Matthew
|Fabian Ambrose|
|Bradai Maiths Barge - *Sixteen Rings*|

Fabian, dressed in more formal dress, or at least as much as he could account for "Formal", had isolated himself from most of the other competitors. He leaned on the "Edge" Of the barge, looking over the water in a contemplative stupor, his wrists crossing each other as the inner forearm leaned against the barrier between deck and the sea. He was having second guesses now, perhaps he shouldn't have come to such an event in hopes of winning a sliver of prestige, not to mention he had come with the expectation to yield to any lord he faced, but if he faced one right off the bat what would he do? Give up and waste this entire trip? Or fight and possibly ruin everything. Then again he had no choice, the trickle of jobs he had been living off of had dried up, and the only one way to reignite the spark was by making sure there was enough tinder for a fire to flourish.

He looked around him, taking his eyes from the sea and examining the people he would fight, possibly die or kill. Some might be jovial, some sombre, he simply found it- calming. Like the stillness of the water before a storm.
Emma
Carac the Butcher
Sixteen Rings, The Mizzen


Varn had served house Chapoisson for four years now, he'd thought he'd seen all manner of nobles and lavish parties, but he'd never seen anything like this. This truly was a ball fit for a king, filled with nobles from all over the world, or so it seemed. It was so forgien to him that he'd been unable to move when they first stepped off the boat, but a glance from Carac had gotten his feet working again.
The joust and the afterparty had both been overwhelming, even the servants ate well here, he'd tasted some sort of meat that had more flavor than anything he'd ever eaten before. It was like stepping into another world, like those stories his nan had told him about little boys who were taken away to the magical realm of the fairies. But now he was back in his world, sitting beneath the banner of house Chapoisson, a yellow catfish on a blue field, preparing Carac the Butcher for his bloody work. 
Carac wasn't a knight, as far as Varn knew, but there was a joke in the barracks that Varn was his squire, and there was some truth to that. Varn readied his horse, sharpened his blade, and helped with his armor, he didn't know if anyone besides knights could have squires, but if they could he thought he more than qualified. Though the real service that Varn rendered to Carac was to be his voice. Carac rarely spoke, he'd never spoken to the men, and he certainly had never spoken to Varn, so Varn spoke for him. Not like how one does for a king, he never read any edicts, but when Varn spoke, Carac nodded, or sometimes shook his head, and that worked well enough. Right now though, Varn had little speaking to do.

Carac sat atop a wood crate, checking his gauntlets and making sure the straps were tight, a few of the other lads were checking his breastplate and mail, and Varn looked over his weapons. Carac normally fought with a great two-handed blade, but for the melee he had chosen something completely different. A large mace lay in Varn's lap, heavy enough he struggled to lift it with one hand. It was a simple weapon, far from the decorated swords with gold hilts that knights so loved. It was nothing more than a rod of iron with a leather wrapping for a grip, and a steel ball affixed at the top, an ugly, grey thing that was made for crushing armor and bone. Carac would carry that in one hand, and an iron shield in the other. Varn was in the process of polishing the shield when a man in gilded armor strode over to the group.

"Ho there friend!" The man spoke in a voice that Varn recognised right away as that of a noble. Nobles had a way of speaking, a sickeningly sweet voice that stunk of plots and schemes, like a knife in the back and a kiss on the cheek all at once. The man sounded like he was from Feyshore, or maybe Astoria, Varn couldn't tell. He wore lighter plate than Carac, though it probably cost more by a half. It was colored gold, with designs of roaring lions carved into the very metal, whoever had crafted it had been good at their work. Whoever made the man inside the armor, however, could have used a little of that talent, the man had a rat's eyes and a pig's nose, his black hair was receding, yet he looked to be a youth still, and his lips were pale and plump, uncomfortably so. Varn turned away, but it was clearly not his attention the man was after. Carac always wore his helm, and while it didn't seem to interfere with his hearing, he often used it as an excuse to ignore others, however this man was clearly not going to be ignored, and so Carac turned his head towards the man, and waited for him to speak. 

However, the first to speak was not the stranger, but Turg, one of the lads helping with Carac's plate. 
"What'dya want?" 
The man was taken aback, it seemed. Men like him were not used to being questioned in such a manner, but to his credit, he recovered well. "Merely to speak with my honorable competition of course."
"I think they're somewhere over that'a ways." Varn chuckled, jabbing a thumb to his right. That got a laugh from the boys, even Carac seemed to approve in his own way.

