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It was a time of strife in Wintreath. As humanity expanded, seeking lands far away from their oppressive countrymen, so too did our thirst for domination go with us. The oppressed became the oppressors, and the oppressors became the oppressed. Such was the inevitable way of things.

Never was this more true than in the 1700s, when the world was unravelled by a potato who would seek to rule the world.

Her Eminence looked over the room she was sitting in. It was a dank cellar underneath the Apostolic Palace. The walls leaked water and if one listened closely enough, you could hear the rats scurry around in the dark. The massive complex of the Papal Headquarters in Rome required an obscene amount of maintenance. Why spend money on random cellars?
Still, it was an important one, for here the sacramental wine was kept, along with any other vintage the Pope might want to serve to any of her guests. Or herself.
Serving herself was why she was down here.
It was a well known secret that Her Eminence was an alcoholic, in fact she often did masses while drunk and the excuse was given that she simply was suffering from the vagaries of age. She had never wanted to be Pope, and the job strained her. Even now she knew, when she went back up, a hundred functionaries would tell her the same thing she always heard. That the people wanted a Crusade. That they should take the potato faith to the far reaches of the earth. That only by arms could the heathen and heretic be converted. They would complain about her pacifism. That she was not doing enough for the faith. She knew they were wrong.
She knew that if a Crusade was called, it would cause a war of unseen magnitude. New weapons, an ever changing world. One spark could set off the cannon shot that would change the world.
Unfortunately for Her Eminence, her worrying was for naught. The next morning Pope Radicibus II was found dead. As far as anyone was concerned in the higher circles of the Papacy, she had died of too much drinking. As far as the people were concerned, she died of old age. Nobody would know that she had died of poison for her crime of peace. The vultures circled. It was time for a conclave, and every Potatoist power in the world would want to see their candidate made pope. Not some random woman who cried for peace. It was time for a Crusade.

The mist was everywhere. Here in this place, one would be forgiven for forgetting about the troubles of the world, as the ship gently rocked and the breeze offered the first respite from the overwhelming heat that had harassed the crew of the LS Liberta for days on end.

But Marcella Laurentus had a very long memory. The Kunkachean Navy had put up a good fight, with the aid of the New Hatfielders who had supported them for the last 20 years, but when the NH Armed Forces were defeated three months ago, their resolve had faltered.

Today was but a formality. As the ship's navigator lit his signal, the LS Navy came to life like an enormous beast. 300 ships of various forms and functions were gathered here, and they were all barreling down on King Harald's last remaining fortress.

There was no doubt about it: many of these men and women would lose their lives today. Marcella had no consolation for thoughts such as these.

"Odin, give me strength. May my shield be strong, and my sword swift. May Thor look kindly upon our ships."

Marcella did not take the Norse faith as literally as her ancestors, but she had always found comfort in the rituals of her ancestors. They inspired the men to fight with renewed vigor whenever their spirits were faltering, and that was enough for her.

"Navigator Commodus! How goes it, will we land before the storm's upon us?" Marcella waited with bated breath for an answer. Dozens of meters above her, Navigator Commodus was inspecting the horizon to find an answer. "Aye! Our scouts on the coast have sent the signal. The wind is with us!"

"Good on ye, Com! Relay our thanks!" With one fluid motion, she jumped onto the planks. She never liked giving speeches from an elevated position. They were always much more rousing when she could walk among her soldiers and touch their shoulders as she spoke.

"Brothers! Sisters! Friends! We have chased our quarry for five years. Five! Few will appreciate what we've suffered to secure Laurentian independence! Few will remember our many sacrifices! And there were sacrifices. I am haunted by the faces of those we have lost. Every time I turn around, I half expect to see Captain Ragnar grinning down on me, or to hear Lagertha singing the same divine tune she always did as we made ready for battle. No one knows loss as we do." Marcella studied the grizzled faces around her. What she saw was eyes brimming with tears for long-lost comrades. Now it was time to awaken their rage.

