Headed by a Snake

Lieutenant Eilean of the Beaurte Marines swept aside her orange hair and reclined on the luxurious leather couch. She loved the feel of it against her silk dress, adorned by witch-bone and gull-feather charms. She adjusted the dark cloth over her eyes and sighed. It covered the knife scars from an epoch past but was unable to hide her concern.

"Cap'n..."

"What?" High-Captain Lang Hai turned, annoyed at the interruption.

"Are ye *tryin* to run a hole in the deck? Ye've been pacin' fer naerly ten minutes now, Cap'n~"

"I'm. Thinking," Hai puffed his cheeks like a guilty child.

Lang Hai had stopped aging when he was about 16... and he was smaller than other boys his age. As capable as he was at fighting and giving out orders, he spoke and acted more freely around his officers.

The Captain had done an impressive amount of work in looking as handsome as possible. With great inconvenience, he sharply creased his trousers and straightened the dark, formal coat. The insignias on his epaulettes glinted off of the lights, highlighting him as a Marine Officer. His dressed and shined boots clunked against the wooden deck in quick, even rhythm as he walked.

"Y'know," Eilean offered, "being the Admiral of the Sea Wolf Fleet, ye didn't hafta surrender yer cutlass an' pistols."

...

"No. No weapons," Hai continued to pace, his back breaking out into a cold sweat.

He stood on *her* ground. Pirate Queen Chantal De la Croix. Fleet Admiral of the Royal Navy. The Grand-Capitaine refused the honor of being called by her father's name, insisting on being called Chantal.

The more he thought about it, the more he felt his sanity chip and crumble. He stood at the center of the massive room, easily as large as a hull in one of his corvette-class ships. But he almost felt like he was drowning in the endless depths of the abyss.

He turned suddenly, surprising the Sea Witch, "This is her base... her castle! We're on enemy ground, Lieutenant!"

"So izzat wot this is aboot?" Eilean snickered herself into a giggling fit.

Lang Hai gulped as he remembered meeting her. The woman was a monster, ruthless, savage, a fearsome creature born for combat, immune to sword and claw. She struck without mercy. And she would not stop until she tore Hai into itty-bitty pieces.

"Ye tidied up ta impress a bonnie lass," said the witch. "Springtime's finally come fer the great an' powerful Sea Wolf Cap'n! Och! I'm so prroud!"

Lang Hai felt a drop in the pit of his stomach.

Eilean tried to be optimistic, "Jus' bein in this room ah feel like we're rich folk! It's nice tae pretend, innit? Wot's on yer mind, Cap'n?"

Lang Hai breathed in deep. The worry, the frustrations, the cold, deep-seated fear that threatened to rend his throbbing heart in twain, he shut them away.

"I hate this place.

"I hate these expensive chairs. I hate this rich, imported ebony wood table.

"I hate how there's food set out! And that it smells like barbecued meat!

"I hate that gigantic, imposing staring portrait that makes Chantal's breasts look like overripe melons!

"I hate that she doesn't limit how many sugar cubes you can put into the tea...

"I hate the absolutely gigantic shark skeleton hanging on the ceiling, with all the little lights, some sort of great white chandelier!"

"His name is Charlie," the sea witch chided. "I love him."

"And. I definitely. Hate. That you, First Lieutenant Eilean. Are enjoying yourself. In enemy. Territory."

Eilean gasped in feigned shock, "Cap'n! That's hardly fair! How cannae fully 'preciate the Grand-Capitaine's fineries if I cannae even see?"

Hai scowled. When he wasn't looking, the woman had left the comfort of her reclining couch, "You're lying on a seal-fur rug."

"Indeed I am, Cap'n," Eilean purred.

Lang Hai took a deep breath. He needed to keep his wits about him. He needed to wait patiently until Chantal was done with whomever she was meeting. Then he just had to patiently ask permission to sail in her waters.

Regardless of her answer, he'd withdraw back to the ships and sail away-- never to return.

The rage and fear drained out of Lang Hai's body, replaced only with hollow fatigue. He stared at the double doors of Chantal's office in dread. In that room, Hai wouldn't even have the luxury of Eilean's idiocy to calm him.

At least he left Rico with Eleven. The bastard would probably have preferred a vacation through the seven hells.

Out of frustration, Lang Hai sat where he stood, trying to ignore the vaguely sexual cat noises his Lieutenant was making.

And he hated how soft the rug was.

...

[A short time earlier.]

Beast Contractor. Tycondrius was wary of the Fleet Admiral's class. From what he knew, its Skills didn't lend itself well to physical combat, but the power of the Contractor varied based on his or her creature (or creatures.) As an Iron-Rank, she was more than capable of attaining and keeping her position as Fleet Admiral.

She was far too confident... far too heavy-handed... and far too young for her contract ability to be simple.

Thankfully, the Fleet Admiral-- err... she preferred the title Grand-Capitaine Chantal, softened considerably upon discovering Tycon's friendship with Princess Aurala. It seemed the two had a rapport and mutually supported the other.

As strict as Chantal appeared, she spoke freely and amicably to Tycon in the Kingdom's old language. She asked about Aurala. She spoke kindly of the deceased Wind General Naedrielle. She asked if Tycon had run into any trouble in Caractere.

She also asked if one 'Levi Wolfrider' had a relationship with Guild Invictus. The gentleman had been arrested for thievery. Tycon flatly denied that he was.

Wolfrider wasn't related to it. He was one of its members.

It was nice to be human, lying as he liked in order to keep the peace. More powerful persons, particularly those with mana-rich bloodlines did not have the same luxury.

They discussed their favorite desserts. Tycon was partial to a savory crepe. Chantal confided that she would commit murder for ice cream-- chocolate, in particular.

Tycon's respect for Chantal was solidified. Her clothing was utilitarian-- comfortable, well-fitting trousers as opposed to something like Eilean's ruffled skirt. Discussing Caractere's state of affairs, Tycon discovered Chantal was also a confident and intelligent leader. The woman also eschewed the use of perfume oils, an atypical but welcome trait.

It was unfortunate that the Fleet Admiral couldn't help him.

"(I understand your difficulty, Tycon, but the Darktide Fleet can't afford to spare ships or sailors. A possible incursion from Fernia would be better handled by the Kingdom's ground forces and I'm sure Aurala has already sent word to Commander Darro)," Chantal refused him without mincing her words.

Tycon sighed, "(Chantal, Is there nothing to be done?)"

The woman gave a sly smirk, "(The Royal Navy will offer her services.)"

It was a dangerous smile.

Tycon narrowed his eyes, "(I'd rather trust a person than an institution, Captain.)"

Chantal scoffed, "(Haven't you heard?) *I* am the Royal Navy, young Baron. I shoulder her grievances and her faults. And I am her terrible wrath."

The woman offered a hand forward, "(You will have your help. You have my word.)"

Tycon smiled in relief and took her hand. There was no greater guarantee.