Crowns

Mother Ashka, the Gravespeaker

A gravespeaker in ash-grey vestments, a long red-inked list held open in both hands, the true power in a city of the dead.

A weathered admiral-king seated on his throne beneath a hanging sun-rotted mainsail, sword grounded point-down before him, eyes set on open water.

A sea-queen in a captain's coat with charts rolled under one arm, reading the weather rather than the room.

A fleet captain in marine's harness, boarding axe at the hip, standing braced as though the deck were moving.

A corsair princess in fine coat and rough boots, a folded letter of marque tucked openly through her belt.

An old raider in scarred plate over furs, a rolled drawing of rebuilt walls under one arm that he shows to nobody.

A salvage-queen in dark practical clothes, empty-handed in an empty room, holding the stillness of someone who owns the market.

A widow in plain wool with a drop spindle turning in her fingers, weaving while she listens, flawlessly.

An iron-crowned king on a black iron throne, its arms polished pale by the grip of forty kings before him.

A queen in a smith's guild-proof under royal cloth, standing rather than seated, one hand resting on a hammer she still owns.