"How many times have we shouted 'why?' How many days did we sail in despair, with our flags on half-mast to honour their nobility? And for what? What was it all for?" She had to give them all a moment of silence to feel the hatred coiling up through them.

"We all know why. Harald. Every evil we've been forced to commit, every death we've had to endure. They were all because some young pup decided he had a right to repress us." She could feel the heat of their anger. This was good.

"Well, no more! We have chased the dog all over the kingdoms and provinces, until now, he has but one hiding place left. Will we end this torment? Will we have the strength to do what is necessary to secure a future we can all be proud of? That is only yours to answer. But know that Odin is watching us, and when he sees us raising Harald's head on the tip of our spears, he will surely be proud to call us his descendants!" A rapturous cheer shot into the sky, which made what happened next all the more shocking.

The tell-tale sound of a mortar being fired resonated across the seas, and all souls gathered quaked in terror. They had been caught by surprise by the enemy fleet. Marcella could see the impact three ships in front of her. Very few people would survive on the LS Astra. She made her heart cold to the screams that shot into the sky. She would avenge them. In this world, or in the next.

"To quarters! Ready the cannons! Mount the mortars! And for gods' sake, turn hard to port!"

This was not an inexperienced crew. They did as they were told, and they did it quickly. "Com! How many?" "20 ships, all focusing their attention on us!"

Odin, the spineless piece of shit is sacrificing 600 good men just to eliminate me.

Marcella entered a calm fury. A beheading would be too kind a fate for this man. She would make sure his death was drawn out, and filled with every imaginable agony. Such vengeance she would have.

Her voice was eerily calm as she shouted: "Send them to Valhalla. Concentrate all mortar fire on their positions! Send frigates around to harass them from the sides!" She had just finished shouting her orders when the bulkhead exploded, raining down fire and timber on everyone below. The blast knocked her unconscious immediately.



She awoke a week later in a large room of a coastal fortress. She recognized the place as King Harald's last remaining outpost, and the one they were sent to conquer. She found the physician patiently staring at her. This was not one of Harald's men. She knew then what the result of the battle had been. "Evidently, we won."

The physician smiled from ear to ear. "Es ist gut, dass dir noch Witzen machen können. How do you feel? Oh, never mind, zat was a stupid question."

She liked this doctor, but she needed to get answers immediately. "Finally, it's over. What happened to Harald?"

His expression changed: "Zat dog is being kept in his own dungeon. If you ask me, he should have been executed immediately. Ze world can't be rid of his pestilence soon enough."

She declined to share her own thoughts on the matter. "Finally, we have peace."

The doctor gave her an uncomfortable but sympathetic smile. "I can imagine that after all zis time, you would long for nothing else. But there has been news. The pope is dead."

It was then that Marcella discovered that after nearly ten years of fighting, she could still be filled by a cold dread.

"POPE IS DEAD"

William Xavier, 4th Lord Tau, First Consul of the Democratic Empire, Lord Steward and Regent of Science, looked up from the telegram and sighed.

He quickly scribbled down a letter of condolences, and told his private secretary, "Get this printed and delivered to the Apostolic Nunciature as soon as possible."

Xavier left his office, and, arriving his steam carriage, directed to the driver, "Go to the State Ministry." They drove through the streets of Vivaldi as Xavier tried to distract himself from the situation, thinking of the experimental internal-combustion and electric automobiles in development.

The vehicle came to a halt, and Xavier raced to Minister Baker's office.

"Pope Radicibus is dead," Xavier said the instant he arrived.

"I know," Helia Baker responded. "I have received word that the Archbishop of Vivaldi will be departing for Rome on the morrow."

"The other cardinals will do the same."

"Of course."

"I fear for their safety," Xavier continued. "The Church here is rather... accepting."

"What if they call for a Crusade?"

"The Holy See understands our position," Xavier noted. "We have kindly let them in despite public outcry against their religion—even against established religion as a concept."

