[color=9932CC][h2]The Regal Flotilla[/h2][/color][b]Heavily WIP[/b][hider][h3][color=6A5ACD][u]Alias[/u][/color][/h3][h3][color=6A5ACD][u]Government Type[/u][/color][/h3]
[indent][b]Feudal Monarchy[/b][/indent]The Regal Flotilla is, for all intents and purposes, a feudal empire. At its top reigns the Pureblood Empress, who is simultaneously the captain of the flotilla’s flagship, the [i]Tiamath[/i]. Under her, the captains of every other major vessel within the fleet also bear a title of nobility, varying in rank; from kings to barons, everything is represented. Some of these people are indeed nobility from landed houses, others have been made noble through the empress’s authority, who herself has not been born under any noble house that the Justinian Empire would recognize – or any at all, for that matter.
[h3][color=6A5ACD][u]Faction Species[/u][/color][/h3]
The vast majority of the Regal Flotilla is made up of humans, though being a collective of slaves and wayward seamen, other species have found their way into the mix as well, such as the occasional beastman or orc.
[h3][color=6A5ACD][u]Territory Details[/u][/color][/h3]
The Flotilla has no actual land-based holdings directly under their control, although they do have significant leverage over some independent, coastal city-states, particularly along the Cursed coast. Being a purely mobile force, thus, they are flexible and nomadic. From a military perspective, this is useful as it makes them impossible to besiege like stationary settlements and castles, while at the same time affording them great reach and speed to strike almost anywhere with access to a coast. On the other hand, from an economical stand point, it puts a great strain on the fleet, which has almost no ways to produce anything of value to speak of. Fishery is thriving amongst the flotilla, but as for the rest, pillaging and trading (for pillaged goods) is their only way of supplying themselves.
[h3][color=6A5ACD][u]Faction Religion/Ideology[/u][/color][/h3]
[indent][b]On the importance of blood and purity[/b][/indent]Within the Regal Flotilla, a person’s worth is measured almost entirely by the nobility and purity of their blood. It is believed that authority – and the power and wisdom that legitimize it – can only be gained through an unbroken and refined lineage. Any blemish in one’s legacy, such as a bastard in one’s ancestry, or the union between a noble person and a commoner, tarnishes not only one’s reputation, but damns all of one’s descendents for generations. For this reason, every captain seeks to parent an heir that is as pure, if not purer than themselves. To accomplish this, they look towards lying with some other noble from the fleet or, if need be, their own family (cousins, siblings, even offspring). Marriage doesn’t exist in the flotilla; no such romantic bindings are deemed necessary. Some may choose to live with a partner, others choose more than one partner, others still lay with whom they please and when. It should also be mentioned that only one heir is strictly needed to succeed any one captain; when their lineage is secured, they can afford impure children and simply disown, banish or kill them.

In a society so focused on the purity of a person’s birth, it comes as no surprise that the ideal of all is someone with the title of Pureblood Empress. Nobody truly knows who – or indeed, [i]what [/i]– she is. Possessed of unnatural physical features, she has ruled the flotilla for well over a century and still appears as if within her teens or twenties. The greatest gift she can bestow upon a male captain, thus, is the offer to lay with her. Any child that can trace its lineage back to her enjoys the highest of privileges. She embodies everything the peoples of the flotilla have been taught to aspire towards, and they almost worship her as a deity – or a false idol, if the clerisy were asked.
[h3][color=6A5ACD][u]Faction Description[/u][/color][/h3]
123
[h3][color=6A5ACD][u]Faction History[/u][/color][/h3]
[hider]In a time long forgotten, before there was Justinian, before there was Daigon – perhaps, before there was even [i]man[/i], there lived a race of elevated beings, pale, slender and tall. In this primordial age, they were the lords of all creation and molded the world to their whims. It is thought that they came very near to understanding a fundamental truth about reality itself, knowledge which would have thrust them into a new childhood. Only, they never made it this far and instead faced extinction when they were on the precipice of immortality. Perhaps it was a mistake or perhaps it was a voluntary choice. Maybe they understood that annihilation would be merciful compared to what the future promised. Whatever the truth may be, these graceful beings disappeared from the face of Geryon, leaving behind little in terms of relics or ruins, except for one machine, embedded in ice.

