Grand-Capitaine

Tycon found himself sitting across from Maximus of Ezyria. They sat on a tatami mat with a low table between them... in the central room of the Kimura estate.

"...With your skills, you could join any guild in the Kingdom. Why Sol Invictus?"

Without hesitation, the dovahkiin took the alcohol-filled cup on the table.

Honesty. Unflinching determination. These were traits that Tycon had admired in the man. And that was besides the fact that the man's raw magical power exceeded that of every member in Sol Invictus.

Maximus held the ceramic cup up in a toast, rice wine spilling from its brim, "I know how you operate, Prince. Your guild has produced the greatest champions Ezyria has seen in generations."

Tycon shook his head, "From what I understand, it is you, Mister Vanzano, who holds the title of Rex Gladiatores, the greatest gladiator."

With a smirk, the dovahkiin lifted a blue-scaled arm, and drained his cup in a single pull, "And with me, Sol Invictus is the strongest guild in the history of the Holy Kingdom."

Tycon drained his own cup. He couldn't taste it, but he remembered the sweet, nostalgic feeling from drinking Kagehisa Yumiko's brew... "What is it you're really looking for, Gian Vanzano?"

The paladin grinned and placed his fist against his chest, "To live a warrior's life. And to die a warrior's death."

...

Tycon awoke in his inn room to a knocking on the door. Dreaming of a dead man made him wake up late. He answered the door to thank the innkeeper for the wake-up call.

Dragan and Lone had already left, clearly unwilling to accompany Tycon to a boring meet-and-greet.

...According to Tycon's pocket watch, the scheduled meeting with Fleet Admiral Chantal was in only a couple of bells.

Cursing inwardly in annoyance, Tycon began to change into his silver armor. Clean, professional, with a Kingdom tabard of bright blue. Dark iron sword with an ornamented hilt. Even though he had Aurala's letter of introduction, he wanted to make a good impression.

...

Admiral Chantal's Darktide Fleet was notorious for recruiting from pirates and privateers, a tradition generations in the making. As such, though her sailors wore a similar military coat, each wore unique weapons, exotic sashes, and colorful bandanas. Strings of superstitious trinkets and charms also seemed popular.

He had originally found it curious that he wasn't asked to surrender his weapons upon entering

As Tycon was being led throughout Chantal's fort, he noticed no less than 2 Iron-Ranks and several Bronze-Ranks. At any sign of hostility or magical suspicion, Tycon surmised he'd be immediately gutted... or undergo whatever horrible thing pirates were wont to do. Perhaps take a long walk off of a short plank?

Chantal's waiting room looked to be the repurposed hull of a ship with the interior stripped... Artful driftwood sculptures. Ornate, heavy-wooded chairs and tables with a selection of hors d'oeuvres. Large gold-plated porthole windows, lining each wall. A massive skeletal shark, hanging above the seating area.

There were little lights on it. Clever. Chandelier-Shark. Chandelark? Shark-delier?

...Did sharks even have bones?

A painting of the Fleet Admiral stared at guests with judgmental eyes. The woman had a full head of wavy, pink hair that fell down to her shoulders and a symmetrical, aesthetically pleasing face. The sharp tricorne and the stylized eyepatch she wore spoke of her fashionable piracy. The dark oils and jagged cross-hatching used in the painting insinuated grim intimidation, no-nonsense beauty rather than soft, feminine wiles.

Tycon respected that.

The double-doors to Chantal's office burst open as a leather-armored sailor tumbled into the waiting room and onto his back. Blood ran down his nose and mouth as he struggled to his feet and drew his cutlass.

[Pirate Captain, Bronze-Rank Sailor]

The man spat out a tooth, red in face, "Ye'll pay fer that, ye gods-damned bitch!"

The Fleet Admiral walked out of her office with an expression curled in disdain. In her left hand, she held what appeared to be a bent brass candelabra.

[Chantal De la Croix, Iron-Rank Beast Contractor]

Fleet Admiral Chantal De la Croix stood slightly over 6 fulms tall, towering over the bleeding pirate and Tycon both. The painting's artist did not embellish the woman's features. Like in the painting, the woman wore a military coat, a colorful gold sash, and had clear, unmarred skin. Not displayed in the painting was the woman's wide birthing hips.

She was probably a very attractive woman, not that Tycon particularly cared.

Even though the pirate captain was both armed and furious, the brazen woman tossed her improvised weapon away and strode within arm's length of him, "You do *not* attack ships flying my Darktide flag, Monsieur-Capitaine. You *will* return the stolen goods, as well as offer reparations for the casualties."

No threats. Just orders. Tycon would have liked her more if the System hadn't colored the transparent name over her head a worrisome yellow.

The pirate slashed his cutlass left and right in a flourish, "Ye one-eyed, thrice-damned, greedy whore! The only thing ye'll get from me is steel!"

Chantal snatched the pirate by the throat and lifted him nearly two fulms up, clear off of the lacquered flooring, "There are worse things to fear than steel."

Tycon placed a hand on his hilt, "Would you like some assistance, Grand-Capitaine?"

She spared Tycon a casual glance, "Nah, I'm good."

The transparent yellow over her head turned to green. Tycon was pleased but kept a professional, neutral expression.

The nearby table was covered in hard breads, cheeses, fruit preserves, and cured sausages. Chantal choke-slammed the man onto it. With a powerful heave, the woman flipped the man onto his face, then dragged the man across said table, through broken dishes, shattered glass, and burning candles.

Tycon managed to save a wooden charcuterie board.

At the end of the table was a large fireplace, filled with a heap of crackling firewood. Chantal tossed the man in. His burning agony, known to all by his pain-wracked screams, reverberated throughout the room. Within moments, the front doors flew open and half-a-dozen Darktide sailors filed in with swords and pistols drawn.

Tycon glanced to a small corner of the fireplace. Trying not to make any sudden movement, he walked over, picked up the handle of the burning-hot branding iron and offered it to Chantal.

She accepted it with a vibrant smile, "Thank you, Monsieur."

"Of course, Grand-Capitaine."

The man's flesh sizzled as she branded him. The man began to scream louder.

The hauntingly sweet smell of cooked meat pervaded the room. Was it faux pas to sample the charcuterie? ...No one seemed to be watching.

Chantal turned her back on both Tycon and the burning pirate, "Hang this piece of meat from the gallows. Use the meathooks."

A younger sailor saluted, "At once, Grand-Capitaine? And the crew?"

"Have them sold to pay their Captain's debts."

Tycon swallowed, trying his best to keep his face impassive. Caractere was not beholden to the Kingdom's laws, which forbid slavery. Instead, Grand-Capitaine Chantal was the sole lawmaker in the Port City.

The sailor hesitated, "Grand-Capitaine, the uh... the Council has outlawed slavery."

Chantal crossed her arms, the upper buttons on her jacket, threatening to burst, "Sea god's scales! Take them out and have them shot! ...And get this mess cleaned up!"

"Y-yes, Grand-Capitaine!" Half of the sailors immediately fled the room, while the others busied themselves with cleaning the broken glass and ceramics.

Tycon gingerly placed the charcuterie board back down on a table.

Seeming to spot Tycon's movement, the tall woman turned and glared down at him, "And why are you still here, Monsieur?"

Tycon tried to slow his heart rate as his mind prepared his speech, each word calculated to not cause any offense, "About that..."

The transparent name above the woman's head had reverted to yellow.