Baker nodded. "If they once again start proclaiming religious aggression, they may not find us as tolerant."

"Indeed. And if the new Pope has any problem with that... well, they can answer to our fleets."

The sun rose over the massive rolling plains of Latvichka, highlighting the horsemen riding alongside the border. The light lamellar armor they donned and special helmets made them immediately distinguished as border police, though two figures also rode beside them. One wore a heavy sable coat and large ornate headpiece made of fur and embroidered with amber and copper, and two antlers acting as puldrons. This man was the Shamate, or Shaman. This particular priest was honored to be known as Mystic Tjœtar. The other man was atop a much larger beast with majestic antlers. He had on him a thin piece of plate armor and wore a large cloak of bear skin with a sigil sewn into the back. This one was the Kashtan, or the King known as Torantræjr, and we was on a guarded ride on tour of his land. Naturally he traveled with his most trusted religious advisor and conversation between the two were heard, with only the guards and the grass listening in.

The Shaman was the first to bring it up, as he grew tired of the stories of the fairly young king's tales of his own youth, which the priest had already seen. "Have you heard my lord?"
"Heard what, Mystic?" responded the king nonchalantly.
"I received a message last evening saying the peace loving Pope has been found dead." replied the holy man.
"How does this affect us?" inquired Torantræjr. "We are so far away from them and will still have our peace yes?"
The shaman shook his head, "It is uncertain, they say the people have called for a crusade, and to them, we are heathens who have not found god."
The king halted his mount. "Surely they will not trek all the way out here just to attack nomads? And, as you taught me Mystic Tjœtar, just as Tengri has given us many fingers and toes, so too has he given us many ways to worship the heavens."
"This is true!" Laughed the shaman, "And here I thought you did not pay attention in my lessons, perhaps it would be wise to listen to our neighbors, for Rome has many allies who
may set their sights on us, and maybe a conversion for the time being will be in order."
The kind looked at his land, and shuddered at the thought of seeing it under fire. "If that is what peace must be, then I shall consider it. No more of this depressing talk, I hear the monastery has completed another batch of that amazing ale!" With a special call and a tap of his short whip, the king and his mount raced across the steppe towards his capital city.

Imperial Palace
Kyoto, Holy Potatoe Empire

Emperor Takoyru paced before his advisers in the Throne Room, informed earlier that day of the sad fate of Pope Radicibus II.  The House of Peers had just voted to send the Cardinals to Rome, and the Emperor and his advisory staff were more than a bit worried by the prospect of another pope whose policies had so drastically restricted the expansion on the Holy Empire. 

After a long pause, Admiral Cardinal Yoshika spoke, "Majesty, we must ensure that the next pontiff understands the struggles of the Church here, and of all places farther from Rome.  Radicibus was from the echo chamber of Rome, and did not understand the lengths to which the church must go to survive.  She discards the teachings to spread the world of the Tuber, instead preferring to stay within the walls of Papacy, rarely venturing outside!  We must make it the highest priority of our delegation to elect a pope unlike their predecessor!"

Before the Emperor spoke, General Kanoya replied, "You must understand that the Army and the zaibatzu require further raw materiel and labour!  It is imperative for the survival of the Empire that the next Pope shall see things our way, the way of the pious!!"

Takoyru, after another silence and a few further interjections by the Advisory, spoke, "If it is necessary for the survival of the Empire, then it shall be so.  Dispatch the Imperial Recommendation to the Cardinals.  May the Tuber guide and protect them."

"And ensure that a contingent of the Imperial Guard go with them to Rome.  We cannot have our Cardinals intercepted by heathens on their way to the Holy City." General Kanoya quickly added. 