A dark wind blows from the north, beyond the icy waters that limit Nagath’s northward expanse. In this land, life is hard to come by, but that which lives there is of a sturdy, violent sort. Only the apex predators can thrive in this land where warmth can only be found in the blood of enemies slain and basked in. Men live there too, furtive and huddled in thick pelt. Sinister men, who have seen much but tell little, and what little they do tell terrifies outsiders with its monstrous implications. It is no surprise that men of the north are of a skittish sort, for they have learned how to adapt and live, even as prey. When, from afar, they hear the rumbling groan of an inhuman throat reverberate through the ice and rattling their bones, they know to seek sheltered shadows. Long ago, a dead god slept beneath the frozen water, and even in those days, they knew to avoid this temporary tomb. All that changed when, a century ago, the dead god awoke and was dead – no more. Now it haunts the crystallized oceans in search of prey, howling as no terrestrial being does and leading a fleet of doomed ships, enthralled by a monster from another world.

No man can claim to know Justinian’s goals, but none dare question him. When he sent an expedition of mystics and scholars, led by an esteemed high inquisitor, they simply bowed their heads and followed orders. None of them truly knew what the journey would entail, but they knew it was important. Twenty learned scholars, men all, underwent the trek east towards the Sea of Curses. Worn and cold, they traversed the frozen sea in mid winter, headed for some nebulous point of interest somewhere in the middle of the ocean. Many questioned the utility of their quest, but when they finally laid eyes upon the frost-wreathed corpse of an iron worm, all doubt died like hope in a leper colony. This was a tomb, avoided by animals and men alike, but the Justinian mystics hurled themselves at the metal carcass like vultures, pecking at it and dissecting it. They hadn’t been told what they would find, but they had all been chosen because of their reckless, inquisitive natures. And maybe, the other consequences had also been foreseen; one cannot ever know how much Justinian truly plans for. It is a fact, however, that the expedition had never been heard from again, except for a single survivor who returned shaken and broken – but alive, and clutching an artifact of indeterminable age and importance. The expedition, so he said, resulted in failure, a disaster by all means except for the fortuitous retrieval of this relic. The news was less than appealing, but it was enough. It was deemed sufficient. Justinian almost certainly knew it was a lie, but if he did, he did not let on.

The truth of what happened, however, would forever remain burnt into the inquisitor’s mind like a slave brand. Twenty scholars descended into the lightless bowels of the mechanical worm, fumbling their way across walls that felt like the inside of a digestive tract – and feeling just as vulnerable as if it were one. Near the aft segments of the great vessel, they found an unwholesome chamber that evoked panic in many and sent them upwards, trembling, gasping for fresh air. The chamber was circular in nature, with floors and walls that were somehow sectioned by protruding ribs, or perhaps thick veins, embedded in the metal. They too formed a circular pattern that guided the eye’s attention towards the centerpiece of the room: a great, shallow, golden bowl formed from dozens, perhaps hundreds of individually modeled hands reaching out from the ground, fitting together so neatly that they formed a smooth surface. The hands were, mostly, human in nature, although some were bizarre in their proportions. Cupped inside the bowl lay a man-sized cocoon; desiccated, shriveled, about ready to turn to dust. A myriad of fleshy tubes protruded from the membranous shell, extending outwards to the extremities of the chamber where, seated in a circle around the enigmatic egg sat over two dozen dried up corpses, bearing similarities to unraveled mummies. Skin dry and hard, a fossilized layer over mere bones. The tubes bore into what remained of their bodies, draining them even now of necrotic nutrients in a desperate struggle to stay alive. Their appearance was humanoid, save in their size – they towered easily above the scholars, even in their shrunken, deceased state. In life, they must have been twice as tall as any of them. Few dared even hazard a guess as to the purpose of this chamber, and whether or not whatever had transpired here had succeeded. At least it was agreed upon that the cocoon, against all odds, was alive, if barely. It was also agreed that they should attempt to finish what the dead ones started, for they had no answers anymore. The cocoon, on the other hand, might hatch new insights.

