Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The day of the vote dawned with a brisk wind rolling off the sea, carrying the tang of salt . On the Call, the amphitheater carved into the rock was alive with activity. Its semicircular tiers, capable of holding every lord and captain on the island, were quickly filling as men took their seats.Seats that were usually occupied sparingly by lords, were now all filled as the captains now bore the right to vote.

The air was thick with the hum of conversation, the scrape of boots on stone, and the occasional bark of laughter. This was no royal court; the Call had no gilded chairs or flowing banners, just hard stone and the raw power of the men who sat upon it.

The four contenders for the title of High Captain stood apart,looking at each other with blank stares.

Blake Elio, the youngest of them, carried himself with a confident ease, his dark hair combed back, his sharp features set in a calm, almost calculating expression. He wore no finery, just the simple leather and steel of a man who’d earned the rise of his house from the bottom of the sea .

Harrick Stormcaller stood with a quiet weight, his thick arms crossed over his chest. His graying hair and beard gave him the air of a seasoned warrior, and his clothes—sturdy wool and faded leather—spoke of practicality over pride, the only reason for which he did not bring his armor was because no steel was allowed, of any type. Harrick’s face was weathered by decades at sea, his expression unreadable as he watched the proceedings with a steady, unyielding gaze.

Saltbeard, on the other hand, stood out like a storm cloud among the others. His beard, thick and blak, spilled down to his chest, and his frame was massive, the kind that filled doorways and made others step aside. As a matter of fact the reason for which he was called Salt Beard was because his island owned mines of salt.

As such most of the time that nickname became the official epithet of every patriarch of the his house.It was his father, as his father’s fathers, as it would be of his son, hopefully.

Wavecleaver was the last one. His youth and arrogance were evident in the way he stood, his head held high, his golden hair neatly combed, and his coat embroidered with silver thread. He was the picture of a man who believed his wealth made him untouchable. A jeweled dagger usually hung at his belt, more ornament than weapon, today of course was absent.

The day of voting traditionally began with a ceremony that mirrored the fierce and yet free nature of the Free Men. Each contender was given the floor for one final speech, a chance to sway the undecided, rally their supporters, and carve their vision into the minds of the audience. It was a sacred moment, one where interruption was strictly forbidden, as each person was to be given all the opportunity to speak.

But once the speeches ended, the gloves came off. Tradition dictated that after a contender spoke, the others could challenge them. Questions were hurled like daggers, meant to expose weaknesses or force contradictions, while taunts aimed to rattle composure and sway the crowd. The verbal sparring was as much a part of the process as the vote itself, a test of wits and resolve under pressure.

The amphitheater seemed to bristle with energy as the crowd waited for the first contender to step forward. The Free Men were not ones for politicking in the conventional sense but they loved to see men shouting at each other, sometimes with weapons in hand.

Lord Harrick was the first to step forward, his heavy boots echoing across the stone floor of the amphitheater. The murmurs of the crowd stilled as he approached the center, all eyes locking onto the weathered, grizzled veteran. His gaze swept the assembly briefly before pausing on Blake. For a moment, he simply looked at the younger man, then exhaled sharply through his nose—a sound somewhere between a sigh and a release of tension.

When Harrick finally spoke, his voice was a booming force that carried over crashing waves and roaring winds. ”I stand before you today not to ask for your vote, but to relinquish it.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd like waves breaking against the shore. Confusion spread among the assembled lords and captains, who exchanged looks of disbelief. Even Saltbeard and Wavecleaver looked surprised

”I have fought more battles than most of you have seen winters,” Harrick continued, his tone steady but firm. ”And yet, as I look out at you today, I cannot in good conscience ask for the honor of leading this fleet. Not because I do not believe in the fight—by the Sea, I do—but because I believe there is another, better suited to carry this burden.”

His words hung in the air for a moment before he turned again toward Blake. ”Lord Blake Elio,” Harrick declared, his voice ringing out like a battle cry, ”has proven himself a captain of daring and resolve. In a single year, he has achieved what many of us could not in decades, he put the older generation to shame . To those who would have cast their vote for me, I ask you to place your trust in him instead. Let him lead us to the vengeance we seek.”

Harrick’s declaration was a move no one had anticipated. Even the most cynical among the assembly couldn’t deny the weight of a man like Harrick throwing his support behind Blake.

Blake himself sat motionless for a moment, masking whatever emotions might have threatened to show. He dipped his head slightly, a gesture of respect, even as his mind churned with the implications of this turn, hoping that it would be enough ot win.

Harrick finished with a nod toward Blake and strode back to his place among the other contenders. The amphitheater buzzed with speculation and whispers, the air thick with shifting alliances and recalculations.