The Imperial Recommendation was drawn up, the Emperor's seal was applied, and a courtier, escorted by twenty Samurai, travelled south.  The column marched through the Emperor's Gardens, past the massive, shimmering reflection pool flanked by cherry trees, through the Square of the People, and up the Stairway of the Faithful to the Cathedral and Monastery of the Cardinal of Kyoto—the seat of the Church in the Holy Empire....
Outside Kyoto
Holy Potatoe Empire

Later that night, the Cardinal of Koryo, returning from Rome to Kyoto, was met on the road by a hooded figure clothed all in black.  The figure pulled back the hood to reveal a dark, ebony mask and the armour of a Samurai warrior.

"Does the Holy See suspect anything, Cardinal?"

"Though I left before the Pope's demise, I can confirm that the sake you provided to me was deposited in the Pope's cellar.  Additionally, I can confirm that I instructed my aides remaining in Rome to dispose of any incriminating evidence, including what's left of the poison."

"Good, good.  All is transpiring as I have planned..."

"Am I correct in assuming that you, too, shall venture to Rome for the conclave?"

"Perhaps." 

And then the shadowy figure retreated into the inky dark...

Unbeknownst to the Cardinal of Koryo, he was now last survivor with knowledge of the plot.  For his loyal aides in Rome by now were also dead, the victims of assassins themselves....

The sea was calm on the day of the council meeting, the ships of the great cities bobbed gently in the executive harbour, gold plated figure-heads soaking in the sunlight, sails and flags shimmering softly. The docks are a awash with people: the tradesmen and women are out in force, desperately vying for the attention of the massive entourages of the councillors moving in a procession through the town, flags and crests flying high above them. The spectacle and the myriad of deals on offer have also attracted swathes of the populace seeking the new cheap and exotic goods.

At the head of the groups, mounted upon large and elegant horses are the plutocrat lords themselves, adorned with items and materials advertising their wares and the cities they represent; each wields a warm friendly smile and waves cheerfully at the crowds; they are flanked by eager secretaries, accountants, family members and advisors constantly keeping up to date with any and all events and interactions. As the bustling parade leaves the city centre and market squares the hordes of citizens and merchants thin out, by the time the groups reach the gates of this terms' Chairman's estate there isn't a soul there whom is not a member of one of the great households.

As is custom, the council members dismount to enter the property, many of their entourages split off from the main group to take up temporary residence in the barracks and stables arranged for them; a few of the most trusted stay with their nobles as they proceed through the gardens, the marble path is lined either side with tall exotic trees and the shinning silver of elegantly engraved breastplates and swords of the resident guard... this kind of display of force is not tradition and is seen as somewhat ostentatious, the councillor from Cilicia scoffs and looks to her counterparts to say:

"What exactly does our *most esteemed* Chair call this needless display?"

Most of her fellows do not respond, but the representative from the city of Mesopotamia assuredly adds:

"Our host is a young man remember, this is his first meeting, we all know it should have been his father... let the boy have his show, these men do us no harm in being here."

He gestures at the guards, Cilicia's councillor doesn't respond further but occasionally shoots a hard glare at the soldiers to watch them squirm nervously. Either way the council's walk remains amicable with the members occasionally discussing current events or sharing the odd bit of gossip.

As they approach and are entered into the grand manor by the staff, the young oligarch they are here to meet appears form the east wing and approaches them, his face is not bright, he wears no smile, instead he looks sombre and uneasy. This is most unusual, the collection exchanges concerned glances briefly, but the Mesopotamian representative once again is the first to talk:

"How is your mother my son, we were all saddened to hear about your father this past year... but her affliction has not progressed that far, has it...?"

The young man quickly responds:

"She's... she's fine. Ugh, we must begin the session quickly, I've just received some... unfortunate news, that you all must hear immediately."