It was quickly discerned that blood was the medium. The tubes, after all, had served their purpose in draining the donors of blood, and the cocoon had reacted positively to the influx of fresh blood. Further tests soon revealed that it would take vast quantities – much more than the scholars could give, or were willing to. Fortunately, blood was not a rarity in an empire as vast and powerful as Justinian’s, and an outrider was sent to gather aid. Within a month or two, throngs of prisoners and slaves were herded towards the iced tomb, lambs being guided to the slaughterhouse. They were butchered by the dozens, bleeding over the cocoon, bleeding into the cocoon, gorging it on blood until it welled and bloated and [i]flourished[/i]. What had been a shriveled, sticky clump weeks ago quickly turned into a pulsating, puffy bladder. Man after man was sacrificed, and the scholars found themselves becoming more familiar with the art of butchery than the more studious subjects. They could not even fathom anymore how many natural laws they were violating with their perverse undertaking.

One day, most lost count of how many it took, the moment finally came upon them. The chrysalis, pumped with warm blood, had finally matured and popped open with a sickening slosh. The balloon-like membrane collapsed in upon itself, embracing the contour of a young adult human being. Dripping with gore, a strikingly attractive girl crawled out of the organic mess that had cradled her for untold eons. Wide, red eyes stared at the collected, baffled assembly. It was difficult to say which side was more confused. Tentative attempts at communicating with this astral child were made, but availed nothing. The scholars were ecstatic nonetheless; a discovery such as this had not been made in centuries. Whoever – whatever – this creature was, it could change the lives of everyone. Their names would be eternalized in great books, their deeds sung about in a thousand years. None would begrudge them the many dozen lives – a paltry sum – offered upon the altar of progress. They’d understand.

But none would ever hear their names. The moment they set foot on the [i]Tiamath [/i]was the moment they ceased existing. It was, after all, a tomb. But it was theirs. There was a sudden shift in the hatchery, as if everyone assembled had become instantly and acutely aware of some ill omen that promised nothing but death. Death, however, was the last thing on anyone’s mind. The scholars, learned men all, did not even have enough time to fathom what it was that washed over them. A form of sorcery? A parasitic disease? A gas in the air? The time for professionalism and speculation ended abruptly when the hallucinations set in. [i]Tiamath [/i]warped from its cold, alien, dark metal bowels to wondrous new shapes and smells and sounds previously invisible to the human senses, all of them pleasant. The skies were fair. The trees charming. The exotic birds captivating. The dewy woodland smell enticing. But there was only one thing of true beauty: a fragile little angel with skin like snow and eyes like rubies. The mere sight of her turned all other sights immediately irrelevant. Consciousness receded into the dark corner where it once lurked in an older time, when humans were more accustomed to shouting and killing. With the self withering away, the primal id resurged, like some primordial monstrosity unchained after millions of years in captivity. A slavering, drooling beast whose entire focus was on [i]her[/i]. Hence dormant desires awoke with a dark passion as men returned whence they came.

It was a sight to evoke disgust in even the most primitive of animals. Even orcs, even beastkin, even feral dogs had enough empathy to retch at the sight of about thirty mindless and unclothed men tearing at and violating the cosmic newborn with reckless lust and abandon. The sight was too much to bear for the high inquisitor, who narrowly escaped the primitive darkness in his brain through sheer power of will. It was also too much for Phoebe; one of the half dozen slaves present in the chamber [i]just in case[/i]. The cosmic aura invaded her mind also, but awoke different instincts, the kind that protects and nurtures instead of destroying. She felt nothing but pure love for the heavenly being that was being raped to death before her very eyes. Something dark and primitive awoke in her, too, then. Men and women, again, returned to shouting and killing. Monstrous screams reverberated from the rounded, metal walls, echoing over and over as they layered above the crunching noise of broken fingers smashing broken skulls on harder surfaces. When the noise died down, and the [i]Tiamath [/i]returned to being as quiet as it had not been in weeks, the hatchery was covered in broken bodies, skin burst open with great lacerations, limbs bent in ways that evoked pain simply by looking at them. Fragments of bone and pools of gore collected in little niches in the floor. And at the center of it all, a shivering, blood splattered angel was cradled in loving arms by another women, black with caked blood of her own and of others.