Not it was Saltbeard that rose from his seat with a theatrical flourish, his weathered face set in a grin that seemed carved into his flesh. His beard, thick and streaked with white and gray, swayed slightly as he walked toward the center of the amphitheater, his heavy steps deliberate and full of confidence. He wore no armor, only a flowing sea-blue tunic trimmed with gold.

When he reached the center, he planted his hands firmly on his hips and turned in a slow circle to face the assembly. His voice, rough and booming, carried the cadence of a seasoned orator—or a man who knew how to spin a tale over a tankard of ale.

”Brothers!Sisters!Free folk of the sea!” he began, throwing his arms wide. ”Today, we stand on the precipice of glory! Not just for ourselves, but for the very way of life we hold dear!”

The murmurs in the crowd faded as Saltbeard’s voice swelled with emotion. ”What is it that makes us free?” he asked, pacing now, his boots scuffing against the stone floor. ”Is it the gold we take? The ships we plunder? No! It’s the knowledge that no king, no emperor, can put chains on us! It’s our choice to sail where we will, to live as we choose, to raise our children as free people, not as pawns for some throne!”

A cheer rose from a section of the crowd, and Saltbeard smiled, his eyes gleaming. ”But make no mistake,” he continued, pointing a thick finger skyward, ”this way of life we cherish is under threat. The Imperials come with their fleets, their armies, their gods that we have no use for . They think they can crush us like an insect underfoot! And yet, are we insect?”

”No!” came a shout from the crowd.

”We are wolves of the sea!” Saltbeard roared, his voice ringing out. ”We hunt in packs! We strike with precision and fury! And under my command, I vow to you, we will not only preserve our way of life—we will carve our defiance into the history of the seas!”

Another cheer erupted, louder this time, as Saltbeard’s fervor washed over the assembly.

”And let me tell you this,” he added, his tone lowering conspiratorially as he leaned forward, ”I do not seek this mantle of leadership for myself alone. No, my friends, I seek it for us. To ensure that the Free Folk will remain the masters of the waves, long after we’re gone. So cast your vote for me, and I will take this fleet to glory. Not just for today, but for every tomorrow to come.”

As soon as the speech was over Wavecleaver rose with an exaggerated air of confidence, his fine cloak trailing behind him as he strode to the center of the assembly. His smirk was sharp as a blade.

He stopped at the center of the amphitheater and gave a slow, mocking clap. ”Quite the speech, Saltbeard,” he drawled, his tone dripping with condescension. ”And quite the spectacle, Harrick, bowing out like that. Noble, I’m sure, but surprising to see anyone place faith in someone from the Elio line.”

”Anyway to the matter at hand, Saltbeard,” he began, addressing the older lord directly, ”you spoke grandly of the glory of the free people and the bravery of captains, but I can’t help but wonder...” He paused for effect, turning slowly to face the crowd before continuing, ”...does that bravery run through all veins? Or do some veins carry... something else?”

Saltbeard narrowed his eyes, his broad shoulders tensing as the room fell silent.

Wavecleaver’s smirk widened. ”I seem to recall a tale about the Battle of Rock Bottom. A certain captain—your brother, wasn’t it?—Jorik ? The one who abandoned his ship and his free brothers the moment things went poorly? Fled faster than the tide, didn’t he?”

The crowd murmured, the accusation hanging heavy in the air. Wavecleaver pressed on, savoring the moment.

”Tell us, Saltbeard, does that kind of blood run strong in your family? Should we trust you to lead us when your own kin turned coward?What if the same happen to y-”

Saltbeard’s face darkened like a storm cloud, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. He took a step forward, his voice a roar.

”You little whelp! If it weren’t for the laws of this assembly, I’d crush your skull with my bare hands!Yes my brother ran from the battle, and I shed his lifeless corpse to the sea myself when I saw his blade unblooded, he was a shame for everybody, I prefer to commit kinslaying rather than have a coward for brother.

My mother must have laid with another because that filth comes not from my father’s thick blood.

Still, I want to see if your blood is yellow like your gold, come here!”

Wavecleaver stepped back, raising his hands in mock surrender, his smirk never faltering though he did take two steps back. ”Peace, Saltbeard,” he said with a mockingly conciliatory tone. ”No need for violence. I’m simply asking questions the others are too afraid to voice.” He said though he stepped back a little

The room buzzed with tension as Saltbeard loomed closer, but the old moderator’s staff struck the ground with a sharp crack. ”O-Order! No blood shall-l be spilled in these h-halls!”

Saltbeard shot a final glare at Wavecleaver before stepping back, his chest heaving with rage. Wavecleaver, for his part, adjusted his cloak and returned to his seat, clearly satisfied with the discord he’d sown.