He swings opens the doors to the council chamber and leads them all in, the candlelit room is only used for these events but the household staff have ensured it is buffed and cleaned to the appropriate standard, each of the thirteen chairs are engraved and designed to represent one of the great cities and identical rooms exist in all of their own manors. The council takes their seats, somewhat shaken by the breaking of tradition and their relatively hasty entry to the chamber, their scribes and secretaries taking up seats along the wall looking bemused and unsure what to express.
The Chairman sits down last after shutting the doors himself, and directs the room to look at the papers on the table before them, he looks nervously around the room and notes:

"I've had a copy of this letter transcribed for each of you, I only received it this morning, otherwise I would have sent word before hand... to summarise... the potato pope... she is dead..."

The representative from Caspian laughs out loud, but manages to say

"Are you worried about your precious Thracian wine shipments sir, because I can assure you even though that city is obsessed with alcohol no one drank more than that old coward."

She laughs again as the Chair shoots her a bad look before looking up to see the rest of the council has grasped his concern.

"Do the people know of this yet?" Asks the Cilician Councillor

"No, at my mothers advice I've placed a level one information block on this... however I don't think it will be long till the gossip merchants get wind of this... then the city... and the potatoists will know..." Responded the Chair 

The Caspian councillor with her merriment fading into confusion asks "Just what is the concern with you all!?"

"Curse it Jane, do you not read the reports we send you!" Chimes in the Mesopotamian " *That old coward* was the only thing keeping the peace over there... with her gone... war could be inevitable, and with war comes uncertainty, and with uncertainty..." he pauses "Our profits could nose dive."

"You old fool" Adds the councillor from Aden making a fist for dramatic effect "A war is just what we need, it might sort out the complacency of my men and..." she shoots a glance at the Caspian "...some of our colleagues. We can play the sides off each other bringing wealth that even our great founders would be proud of."

The Cilician shakes her head "These potatoists have already spread far too far, they have clamoured about war for years... you think they will stop at those opposed to them... they've even infected our lifeblood, the workers and merchants that fill our cities... I say this infection should be *cut out* immediately and we MUST send a representative to Rome, peace must be ensured at any and all costs!" the room nods in wearily agreement and looks to the Chair... He stands and looks around

"Are we all in agreement then? We'll clean up our streets and send someone to Rome to argue our case?" Each representative says "Aye" in sequence some far more hesitantly than others.

"Who shall we send?" Asks the old Mesopotamian, but the Chair quickly chimes in with:

"Me, I'll go, my mother can ensure Thrace remains in order, even in her current state, we've got a good relationship with Rome and I'm the chairman... the letter came to me, I'll go there and try to get them to understand our point of view." The room agrees once more.

As the meeting progressed more details are arranged, more back and forth debates, eventually though the sun sets and the meeting adjourns, the secretaries hand the inscribed notices to the captains and cheifs of staff, and horses spring out from the stables riding off in all directions into the night.

In the city all is quiet, the huge banners advertising wares swing idle in a soft wind, and in the cramped workers houses the people sleep... but some figures are awake and hurry through the streets, these men bear no engravings on their breastplates, their swords are short and thick and they hold pistols and crossbows in their hands. They break into the households of known potatoist sympathisers silently and with a few shouts and screams they systematically eliminate the hidden threat to security and their handlers profits.

In the harbour one of the great ships sets sail, aboard it, the Thracian Representative-in-absentia stands on deck, he looks back at the city as they pull away... no... it's his city, his country, his people... he looks away and retires to his quarters quickly, to hide a single tear... the Cilician's words ringing in his head "peace must be ensured at any and all costs!"; he says it aloud to himself and looks out his window to the city knowing that the bloodshed tonight is only a faction of what could come.

The cold north wind howled its way through the towers and battlemented walls of the Imperial Capital. The Fortress City of High Town dominate the vast landscape of the Empire, shining like a jagged tombstone. Clustered against its outer walls were legions of soldiers in the employ of rebel lords. Arcs of flaming boulders smashed into the city itself, smearing the white walls with the dark stain of ash. The cannons upon the battlements flashed and spoke with a thunderous shout as they hurled iron balls of death into the midst of the rebellion.