Only a handful of slaves, mercifully absent  from the slaughter below deck, and their captors survived. Phoebe was technically still their prisoner, but nobody had it in them to lay a hand on the woman who had killed more than all of them combined with her [i]bare hands and teeth[/i]. It was something in her posture, in her eyes, that made even stern warriors flinch. They knew not why it happened, but their subconscious did. It saw in those merciless eyes the stare of a predator, a monster from a time we left behind long ago. The subconscious remembered man’s role in the game of hare and hunter in those days: It was prey. The cosmic infant was kept safely below deck, the hatchery having turned into an impromptu larder, filled with human meat that remained edible for weeks when exposed to the glacial cold. There would be no shortage for a while. Phoebe instructed – warned – anyone from approaching the child. Claimed that she had become inoculated against her presence, but that others would lose their minds. She was unaware that her mind had already become something alien. For the time being, she acted as the child’s mother, teacher and leader of what people remained on the [i]Tiamath[/i]. Now that the scholars were dead, nobody truly knew what to do anymore. The way home to the empire was denied them by a vicious blizzard that would rage for weeks. The armed personnel remaining had no agenda. Some were sellswords, even. Without direction, they were simply itching for something to do, somebody to fight.  When boredom turned to restlessness, and restlessness to aggression, groups of warriors went out under the cover of snowstorms to hunt for animals or, if they saw a flicker of light in the distance, hunt for loot. Not all who left also returned; the dark winter claimed lives indiscriminately and without mercy.

Weeks became months, and men began to forget that there was anything at all beyond the barrier of snow and ice. The great worm was their home now and slowly a symbiosis between parasite and host developed. It sheltered them from the cold and nurtured dark dreams. They began restoring the venerable machine to its former glory, freeing it of the ice, greasing what little machinery they dared touch in their ignorance. By springtime only the vessel’s underside was still encrusted in thousand-year-old ice. Phoebe had grown weak; her broken knuckles hadn’t healed properly, her eyes had sunken farther into their sockets, her hair had begun to fall out. She spoke little now; she wouldn’t see the next winter. Wouldn’t see her daughter ascend into godhood. Wouldn’t see the end of everything. She couldn’t prevent the rest of the crew from catching glimpses – or sometimes visiting – the future empress anymore. She disapproved still, snarled sometimes, but they were weak and pointless protests of a mother coming to terms with a daughter who was coming of age. The young empress had grown independent and clever. Spoke the language of men within a season, could walk and feed herself. And she was [i]growing[/i]. By the time the snowstorms subsided, she was already the tallest person aboard the [i]Tiamath[/i].

By the time summer was approaching, and supply stocks (even those in human meat) became empty, everyone had sworn their undying loyalty and love to the cosmic child. By this time, Phoebe had been laid to rest. It was also by this time that the young empress discovered other parts of the ship and that some until-then dormant part of her mind remembered things from a previous life, recollections of a dead species. She remembered how her ancestors (or was it her, in a previous life?) operated this tomb – this ship, as it turned out. Nestled in one of the largest segments of the [i]Tiamath[/i], she found a kind of throne, although calling it that was perhaps implying something grander than the truth. The seat – inseparable from floor and wall, having grown out of them like an organic tumor – was a device that made any torture instrument in a dungeon look downright pleasant. Flexible wires, lined with thick needles, coiled everywhere around it. Merely approaching the throne caused jolts of excitement to run through these vines, the tendrils moving autonomously as if alive. The young empress was still a little bit short for the seat, but it would do. Fearing no pain that the [i]Tiamath[/i] could inflict upon her, she seated herself on the cold metal and closed her eyes. All around her, she heard the intimidating scraping of steel on steel as the tendrils stretched and flexed and – finally – embraced her flesh, deep nails digging into her veins. With a passionate scream, girl and machine became as one and for the first time in untold eons, the world trembled again under the loud, deep and ominous roar of a dark machine that fed on flesh and blood. [i]Tiamath [/i]awoke and broke free of the ice.

