Here's a sample from one of our events:
Aboard the R.K.S. Jakob
Nunmul Sea
0510 hours
9th of November, 1890
If the stink of Skuldan harbor rubbish didn’t still pervade my senses, I would have thought I was home…
As the R.K.S. Jakob sailed away from the Skuldan coastline, Kaptain Friedrich Dostoyokoff leaned on the railing of the port bow and found his new surroundings eerily familiar. The polluted, murky depths of the Deep Sea, no doubt a by-product of the Skuldan’s primitive drive for war industrialization, began to clear into a sapphire blue. The turbulent rhythm of coastal waves calmed, and a colder, stiffer breeze began to sink through the layers of Dostoyokoff’s coat, reminding him of the native temperament of his own proud nation, Panzirion.
Dostoyokoff relished in the familiarity of this unexplored sea, but as tired and homesick as he was from his three month-long voyage from Panzirion to the Skuldan territories, he quickly ended his respite. He denied his sailors the usual shore leave of drink and women (though the case could be made that he saved his men from the septic horrors of Skuldan brothels), and instead ordered an immediate resupply and cast the crew and ship back into the sea.
He himself could hardly afford to be distracted from his task.
Three months ago, Dostoyokoff was one of several naval commanders tasked by the Royal Kyzar himself to gather men and a ship, and initiate an expedition for new lands to expand Panzirion’s influence beyond the ocean. Those that found fertile or amicable lands were to be commended with promotions and riches. But above all, they would have the honor to have faithfully executed the will of their Kyzar.
Most of the expeditionary groups were assigned the southern hemisphere, finding tropical islands, desert nations, and hazy jungles, all inhabited by savages that were easy enough for the expeditionary forces to pacify. But few others like Dostoyokoff were assigned the northern hemisphere, some already finding mountainous lands with seas of trees. But as Dostoyokoff docked on the Skuldan port, preparing to head further east, he had heard of rumors of an unfamiliar land further north called “Peodum.”
According to the brutish locals that called the port their home, this “Peodum” was a land of glaciers and “blood-stained” soil. And was almost always spoken of in a negative light. Or maybe not. Dostoyokoff always did have difficulty comprehending the disorganized mess that is Skuldan syntax.
Glaciers? Bloody soil? Dostoyokoff thought that it was perhaps a land that the Skuldans have been squabbling and killing each other over, as they usually do. But it did not sound like any one of those savages had claimed it yet. The prospect of a Panzirion Empire on both ends of the world, with brazen, glorious flames conquering the ice of the poles, had, to say the least, taken hold of Dostoyokoff’s mind.
Though initially rebuffed, Dostoyokoff had handsomely bribed one of the dockworkers to inform him of “Peodum.” His slurred ramblings informed Dostoyokoff that Peodum was across the Deep Sea that bordered the western Skuldan coastline. The Skuldan Navy heavily patrolled the area, however, so Dostoyokoff would have to exit the Deep Sea by heading south, pass all Skuldan lands, and head back up north in order to enter a body of water called the “Nunmul Sea.”
The Skuldan dockworker momentarily stopped, as if considering something, and started again with a hint of a smirk. He told of the natives that lived in Peodum, calling them “blue-skinned minges that worship puddles.”
When questioned on their technological state and armaments, the Skuldan simply laughed.
“I’m sure the superior Panziri Navy can hold their own against pagan tribes that like icicles up the arse more than cocks.”
Dostoyokoff swallowed his pride at the obvious insult, forced himself to thank the Skuldan with his reward, and swiftly returned to the Jakob with new orders. May the Kyzar forgive him for disobedience, but glory had ignited Dostoyokoff’s better judgement.
Now heading to Peodum, with the calm seas and arctic air cooling his head, Dostoyokoff couldn’t brush off what that dockworker said. He had a gut feeling there was more to the Skuldan’s sarcastic slander than face value.
Dostoyokoff’s thoughts were interrupted by faint whisps of fog passing by, later increasing in size and density into sea-level clouds. The fog became so thick, Dostoyokoff could barely view through the freezing sea ahead.
Swearing, Dostoyokoff briskly jogged to the bridge, and immediately boomed orders to the bridge stations in a succinct, rapid fashion, with responses reciprocated just as fast. The bridge became a choir acclimating to the tune of the deck bells.
“Quartermaster Yi, reduce speed to fifteen knots.”
“Fifteen knots. Aye, Kaptain,” chimed Yi, pulling back on the handle of the engine room telegraph.
“Midshipman Schneider, I want sailors posted forward, port, and starboard as look-outs for any icebergs or natives. Petty Officer Müller, I want as much illumination lit as we can. Lamps, torches, anything. And get a man on those foglights.”
Schneider and Karkoff each slipped out an “Aye aye, Kaptain!” as they exited the bridge and dodged bustling officers on the deck. Dostoyokoff directed his attention to navigations.
“Lieutenant Mikhailov, make sure we’re sailing straight. We’re going to have to guide this ship blind. If that Skuldan was right, we should be close to the coastline of this ‘Peodum.’”
Mikhailov nodded, instinctively tinkering with a sextant while eyeing the mast flag, “Aye Kaptain, we’ll keep the sails shut for now. We have a southwest wind at around… ten miles an hour.”
Dostoyokoff, barely out of breath, stepped up to the bridge window, and stared with a painted grimace.
No, this wasn’t like home at all. The fog back in Panziri was light and loosely swelled in the yellow amber of the rising sun, and was just simply familiar. This fog, however, was… primeval. The phenomenon was more like smoke rather than fog, and simply swallowed the once recognizable features of the horizon. Dostoyokoff was able to view a few miles ahead of the R.K.S. Jakob, but past that, an ominously billowing fog blended the seascape with a greying sky.
“Keep heading north. If we don’t see land in an hour, we’re heading back to strangle tha-”
Schneider burst onto the bridge with a spyglass in hand, and shouted, “Kaptain, three large masses sighted off the forward bow!”
“Alright, icebergs are simple enough to avoid. Quartermaster Yi, turn port side at-”
“Kaptain… those ‘icebergs’... are moving.”
Dostoyokoff stuttered, “Wha- What?”
“Sir, those aren’t icebergs.”
And that’s when Dostoyokoff, and the rest of the bridge, saw it.
Or rather them.
The tips of three bows pierced the fog, slowly revealing their foreign bodies. Panziri navy vessels are designed to be clean-cut, stylish, and orderly, with the forward mast proudly presenting the flag of the Royal Kyzar and the sails and paddle motor out in the open, daring any to approach within range to disable them. These ships were the opposite. The bows were inverted, with the tips of decorated rams dragging through the water. The engines were hidden, deep in their maws, with the only hints of their existence revealed through the billowing steam from the exhausts. They were designed for cold pragmatism rather than fiery pride.
Cannons upon cannons. Plating upon plating. Support spines along the port and starboard sides, like ribs of predatory sea-life. And in between the ships, netting, no doubt to entrap the Jakob.
At first Dostoyokoff cursed the treachery of the Skuldans. They were pirating reavers. Low-life scum. Dishonorable vermin. They tricked Dostoyokoff into entering empty waters so they could raid his vessel.
But he viewed an unfamiliar flag on the sail-less mast of the alien vessels. A crowned, black hand rising among blue fields.
No… this isn’t like home at all. We should never have come here.
Dostoyokoff, steadying his voice, quietly ordered, “Schneider, notify Master-at-Arms Karkoff, load the cannons and empty the armory. We found the natives.”