The main gates hung open like the gaping maw of a demon. Within the gate itself the two sides battled violently for control. Guns fired rounds into each other as swords flashed in the sunlight. In the center of it all fought one the Imperial Advisers, Tembla, Warmaster of the Imperial armies.

As blood flowed freely upon the grounds of the gate battle was joined upon the walls. Legions of rebels were locked in combat with Imperial Guardsmen and Knights of the Order. The Grand Master of the Order commanded the battlefield with precision as he rallied his knights to push back the enemy.

Within the Imperial Citadel Tsar Adrian Illarion rubbed his eyes wearily. For this long civil war has weighed heavily upon him. Sixteen lords had turned their backs upon the Empire and embraced the teachings of the Potato Pope. Under the influence of this foreign god they chose to wage war against him and lain siege to High Town itself. For two months the battle outside his gates had raged. The enemy gaining momentum when word reached them that morning of the death of the Pope.

The Tsar prayed to the gods that they would show mercy upon the Empire and bring ruin to the rebellion before the long feared Crusade began.

"Praying to the gods can help only so much Adrian." Old Lord Tyrannous said from where he is seated next to the Tsar. "The Crusade cannot be called until a new Pope is chosen. We have a little time yet. Time enough to end this rebellion. You forget the Warden will be here tonight. He will crush this rebellion, his berserkers are the most feared force we have at hand. The rebellion will end tonight, and we will be ready for the Crusade."

The Tsar turned to look at the green eyed Noble before responding. "Are you certain of that? If War is declared by Rome I do not think that even with the rebellion over we could stand much of a chance."

Tyrannous shrugged, "Then we will die to preserve our faith and our people. The Church is a religion of the weak. The Strong will always succeed against it. Your predecessors have fought off Crusade after Crusade for hundreds of years, My forebears at their sides. I will not let this Empire fall to ruin within my lifetime. The Empire will endure. Weather that insolent potato wills it or not."

The sun shone brightly upon the capital city of Asgard through a crack in the overcast, lighting up the Jarl's Hall. Jarl Brunnhilde stood from her throne and paced back and forth as she impatiently awaited the arrival of her Kommanders. Kommander Siegfried arrived first with Kommanders Gunnarr and Herjall coming just minutes after. Her Kommanders stood before her with strength and confidence, and she turned to face them.

"Gunnarr, report."

"Our fleets stand ready to sail out at any moment. Ship production is holding steady."

"And what of our experiment?"

Gunnarr's stance loosened a bit before saying, "Development of armored ships is going poorly. Anything we try to put in the water starts taking on water and must be pulled out."

Brunnhilde sighed. "More failures, more delays... We need an edge over the pretenders to the east. Our frigates, monitors, and longboats won't hold them from our waters forever. Even after they recover from their civil war, we must be prepared to defend ourselves." She then turned to Siegfried. "Any luck with your projects?"

Siegfried smiled as he said, "Very much so. We have managed to cast a cuirass capable of stopping musket balls without being too heavy and cumbersome. It requires the finest steel, but it can be done."

"I want an order put in for three battle groups of infantry and one battle group of cavalry to be outfitted and trained with this new armor."

"Yes, my Jarl."

Finally, Brunnhilde looked to Kommander Herjall. "How goes the construction of battlements?"

"The construction is ahead of schedule. At this rate, all requested battlements will be completed and fully garrisoned before the pretenders even think about attacking again."

"Good. We don't need-"

The Jarl paused as she saw a courier run in and head straight for her. The courier stopped before her and gave a short salute before handing her a letter. Wasting no time, the Jarl opened it and began reading. Upon finishing, she looked back at her Kommanders.

"The Potato Pope is dead, and the majority of Potatoists are calling for a crusade. And their damned crusade is likely to happen before the pretenders come knocking on our door again. Blasted fools!" She looked to Herjall. "Divert any available resources and manpower to upgrading our defenses to the south." She looked to Siegfried. "Make that order five battle groups of infantry and two battle groups of cavalry. I want any and all Potatoists who cross our border with ill intent to fall to our steel!"