And so began the rumors of a black serpent appearing from the depths of the sea. An old snake that could bite its own tail and encircle the world, a poisonous demon that would kill and be killed by a great hero one day. The first sign of the end of the world. Superstitious men sharpened their blades and honed their skills for the ultimate test, when gods, beasts and men would clash one final time.

Merchants have no time for foolhardy rumors of impossible sea creatures. The [i]Swift[/i], the [i]Maiden [/i]and the [i]Jubilant[/i], three trading carracks accompanied by a pair of military vessels, were on their way along the Cursed coastline to seek trade with the Brass Republic. It was the outlook for the [i]Fierce[/i], a moderately armed galleon and the larger of the two military ships, which first spotted the slithering, black tendril forcing its way across the briny waves from the north. The more fearful and gullible sailors bewailed their fate, offered prayer to whichever gods they thought they wronged before being disciplined by more strong-willed seamen and officers. The vessels took up formation, training their cannons in the direction of the approaching darkness, anticipating when it would be within optimal range. Lookouts reported the sighting of men on the creature’s back, but their words were received with doubt.  Once the serpent crossed the threshold, undeterred by the many barrels facing its way, each of them fired in tandem, dozens upon dozens of hot, heavy cannon balls flying through the air. Only, they were built for destroying wooden hulls; the rounds that hit the [i]Tiamath [/i]rebounded uselessly off its hull with a dull plonk. A dark roar, as if escaped from the depths of hell itself, shook the waves and hearts of men in reply to the attack. Frantic hands reloaded cannons, polished barrels, supplied gunpowder. No amount of cannonfire could abate the inexorable approach of this primordial monster, and the [i]Fierce [/i]was the first to fall when the grand wedge at the [i]Tiamath’s [/i]bow rammed into the galleon’s side, splitting the ship in two. The small fleet, once organized, was now as a herd of sheep with a wolf in their midst. This wolf, however, had harpoons on all sides firing hard, iron tethers into its prey. Escape had become futile and every ship was dragged towards the black hull of their nemesis, which glowed with an otherworldly purple sheen in the sunlight. It wasn’t until now that men realized that indeed, they were not facing a monster at all, but a ship. Somehow, that realization made it all the more terrible and frightening.

The [i]Tiamath’s [/i]crew, hardened by Geryon’s coldest winter and weeks of eating human meat, met their quarry with stern confidence and a proposal of parley. The poorly armed men agreed and a small contingent of them was allowed on board the ancient warship. The captains were allowed to meet with the young empress at a safe distance – experience had taught her loyal warriors that ten to fifteen meters, depending on the wind, was sufficient to avoid her strange aura, or at least notice it early enough to get away. The empress’s terms were simple enough: Leave all cargo with the Tiamath and go free, or join her fledgling empire and share the goods. A total loss of cargo would ruin them, resistance was futile. It only left them with one option, the hope that this “empire” could somehow sustain them, make them independent. It was a weak hope, but one they would have to nurture. When the empress nudged them closer, within ten meters, all doubt was erased from their minds and the flotilla was born.

