Rhonda
The Pirate King Bradai Maith
The Skull Throne, The Maith Mansion, The Southern Isles, Tonate Proper.

He had been signing up Privateers the entire day. Within hours of his return and the opening of the public to come and see him, every fisherman with a half decent oyster sloop was kneeling before him, asking for a job working on his docks, local and abroad alike. 

The entrance to the throne room was littered with gifts. Baskets of fish, dried dolphins and sharks hoisted from ropes on the ceiling, ornate tapestries, open sacks of red and yellow spices, chests overflowing with iron and steel ingots. The ocean breeze blew the flowing teal curtains gently, leaving the entire place full of trade and salt. The Pirate King, with one leg over the other, had been addressing people the entire day. 

He wore his hat instead of his crown, the long and flat black rim coming far beyond his face, shading it from the sunshine of his chambers. His copper beard well groomed, his black overcoat near spotless, save for the salt stains near the bottom ridge and over his long, leather boots. 

Captain Salim was received outside the manor, changed into a simple set of pure white robes, and brought in with the three mullahs accompanying him. When the Pirate King would first pay no heed to the Amorothian in his presence. Even after all of this time, there was a silent resentment for the continent. But slowly, as his mind because to notice the small details in his guest, the unique turban, the pink stained facial hair, the acts of grandeur. 

"Captain Salim, I presume?" He ran a hand through his beard, leaning forwards to get a good look at him. "Vhey say you can control tha winds. Which one of your mullahs 'as a God what can vouch for your..." He chuckled, "_special_ talent?"
William
Salim Al-Akari
The Maith Mansion, The Southern Isles, Tonate Proper.

"If you wish for confirmation... I can have a blaze of lightning beset a city with a snap of my fingers good lord,"
For proof, he snapped his fingers once and the rumble of an impending thunder storm could be heard outside. Realistically it had took a bit more planning than he showed. It wasn't the best place to summon a lightning storm due to it being a bit more inland than he'd prefer, with no major rainstorms incoming for the next few days. He had to slowly gather the moisture needed before calling down the thunder. He couldn't manifest a bolt either. He needed to be at sea or close for that kind of power. Or he needed a shit ton more days of preperation. Point is, it was a bluff.
"Perhaps you'd like a light drizzle of rain instead? To feed crops?"
He snapped his fingers once more, allowing the cloud to drop a bit of its rain as a light drizzle, causing pitter patter right outside the window, indeed only one side, showing his control. 
"Or perhaps a scorching hot day? Let the sun embrace your bones," 
Now here was the real trick. He moved the cloud from over the building allowing hot sun rays through, striking all within with heat, moving his right hand over his left one to illustrate the movement.
"I control far more than the winds milord. The weather and the ocean are mere toys in my hands,"

He then put his hands back into their normal position and did a showmans bow. He was a pirate after all... And granduer was expected. He would have already made it clear how different he was from most amorothians, merely by the fact he commanded woman outside of battle. 
"If proof is still required, I believe Stocks here can oblige," 
The massive iron clad man stood forward, tattoos gleaming in the light as he waited for orders.
Rhonda
The Pirate King Bradai Maith
The Maith Mansion Throne Room, Tonate Proper, Southern Isles.

The Pirate King had seen magic. The Pit was impenetrable, but nevertheless it was clear that the King of the Islanders grew up in Amoroth. Lira, specifically. He never knew how deep in he was, but he recognized that any farther south, and he would've been able to see the end of the world, or whatever lay beyond the whipping sand storms of the Yellow Sea. Just as often as there were rapists and thieves put to work, there were magic users, tattooed and pierced, bruised and bloodshot, whispering words, incantations, prayers of protection and warding. It often did nothing to protect them from picks and rocks once the other slaves discovered who they were. There were some, some that could provide heat, or make their way using an ability, or murder the right person to stay in the Pit, and it was from those people he had seen magic from. Blood sacrifice, child sacrifice, dancing shadows, scar painting, glyphery, snake heading, hauntings. He had only ever seen one curse ever truly get placed. Shadows pushing a murderous slaver from a high bridge and into the quarry was no act of divine intervention. It was a covenant made in blood.

Salim's parlor tricks were not magic. 

"You made it rain 'ere. It rains 'ere constantly. My people do not dress me in furs, Cap'tin. Vhey dress me in leavher, marked wiff salt and torn wiff age. Your timing, 'owever, is charming. It _is_ a good trick to show a King." He placed a hand on the top of his head and removed his sunhat, setting it down on the desk he had placed in front of the throne. Almost immediately, the widows were closed, and the sound of crossbows locking into place cascaded from the upper balcony. It was not exactly dark, but the room was now shady, and as the firestone began to cool, so did the atmosphere in the room.

"You do understand that tha BMTC forbids magic. It says noffink about high ranking members of my Trading Company to be magic users, _'owever_ it does mean vhat in tha list of people vhat 'ate you, some magic users will be among vhem. And if you protect me, I will protect you. You will 'ave to abandon your ties to any magic groups, cults, bar the infrequent trip to a temple, or whenever necessary. You fly under my flag, you are loyal to vhat flag. You can pray to any God you so desire, pick whatever Mainland you like. All of the Pantheon can claim you as vheir champions, I 'ave no quarrel wiff you. So long as you work for me, and not for anyone else. "

He cleared his throat and pulled out a large ledger from his desk. It required two hands to lift, and with a heavy puff of dust and parchment, it spilled open, heavy pages unfurling. "I allow tha people vhat meet wiff me personally stake vheir claims wiff me. We'll do it tha Old Islander way." 

The Old Islander way of making a deal was simple. The one making the deal would tell the Patriarch, or in this place the King, how much money they wanted to earn from this venture. They would then tell the Patriarch just how much they would be willing to give up for them to achieve this goal, in bodyparts or in present possessions. If the deal with unsatisfactory to any party, they could reassess, and then leave. When directly making a deal with the Pirate King, most didn't bother saying how much money they would expect from the venture. The King of the Southern Isles never bought on parchment what he couldn't buy in coin. Most went right for the torture, or immolation they hoped they would receive if they betrayed him.

"Go on vhen, Stocks? Is it?" Bradai placed on his reading glasses and dipped a thick place plume into his inkwell, filling his name on The List. "Just 'ow far would you go for tha richest I could afford to you? 'ow far would you let yourself be sold to your Captain? What kind uff a fire does 'e inspire in you?"