“I’ve been in worse,” muttered a middle-aged man as he sat alone in a small room. While not as chic as the office he had held during the Casca days, it served his needs. A simple seat, roughly chiseled out of granite, served its place behind a rather lackluster wooden table that acted as the man’s desk. There were no other chairs in the room, as he intended. Over his shoulder was a small painting, depicting a defensive red serpent guarding a cross.
“Egil!” Called a voice from outside. Egil furrowed his brow, taking a moment to discern who it was. Upon realization, he let out a long sigh.
“Yes, Ascot. Get in here,” he tried not to sound too annoyed as his assistant, Ascot, slowly moved into the room, “and shut the door.”
The sight of Ascot always made Egil feel weary. The tall, lanky, awkward fellow with his unsociable manners was one of the lesser respected of Egil’s new Confederate ilk. As such, it was frequently he who was elected by his compatriots to bring their leader bad news. Ascot’s dull eyes widened as he parted his lips, and stalled.
Egil again sighed, swinging his legs off his desk and leaning forwards, elbows propped up as he held his head in his hands. Ascot, realizing his hesitation had done the speaking for him, contended himself to quietly waiting for his leader’s reaction.
After what seemed like an eternity to the pusillanimous Ascot, Egil looked up. His face a strange combination of calm yet flush with red. “We’re moving out. Tell the men.”
Ascot needed no further encouraging. He quickly turned and left Egil again to his peace. Relieved to no longer require a facade of control, Egil slammed his fists on his desk in a fury, forming a small crack along the length of its poor construction.
“Jonas thinks he can toy with me!” Egil more of stated than questioned, to nobody in particular, before kicking his chair over and stomping off one of the legs with his boot. It was an uncharacteristic lack of control, Egil knew, but he had every right to be angry.
It was five nights ago they showed up to this spot, waiting for the old drunken pirate to show. While he was no longer of any real importance to anyone, Egil felt he had a use for the ruined mariner. One of the most recent groups to join his Confederation for a Unified Sosaria was none other than Jonas Grumby’s old crew. The very crew that he led for years, pillaging the Britannian seas. The Ghost Legion.
It had not initially been a name the pirates had chosen for themselves. But their propensity for surprise attacks, and that no member has ever been captured or found dead, quickly earned them the name from fearful mariners. Yet as effective as this crew had been, they had fallen into a violent streak since Jonas’ departure. They began killing the sailors of any ships they took, and would often resort to kidnapping and torture for ransom. The most recent example being Nujelm’s Grand Vizier. The man had been half dead when Egil and his group met with the pirates to accept them into his confederacy.
This lack of control is what began to bother Egil. They still insisted on conducting themselves as they saw fit. Even now they were out on the seas, business as usual. Yet, Egil did what he could to tolerate it. It was his intention that he could convince Jonas to return to his crew and bring them under Egil’s full control.
But, he could no longer afford any more time to waiting on the old drunk. He had many leaders to meet in the coming days. A group of disconcerted solen, upset with the destruction constantly brought to their hives, seems eager to join Egil’s ever growing alliance. He had to make haste if he hoped to speak to the hive’s queen in a timely manner.
The sudden thought of meeting with the herculean insects sent a shudder up his spine. But he would do it. He had to. The tyrannical and supremacist reign of Lord British’s system of Order, as Egil saw it, had to end.