"Of course, my Jarl," responded Siegfried.

"And Gunnarr," she added, "order battle fleets Ina and Thurisaz to take position at the Strait. Set up a blockade. Blast apart anything that tries to run the blockade."

"Yes, my Jarl."

"Get moving! All of you!"

Her three Kommanders quickly turned and left, exiting with a brisk pace just short of jogging. Jarl Brunnhilde took her seat again and stared off into space, deep in thought to determine how best to preserve her empire.

Sorn Kruna lounged in his reclined chair, looking over the Barbarossan capital city of Libertalia from a balcony of his palatial estate. He basked in the warm setting sun and sipped wine, enjoying a relaxing evening after a long day of negotiations with the commander of a new mercenary band.

"Excuse me, sir, I have important news," softly spoke Sorn's elderly and modestly dressed servant, Jorge de Nunca.

Sorn sighed. "What is it?"

"It seems the Pope has died." Jorge met his master's eyes with a grim look.

After a long pause, Sorn let out a deep, loud laugh. "You look as if you've seen a ghost!" He continued to laugh, causing Jorge to close his eyes and shake his head. "No, no. I'm sorry," Sorn spoke seriously. "You're right. This is a very solemn occasion." He sat up and straightened his robe. "The whole of Barbaross may very well fall into chaos all because some potato-worshiping bitch across the ocean couldn't hold her wine!" He began to laugh again, falling back onto his lounge chair.

It was now Jorge's turn to sigh. "This was not just any 'potato-worshiping bitch' as you say. She was the leader of one of the largest religions in the world, making her one of the most powerful people in the world. Barbaross may not fall into chaos, but much of the world might. It would be wise to be cautious in times like these. Pope Radicibus was a pacifist, but the next pope might not be. Do not confuse the office with the one who holds it; there is great power in being Pope. And do not forget that there are many Potatoists in our nation, as well." He looked at Sorn, who seemed to stop listening, then spoke up, "As the richest and thus most powerful man in Barbaross, our people will look to men like you for strength and wisdom."

"Ah, don't worry, old friend," Sorn massaged his temples. "No need for another lecture. There is a vast ocean between here and there. I'm sure it took so long even for this message to get here, let alone a crusade. If anything, this is good. Our nation prospers in times of war, especially when we're not a part of it. Our mercenaries will be in high demand, our pirates will have an easier time looting ships, our merchants will sell that loot back to the warring nations, and our slavers will collect more slaves. And I'm sure I'll make countless doubloons selling arms to both sides."

Jorge had enough of Sorn's carelessness. "Don't be so naive! We could be dragged into this, and who knows what may happen!"

"Mind you tongue, Jorge," Sorn snapped. "I respect your counsel, but remember who is the servant and who is the most powerful man in Barbaross."

"The most powerful man, but not king. Remember you only are only as powerful as you are rich. Should something happen to your businesses, you would be nothing. Like me."

Sorn stood, clenching his fists, "You insolent..."

Jorge continued, "What I mean is that you need to take power for yourself. There is already a de facto council that basically runs the nation made of the other richest businessmen. Put aside you pride, join it, and work together to make it the de jure Executive Council of Barbaross. Then seat yourself as its leader by right."

Sorn spit. "That council is run by spineless idiots. All they do is argue and have others do their work for them. Besides, I couldn't trust a single one of them. They'd just work together to overthrow me."

"Don't let them. Invest your money in the mercenary companies and pirates. Earn their loyalty by nearly giving away your weapons to them. As the saying goes: He who controls the arms, controls the army."

"Ha! Loyalty from men who are incapable of it? They sell themselves to the highest bidder. I'd sooner trust the council."

"But you are the highest bidder, sir. Make sure of it." Jorge paused. "You may not trust anyone, but you can trust me."

Sorn chuckled, "That I can." He smiled wide, his golden teeth shimmering in the sunset.