Emmaline sidestepped to avoid the spray of blood and brain, struggling mightily to avoid sneezing in the cloud of powder smoke. Though dozens of pistols and blunderbuss were pointed at them the pirates seemed not particularly upset by the murder. Either they had a very cavalier attitude toward slaughter or they took a dim view of their underlings attempting to speak for them. Or both of course.  For a moment there was relative silence, broken only by the dull roar of festivities outside and the sycopating booms of fireworks. All eyes were drawn to the severed head. The dark elves were a scourge upon the sea, a peril to pirates as well as to merchants and costal communities. Their cruelty was legendary, but so was their seamanship and skill at arms.
 
It was unlikely that Emmaline would be able to get out of here alive if the pirates decided just to shoot the interlopers, though there was a good deal of metal in the room. There was a murmur among the assembled lords as they considered the situation. One of the Imperial captains stood up, pipesmoke jetting from his nostrils like a dragon preparing to breathe fire.

“Will we hear this claim brethren?” he demanded with drunken solemnity. One of the Arabyians gazed at the severed head for a moment then made a gesture to ward off evil and spat on the floor.

“Timar the Red will hear the claim,” he spoke in heavily accented Tilean. Riekspiel appeared to be the exception rather than the rule in these parts where Tilean cultural influence ran deep.

“And who will second this?” the Imperial demanded. There was a stony silence from the remaining captains. All eyes were on Markus and his grisly trophy save for one of the Brettonian captains who was eyeing Emmaline speculatively. She gave him a lascivious wink and cocked her head slightly the direction of Markus. The Brettonian stroked his long musache, twirling the end of it around a finger tip and then stood.

“Gaston L’Favrre will hear the claim!” the Brettonian declared theatrically. All eyes left Markus and settled on Jaego Roth, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“Make your claim then,” the Imperial demanded, “and bring the implements!” A small frail looking man scampered forward carrying a leather bag. He was naked save for a loin cloth and a turban of rich cloth of gold that was long soiled and stained. Emmaline vaguely recalled that the sultan of one of the Araybian principalities had sworn to destroy the pirates and set out with a great expedition which had been destroyed by storms and the pirates attacks. The sultan himself had been captured and had been allowed to live as a slave of the pirates. The slave drew a black and white bead from a leather bag and set them before each captain.

“Speak your claim and then we will vote,” the Imperial declared, “white for life, black for death.”
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