver dragonfly hairpin. He held it out in front of Kallophon between his middle and pointer fingers, turning it in the candlelight so that the green emeralds would glitter. "Nicked it from the castle."

"He's a fucking kleptomaniac," Imogen said. Bertolt chuckled. 

"I prefer *Procurer of fine items*," He said, "They're fucking filthy rich. I can take what won't be missed." He re-pocketed the pin and winked at Kallophon. "Plus it gives us a reason to leave far away from this shithole kingdom." The Musicians all looked up when a new person joined their table. 

"The dinner was dreary. Our friend Kallophon here is the only one who was invited back to play for the council," Imogen said, "Pretty? Again, that'd be Kallophon."

"Unfortunately we have to get going," Arnaud said coolly, standing from the table and straightening his coat. "No good can come of the tavern this late at night. We prefer to leave beforehand." Imogen snuffed out her cigarette on the surface of the table and rose with Bertolt. 

"Good luck tomorrow, Kallophon. We hope you make it out alive," She said, kissing his mouth.

With that, they left.
Joann
**Siona O'Callaigh, The Black And Gold
Taemar, Vallen**

Siona turned her head ever so slightly, looking over her shoulder and glancing at the commotion behind her as a young woman on a horse nearly collided with an obviously drunken man on the street. She wasn't the only one to look, several others swiveled their heads around, to check if everyone was OK, or to rubberneck at whatever tragedy may or may not have befallen someone. But when it was clear there was nothing interesting to gawk at, the all turned away, returning to whatever it was they had been doing before hand. Siona lingered a moment longer however, peering out at the pair from over the high collar of her cloak, before her attention was drawn back to the merchant behind the stall. 

"Are you gonna take it, or are you just gonna gawk at the people?" Said the merchant, a small, thin man with the face of a rat. He glared at Siona with beady, angry eyes, while nervously looking at every person who walked by or seemed to think about stopping. "You're gonna scare off buying customers if you just keep standing around. "

Siona turned back to the merchant, and dug around for her coin purse. "How much will it be?" She asked, taking out a handful of copper pieces.

"That'll be a silver missy," Said the man, "Or something equivalent."

Siona stopped digging and looked back up at the man, narrowing her eyes at him. "You dont really expect me to pay a silver for a few strips of jerky do you?" She asked, incredulously. 

"Thats the going price the whole city," Said the man, shaking the bag of jerky in Siona's face. "Now, are you gonna take it or leave it."

"Going price for the whole city?" Said Siona, "Then why do I have Vishtan down the street telling me he can give me twice as much for a silver?"

.
"Fine," Said the man with an agitated wave of his hand, "A quarter off then, twenty five percent off. Is that fair for you?"

"Sure," Said Siona with a quick, almost professional smile, "That'll be fair."

Returning to her coin purse, Siona pulled out a small handful of coppers, and dropped them in the merchants hand while he handed off her jerky. 

"Thank you," Said Siona, tucking the meat into a large pocket on the inside of her cloak. With a final parting nod to the merchant, who only scowled at her before waving in a new customer, Siona turned back to the street, and paused. The young woman and drunk man from earlier were still there, standing off to the side and communicating. About something. The young woman seemed particularly adamant, while the drunk man seemed cheeky and blase, like he was trying to be more charming than he really was. 

Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, Siona threw her cloak over one shoulder, to try and relive some of the heat of the day, before stepping out into the street. She listened in to the conversations around her as she shifted in and out from the piles of horse shit, piss, and other detritus that lay scattered around the cobblestones, until she passed the pair from earlier and heard one of them say, 'Owl-Griffin.'

Siona stopped, and looked back at them, watching as the young woman made a play of sorts with a gold piece, which she watched the man eye up with a hungry look in his eye, before glancing down at the ground with a hangdog expression. So far, Siona wasn't so sure how she felt about either party. But what she was sure of was a desire to see an Owl-Griffin. But, they were supposed to be all dead. 

"Last I heard," Said Siona, speaking up so her voice would carry over the sounds of the city, "The Owl-Griffins were long extinct. So either you're planning to rob a museum, or you're sending yourselves on a wild goose chase."
Lawrence
Kallophon
The Burnt Thistle, Vallen

Kallophon's eyebrow peaked at the mention of Mikhail's surname. He hadn't heard much about Prince Mikhail, and never his full name. So the Pirate King was his father by the prim pigeon's proclamation, and *Romanov* Was his father according to the creeping cock's crow and its covert after-mutter of 'cuck'. He felt a bit jealous of Queen Anyanka, and her fortune in getting to experience the Head Knight of North Shore's ... Creeping.

His dark eyes flashed with awe at the sight of the scintillating hairpin. Gods, I wish I could fit such a thing into my style. Maybe he could get his imminent patron to buy him a beautiful cloak of dark-blue wool with lilypads and the faint images of fish embroidered on with silk, and a brooch - a gorgeous brooch, a *Silver dragonfly* Brooch - to hold it as one upon his breast! The *Resplendence*.

Giddy and fanciful, he couldn't help but giggle at Bertolt's shameless thievery. Of course, he thought it was terrible for one's business as a performer to be 'nicking' things from potential employer's and the guests of their immediate employers. That hairpin could have been something of great sentimental value; perhaps a gift meant to reignite the spark of love after it had nearly been snuffed out by lovers' quarrelling. Alas, there was no righting the wrong now. Unburdened, he swam happily with the mood of his company.

*It gives us a reason to leave far away from this shithole kingdom.* "That it does, dear Bertolt, that it does." He opened his mouth to say more, but his face froze as his eyes flicked up to train themselves upon the newcomer. He grinned invitingly at the man. His manner was delightfully playful, and boyish charm made Kallophon tingle in the breast.

He nearly fainted with that wink, and soon he was all ablush at Jazzy and Imogen. Pretty? "Oh, please," He replied, loosely batting a hand at them. He could still feel the bitter sting of the words thrown at him when he was a youngster, how all those other children said that he had a 'ratty' face. That was back when he was small and, well, rat-faced, he supposed. But those reprobates changed their tune when his voice broke and his last few inches came to the rescue. Now he was Kallophon of Milo, and Kallophon of Milo was pretty.

"Good night, friends." Kallophon grinned brightly as Imogen leaned to kiss him, and for a long moment afterwards as well. After he'd finished savouring the taste of her spent tobacco, he looked at Jazzy with a friendly face and extended a bronze hand. "Kallophon of Milo," He said with a drawl. "And you? You seem to be familiar with the trio."
Kathleen
Jazzy
The burning... Something or other, Vallen

He watched as the stranger -Kallophon- went a darling shade of red, only more so when the lady leaned down to kiss him. Jazzy slapped on a pout,"What about my kiss, Imogen?" He called after, receiving only a rather rude single digit in response.

Oh well, now he had a new court musician to toy with and this one wasn't going to flip him off. He took an unfinished drink from the table and raised it to his lips as the other spoke, having to stop himself from downing the weak liquor in one go. Looking up from under his lashes, he smiled against the rim of the cup,"Kallophon? That's a lyrical name. Are you a lyricist as well? You look as though you'd sing wonderfully."

Was he layering it on thick? Maybe a tad, but Jazzy was never one for subtlety."Jack MacLerie of Amaranth. My friends, of which you are now one, call me Jazzy." He set down his cup and leaned his lute against his chair, doubting that he would be moving anytime soon."The little trio is also one of my dearest group of friends. Sometimes."