He jogged down the stairs, stopping to swing a shoe at a green pearled spider, smashed it and continued on. The sky opened like a symphony as the wind blew faces into the clouds.

The man stared at the salt marks on his shirt and wiped them off. He couldn’t figure whether he hated the sea or not. He gave small thanks he wasn’t headed for open water and headed off towards town.

There’s a vast array of fuckery out today— and the Orange Fist of Tiralta felt ready to meet it.

People are suspicious of the handsome— especially ones with names like “Johnny St. Django.” Not that Johnny minded. He was a swashbuckler through and through. A gnash of shiny teeth and silver flowing locks, his visage inspired confidence, but his record of evading angry husbands did not. Still, the crew that followed Johnny from the Kirani isles knew their captain put gold above pleasure— and they had found both in Tiralta. No longer considered pirates (and it’s hard to shed that label) the transitioned mercenaries found themselves acting as the esteemed guard to a dubious Viscount set on controlling the Tiralta trading port.

Viscount Ghatani proved an unctuous, if reliable employer. His own vices stayed far away from the discerning eyes of St. Django’s men, aptly named, the “Salt-licks.” Ghatani didn’t trust the Salt-licks, but his faith in St. Django proved essential to his rise in power amongst the council. St. Django cleared the council of Ghatani’s more fervent opponents and left the field aware of his openness to continue.