In this fashion, the Regal Flotilla continued to gather followers and supplies. Sometimes they would visit harbors to trade in valuables for greater necessities. Especially in these early days, the flotilla was very mobile, visiting lands to the south as much as in the north. They picked up ships from cultures far and wide, each in turn losing its independence to their unending desire for a cosmic goddess given flesh. Over the years, she gradually came to embrace and adopt the idea of enforcing an order of nobility upon the fleet, none questioned why. Few people questioned anything she said anymore. When she said that she wanted to be an empress, and that her followers would be kings, dukes, marquises and other such titles, they simply played their part. It would take decades until this initially superficial game of roleplaying became an earnest belief, and some more until it turned into degenerate decadence. Captains came and went, generations living and dying aboard wooden ships. No amount of seasons could mar the empress’s beauty or diminish her vitality. Her children were myriad; the first dozen or two being strange and misshapen, often stillbirths. But eventually they became more human, appealing and intelligent. They lived on various ships, guiding and administrating them, extensions of her will. After her fortieth child she became more selective in her partners and chose to surround herself with eunuchs to avoid any unnecessary liaisons. From these, she formed the Council of Six, as well as the Pale Guard. The former served as her representatives on the outside, while the latter represented an elite vanguard to protect her and the flagship at all times. From this moment on she chose only the strongest and smartest to father her children, and encouraged the other ships to nurture those traits in their own bloodlines. Nowadays – a hundred years after the flotilla’s inception – the fleet, or at least the flagship, tend to haunt only the northernmost waters in due to the [i]Tiamath’s [/i]aversion to warmer climates. Still, smaller fleets are sent out into the world on occasion to scour for loot, profitable trade and valuable genes.[/hider]
[h3][color=6A5ACD][u]Important Characters[/u][/color][/h3]
132
[h3][color=6A5ACD][u]Relations to other Factions[/u][/color][/h3]
[include any off-map NPC nations that are relevant to your factions history]---
[h3][color=6A5ACD][u]List of Ships[/u][/color][/h3][This list is ever-expanding as the story goes on and more ships are introduced]

[indent][b]Tiamath[/b][/indent]Class:		Icebreaker Dreadnaught
Length:		216,6 m
Width:		23,7 m (Average)
Propulsion:	Underside Flaps
Armament:	80 ballistae with harpoons and reeling system
Special Traits:	Heavy Prow Wedge, Flexile, Terror Siren

Far to the north, beyond the reaches of the frozen sea, ancient natives tell tales of a great, ebon worm wreathed in ice, dead but dreaming. When news came of the worm’s awakening, most of the elders went mad and died of fright. The [i]Tiamath [/i]is a ship only in the vaguest sense of the word; more aptly described, it is a mechanical, steel monstrosity that haunts the Sea of Curses like a primordial monster.

Eleven segments, each separated by a flexible section, allow the lengthy vessel to bend and coil like a snake. Every segment covers the flexile piece behind it with three fin-like outcroppings, and is crowned with a large, dorsal spine that bends in elegant and terrifying ways. The outer hull of the ship shows no obvious seams or bolts; it’s as if every segment, or perhaps the entire vessel, were cast from a single mold. But the outer hull is anything but smooth – it is gnarly and warped, like old tree bark or welting skin. Metal that looks as if exposed to a volcano before being allowed to thaw. Under the waves, on the [i]Tiamath’s [/i]ventral hull, is a long series of rudder-like flaps, arranged in a chain from bow to stern. These represent the vessel’s propulsion system; by rhythmically snapping these flaps, water underneath the ship gets moved similar to how a series of oars would move a ship.

Turreted ballistae line the [i]Tiamath’s [/i]deck, firing harpoons at whales and enemy ships both, only to reel them in with a robust crank system and sturdy chains. To amplify the effect, the ship can bend in a half-circle around its target, allowing it to train up to half of its weaponry on the target. Nothing could escape binding by up to forty harpoons. Whales that are dragged in can be lifted onto the deck with the help of a crane, whereas enemy vessels could be pelted with burning pitch, grenades, or simply boarded. In addition to its ballistae, the [i]Tiamath’s [/i]prow is equipped with a scratched, dented and extremely thick wedge that is not only good at cutting through ice floes, but also at ramming lighter vessels (which would include practically every ship on Geryon). Last but not least of the weapons, if indeed that is its purpose, is the dreadful noise that the ship makes every once in a while, in particular upon engaging enemies. It lets out a long, vibrating, drawn-out growling, similar to the sound of a large, old horn but twisted by a nightmare. In clear weather, the sound can be heard for a few miles and shakes the very bones in one’s body in a radius of one mile. For the flotilla, it is a resounding warcry; for outsiders, it is a farewell dirge.[/hider]