Erik
**Galt-Drake Geare
Maith Mansion, Southern Isles**

Galt-Drake had already stood up well before King Bradaí's interjection in the slowly escalating situation. In spite of all of the fun he was having, Galt-Drake's patience was wearing slightly thin with these mainlander smoothbrains. If this had kept going on, with the Arch Seneschal's thinly veiled threats of violence and the smug non-cooperation of the Skagerllies up until this point, Galt-Drake would likely have resorted to less kind actions. Truth be told, Galt-Drake could have had that entire table, Vivayn attendants and all, massacred by his highly disciplined and skilled crew of men. However, that was not something the privateer could bring himself to do. The situation was nowhere near a point that would require such brutal actions. As Galt-Drake calmly looked around at the situation and observed the situation carry on, he caught the amber eye of Valkrin Farensun, who had been watching the entire time from a dark corner of the mansion halls. The two locked eyes briefly, and it seemed they'd shared the exact same desire in that immediate moment: To just kill these Northern fucks and be done with this ball. A calmer mind prevailed, though, and nothing happened. The men under Galt-Drake's command had started to slowly close the circle around the Skagerlly table, but the tone of Galt-Drake and his crew shifted entirely upon the intervention of King Bradaí. The moment King Bradaí began to speak, Galt-Drake and his men stood at full attention, immediately morphing into a statuesque sort of king's guard. This was a blatant showcase of the discipline that Galt-Drake and his crew possessed, which put them on a level above the other various crews that Bradaí had under his vassalage. Had it been any other captain with any other crew, the situation would have been entirely different. Even in spite of the stereotype of Southern Isles savagery, Galt-Drake and his crew perfectly epitomized the discipline, cunning, and loyalty of the Privs. They were not just damn good Privs, but they were the pinnacle of what every Priv aspired to be.
James
Kelsafyr Skagerlly,
Bradai Marth's Mansion, The Southern Isles.

Kelsafyr remained uncharacteristically quiet, hazel eyes panning from face to face. Men, she thought, how she could do without them. The stench of bravado was enough to turn her stomach. 

She began to anxiously pluck at the very edge of her fingernail, something she hadn't done since she was a young girl learning to navigate her father's wrath. She wished so desperately to be saved from this hellscape, for somebody to step forward and proclaim her innocence. Her innocence, of which, was far from fabricated. Even now, with such hatred in her heart for her brother, Mallsrek, she was furious at how the southerners had treated him, how he was left alone and broken in a dank cell infested with rats and maggots. She inhaled a sharp breath, eyes brimming with tears, not for the heir to House Skagerlly, but herself.

Her gaze then settled upon the Pirate King, the instigator of this nightmare, and there it remained. There was something strange about her unwavering stare upon his features. If he were to look at her, or anyone for that matter, they'd notice her tight grip upon the edge of the table, knuckles white and rigid. She felt that if she wanted to, with the amount of adrenaline coursing through her veins, she could crush that chunk of wood beneath her very grasp. Her eyes began to blur, and they tunnelled in on Bradai's eyes until they began to swirl into one black blob, an inky mass of darkness. She heard a shrill ringing in her ears and the muffled talking of the Arch Seneschal, Reginald Cyroven. Her grip faltered upon the edge of the table, and her hand slumped forwards, along with her posture. She hadn't any strength remaining to compose herself, lifting a hand to her face, where she began to cry.

—

Tears rolled down her cheeks, dropping onto the floor into neat little puddles. She sobbed quietly, but her body wracked in such a way that it was clear she was weeping. Far from an act or a calculated move of manipulation, but a woman in distress. How strange it was to see the once proud and demanding Kelsafyr Skagerlly curled forwards and small, How strange, genuinely, to see her so frightened and anxious. 

She stood very abruptly from her seat, the chair scraping against the marble floors. Her face drained of colour, and instead of a healthy pink, her cheeks flushed with a sickly green. A trembling hand rose to cover her mouth, and she forced herself to swallow a lump that had formed in her throat, that felt as if she was pouring shards of broken glass down her oesophagus. She indulged herself in an unsteady step forwards, and the circle tightened around her as the Privateers too indulged themselves in a steady foot forwards. She sniffled, choking on her breath as she pressed a hand to her throat, lower lip quivering as the tears continued to roll off of her face.

"Please," She began, pleading with the nearest guardsman, struggling to speak coherently through her tears. "Please.. Let - let me outside, I-. Please, I can't breathe!" 

Shaydrin had taken a step forwards to follow his sister, genuinely concerned with her shift in demeanour. He lifted a hand to take hold of her elbow as an act of comfort, as he often did, but Kelsafyr's response to his touch was far from what he would have expected.

—

"Don't touch me!" She screamed, physically wrenching her arm away from him, stumbling from foot to foot. She swept her gaze along the circle of kings guard, searching for one, in particular, that might take pity upon her and her declining health and allow her a moment of fresh air. "Escort me, come with me, I don't give a damn! Please, I - I can't -." She inhaled a shaky breath, her frantic crying only causing her chest to tighten further. She stood there, feeling as if she might faint, awaiting some saving grace.
Erik
**Galt-Drake Geare
Maith Mansion, Southern Isles**

Galt-Drake and his men continued to stand at attention, since not much was being accomplished yet in this wider exchange of veiled words. As he and his men were waiting, however, Galt-Drake, along with everyone else present, noticed the blatant anxiety-induced meltdown that Kelsafyr Skagerlly was having. Unlike most privateers, who would simply leave the girl to rot with her anxiety and cry herself to death, Galt-Drake actually possessed a streak of humanity to all of his Southern Islander cruelty. Galt-Drake silently and almost unnoticeably gestured to other nearby crewmates of his, who lurked nearby to ensure order was kept, and they approached the main circle of kingsguard. To further alleviate Kelsafyr's breakdown, the men then received another quick gesture, which was followed by them taking one broad step forwards and away from the table itself, giving the Skagerlly family more room to breathe. The crewmen that approached awaited outside the circle, and Galt-Drake stepped over towards where Kelsafyr was having her breakdown. In an unusual show of kindness, he offered her his hand.

"Come, lass," Galt-Drake calmly stated, a genuine polite tone to his voice, "If ya need a breather, meself and a few of the lads will take ya outside fer a moment."

Galt-Drake awaited a response from Kelsafyr, and fully expected her to just be acting. That thought process alone was why Galt-Drake was taking a few of his men with him, so that if Kelsafyr tried anything funny, or had a contingent outside waiting for her, he at least wouldn't be alone. Based on what he observed, though, Kelsafyr would have to be a better actor than anyone in either Northwind or the Isles had borne witness to, if she were to be faking this breakdown.