Privateers of Lssthp II [IC]

[TriciaOso]

The flames that scar and do not warm.
The streams that dissolve and do not quench.
The winds that freeze and do not refresh.
The lights that burn and do not reveal.
The blooms that sting and do not restore.
The shadows that cut and do not hide.
The grips that crush and do not build.
The dead that hunt and do not rest.

Proud as we are, who can deny that we are less than we once were? Our own mother scoured us from the earth, and we live in exile on these changeable isles. The world that was once ours swarms with hairy bipeds -- solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. His Viridian Majesty has forbidden us to think of it, and the Storm-Veil'd Queen must not be mentioned. But how can we forget when our dead litter their shores? Our dead... we must always remember our dead.

[OOC]

Lssthp, home of the Chromatic Empire, is one vast city-state, threaded with mountains and forests and wastes that separate districts but all one island, one continent, one land. To the north of this island lies Grand Hoard, the district of the Royal House and the great ports of the Navy and Merchant fleets. A bay like a vast bite taken out of the shore is fenced off, the Quay of Beasts where serpentships are constructed and sea serpents are bred and trained, adjacent to the miles and miles of docks and the mansions of the Black dragonborn, built out over the water to accomodate their slumbering amphibious masters.

From along this coast, you can look up along the bulk of the island and see Grand Hoard loom over you. Let lesser dragons hoard gems or gold; the wealth of his Viridian Majesty is in ships and warehouse and banks and temples. The Imperial Residence is that overgrown jungle of gardens there to the east; there to the west lies the Court of the Magistrate Lapis, the highest authority of the law, its marble towers licked by lightning and veiled in thunder. The high peaks in the distance are capped with snow, venting flame; in the magmalight you can sometimes make out the Great Library, where monks guard the gates to the Plane of Law.

With no sun or moon, life in the Empire is governed by the bells, and they're ringing now. It's Rising, and all over Lssthp laborers and servants are rising, shaping the world for the more leisurely awakening of the upper castes. Along the dock and quay and in the wyvern aeries, the druids come with their goodberries, feeding the waiting beasts. The intricate machinery of the Empire ticks over into a new day.

At one end of the dock, the warships that patrol the Calm around Lssthp; dreadnoughts constructed over the shells of dragon-turtles and trireme patrol boats rowed by conscripts. At the other, the merchant vessels float, huge and vulnerable, hauled through the Calm until they can raise their sails. In between lie the privateers, empowered by their letters of marque to build serpenthulls and hunt pirates and vikings. Some accompany merchants, frisking around the wind-bound, wallowing galleons; some hunt in packs or alone among the islands of the Hic Sunt.

This ship is the White Cliff, a decommissioned military ship in service as a privateer these thirty years and serving the navy gods know how long before that. The tall ship mounted on the beast's back has the patchwork hide of an experienced vessel, held together by spit and kobold ingenuity. It's drawn by a thirty-meter plesiosaur, waiting for its breakfast. The crew of thirty was stirring already before Rising bell; everyone knows today they'll be leaving port, back to the hunt, and there's much to do before the Captain returns from her business on shore. Most of the officers are back already from their shore leave, but not all -- so long as they beat the Captain, all will be well.

First Mate Achelous, by all means already aboard, supervises the crew as they load supplies and swarm over the rigging, and even his sharp tongue finds little to criticize. There are hungover stumblers among them, but no layabouts. Most at least pretend to busy industry.

Beyond the docks, the sea spreads out in the perfect glass placidity of the Calm, a mirror of the dancing stars. Larger than the stars of the humanoid lands and burning in different colors, some move in stately gavotte and others swirl and leap unpredictably. One white star burns, far to the north, fixed and unmoving and piercing the stormclouds of the Hic Sunt that crowd the horizon. The Lighthouse is shining full on Lssthp; a good day to set out.