"I'm not here to speak to *You*" The man said, his eyebrows slanting downwards like two dark caterpillars stuck to his forehead. He turned back to Carac, and once more he was all smiles and courtesies. "Allow me to introduce myself, I am Sir Wesel of Korkou." Terresol then, Varn had been way off. "Sir" Wesel paused for a moment, waiting for Carac to introduce himself, frowned, and then went on talking, apparently not put off by the lack of response. 
"I saw you in the king's box during the joust, yes? Perhaps you noticed a certain dark haired beauty seated close by? Lady Calypso, the greatest beauty of Terresol, and if the gods will it, my intended."

Carac still didn't speak, but Varn did. 
"Mate, this isn't a tavern, if you wanna speak yer woes, go somewhere else." The other men nodded, and Carac looked over at him, then back at Wesel, waiting to hear the response. 

"Do you always let your servants speak this way?" Wesel spat, his eyes darkening, he clearly didn't take well to being told off or dismissed. "Well?!" He demanded when Carac didn't respond. 
"Better men than you have failed to get a word out of him." Varn said curtly, standing up and walking to Carac's side. "If you got business, speak it, if not..." He shrugged. 

Sir Wesel grimaced, but turned back to Carac, apparently addressing a commoner was beneath him. "Sir, if I am to properly propose to a lady such as Calypso, I must have some martial honors to boast of. Winning a melee like this would allow me to ask for her hand with pride." 

"Best of luck to ya then." Varn interrupted, earning him a contemptuous glare from Wesel. 

"You misunderstand, I *Must* Win this melee. Perhaps you could... Assist me in some way? If we were to meet on the field, well sometimes the most unlikely contender proves victorious, eh?" 
From his belt, Wesel produced a weighty brown sack that jingled with that music that every sellsword knows well. Varn almost laughed, the man intended to buy his way to victory in the melee. Did he plan on bribing every one of his competitors, or just the most threatening ones? It was absurd, but he had to applaud him for knowing he had no hope of taking Carac in a fight.
"Hah! Mate if you think-"

His speech was interrupted by Carac himself. He put a hand on Varn's shoulder and stood up to his full height. He towered over Wesel by more than a head, like a giant looking down on a particularly annoying ant. Wesel took a step back, the gold still held in an outstretched hand. Varn didn't notice he was holding his breath until Carac snatched the bag out of Wesel's hand, sat back down, and nodded to the man. Wesel breathed what appeared to be a sigh of relief. 
"Many Thanks, good sir." He bowed slightly, before walking back to his standard, where half a dozen and one squires and servants waited to attend him. 

Varn turned to Carac, dumbfounded. "What was that?" He had known Carac to be many things, but taking a dive in a fight? Never, Carac was all about reputation, his legend, that was what men like him lived for. If he lost to some snot like "Sir" Wesel, the Legend of the Butcher would be worth less than a steamy shit. 
Then, Carac laughed. It was a short, deep, scratchy laugh, almost like a cough, but it was a laugh, Varn knew it. And then he laughed, and the rest of the lads, until they were all doubled over around Carac like it was the funniest thing in the whole damn world. Carac picked up his mace, weighed it in his hands, then looked towards where sir Wendel stood under his lion banner. He didn't say anything, but Varn didn't need to speak for him, everyone knew what he would say. 
Varn wondered what Sir Wendel's pretty little brains would look like splattered over the deck of the *Sixteen Rings*
Cedric
Bastien de Lysse
On the grand balcony of Maith mansion

A wry smile appeared on Bastien's face at her last remark. "My, my. How boldly inquisitive we are this evening." He opened his mouth to follow with a dry remark before he closed it. The constant socialization he had been forced to endure had tired him, and the alcohol made him not particularly feel up to continuously sparring witty comments with Calypso.

His childhood. The music softened as he tried to collect the long forgotten bits and pieces scattered throughout his mind. His pleasant expression faded to one of faint, reminiscent sadness. A small bittersweet smile crossed his face as he looked in Calypso's direction, not staring at her but through her, at something that played in his mind. "A long time ago when I was a small boy, I used to be quite gregarious. Curious and sweet, fond of attention and playing with other children. I've been told that I was very happy, for a short while."

Memories of that time were scarce, few and far between. He blinked a few times, and it seemed as though he was pulled from his mind back to the present. His bittersweet smile faded, but there was a look of distant sadness that lingered in his eyes. "But things changed. And so did I."
Alice
**Ser Katholou of Clan Drase**
__Bradai's Barge, Sixteen Rings__

Katholou Of Clan Drase approached the other combatants followed by his many companions, some of which were actual members of Bradai's Shield who either had been assigned to protecting the leader of the Drase House or simply currently had taken a leave from their work and decided to spend those few days of vacation following their proud superior in whatever task he may choose to undertake. Today that task is nothing more and nothing less than The Melee, a competition that is as spat upon by nobles as it is dangerous for those who participate, causing the organisers to often be forced to take matters into their own hands and hire commoners and mercenaries in order to fill in the gaps of those who do not present themselves and give the much more numerous (and noble) spectators an interesting fight to watch. 

"Truly a marvel this ship is eh?"

A voice coming from behind Bradai's First Guard suddenly said 

"But i do wonder why the great lord Katholou, Leader of Clan Drase, even bothers to come to watch such a pitiful display of melee combat"

Katholou recognised the person speaking long before actually fixing his careful gaze upon him. He always had a thing for remembering every tiny detail of those that he appreciated and someone's voice was no exception. You never know when your survival may depend on recognising someone with a fraction of a glance after all.

"Well if it isn't the old guard himself! I was wondering you old weezer would pop up"

He said with a laugh. He then turned towards hie entourage 

"For you fresh meat this is Arjal Forms, the first ever bodyguard to serve under Bradai. He is also probably the only ever soldier to have never killed anyone... For lack of trying of course"

He laughed again, followed by his companions and Arjal himself

"Ah you cunt, always leaving out the important part of the story and making me look like some warm hearted wench" 

He answered, buying himself a miriad of intrigued and confused looks by the younger members and a few chuckles from the veterans.

"Always have and always will."

Katholou answered before turning serious all of a sudden

"And to answer your question... I am here purely for work purposes. Figured i'd take this chance to fully establish my role. What better way to show these young halfwits what messing with Our Lord looks like than to break some necks in a melee right?"

He said without even the subtlest hint of a smile. He wasn't joking. He never joked when he was talking about His Lord. For him that argument was as sacred as the holiest of relics and anyone who so much as conversed with him for a few minutes knew better than to treat it any other way in his presence. 
The older man looked surprised

"Wait you dont intend to participate in person right?"

"I never speak without reason, old man. Many others do that enough already"

He added before turning around and heading towards his post, followed by his companions leaving the previous leader of the bodyguards behind to ponder on those words. Confidently he got into position, passing the flag of Clan Drase, depicting a white peacock on a green background, to his second in command, a massive man named Godswill whomst many believe had traded his hair for his strength in a trade with an evil spirit, many years ago. Then he began to prepare, eagerly heeded by the others. Once the armour was on, it was time to pick the weapons. It was an important choice, that could very well define if he would end up succeeding or dead. Pointless to say that he eagerly sought out the first option. Suggestions began to rain down from the men surrounding him and despite there being not that many options everyone still managed to have a different opinion on the matter

"Take the flail. Swing that around a few times and half of the lot will just give up before even being touched by anything"

A young member from Clan Drase yelled out, eager to see the famous Morning Star in action

"Don't be ridiculous. The objective is to show battle prowess not to scare away a bunch of inexperienced puppies who ventured too far away from their den"



"Indeed. The best thing to do is to grab a classic gud ol' blunted blade and just smack those fools around a bit"

This time a less identifiable man had talked, probably simply someone from the Clan who had joined up for fun and not for duty. Katholou smiled as the chaos ensued and shared a quick glance with Godswill. It was time to teach everyone a little lesson. Calmly the leader of the bodyguards walked towards the table and grabbed the first thing he could find, more specifically a heavy smithing hammer. He swung it at the air a few times 

"Found it"

He shouted simply, instantly ending the argument as everyone turned around to look at him in disbelief. Godswill chuckled and walked towards his boss, passing him the signature secondary weapon of Clan Drase, a massive tower shield painted with green and golden colours.

"Let's go and make an example shall we?"
Tom
Calypso Kolgrim 
On the grand balcony of Maith mansion

The Temmerre lady fell silent, not for spite or tease. Just to listen. Dark eyes looking up, watching the light slightly dim from Bastian's expression. 
It was honestly hard to imagine Bastian as a happy child. Every time she tired, instead of a joyful little boy, her mind showed her a miserable little kid. 

She wondered where to go next, this was unexplored ground, maybe the alcohol had fogged up his mind and loosen up his tongue. In all honesty, she was feeling awkward "I'm sorry to hear that..." Muttered her. 

"For what it's worth," Started her as the music started to come to an end " Even though it is tragic the fact that you don't smile as much anymore, it only makes each of those occasions where you do, more special." Oh, gods that was such a sappy remark, it tasted sickly sweet on her tongue, but something told her that the Lord would appreciate it, and seeing how prone to emotions alcohol seemed to make him, maybe it was time to make the change and carve a little more into their relationship. 

Luxurious gowns were not the only thing that a good friendship with a high lord could get her.