The Steam Behemoth Awakens in Peluah Harbor
Masina Strait trade city Peluah. Built atop the vast lagoon where the sea met the Rene River, this city had been born with an innate limitation: it could never survive on inland farming or production alone.
To live, Peluah had turned to the sea. The saying that all the continent's gold flowed into Peluah hid a deeper truth—the continent's largest and most numerous ships docked in this harbor.
"Hey, Dock 3! Check the draft on that galleon from the Southern Union! She's so overloaded she's about to sink below the waterline! Fine 'em for excess cargo!"
Pietро, Peluah Harbor's chief inspector, bellowed that morning amid the stinging brine and tar stench assaulting his nostrils.
"Chief! Cargo manifest from the East India spice trader. Customs stamp, please."
"Lemme see. Pepper, 300 pounds; nutmeg, 150 pounds... Docking fees and entry tolls paid? Good, cleared."
Pietро pulled the quill from behind his ear and slammed the official Peluah customs seal into red wax.
Before his eyes stretched hundreds, thousands of magnificent merchant ships, their masts like a forest, docked end to end. From square-rigged cogs to sleek lateen-sailed caravels that sliced through headwinds.
Pelуah's majestic naval might—the sea's overlord—and the beating heart sustaining the city.
"Hah, ebb tide and the wind's died too. Dead calm hell."
Pietро tsked at the stalled wind vane. Without wind, even the greatest sailing ship was just a wooden shell. To escape the harbor, dozens of slave-rowed galleys had to tow them with ropes, grunting to the open sea's midpoint.
"Ships sailing today'll bleed for galley rental fees."
Pietро chuckled, flipping to the next document—when a shadow loomed overhead.
"Inspector. Stamp this departure permit, would ya?"
Pietро looked up, and a bizarre ship docked at the pier filled his vision.
"...What the hell is that eyesore?"
The intruding vessel was worlds apart from Peluah's grand, elegant merchants. It looked like an old, hulking freighter refitted—but its vital masts had been sawed off at the base. In their place, a massive black iron cylinder squatted grotesquely amidships, while enormous waterwheels—like grain mills'—jutted absurdly from both sides.
"No sails, no rowing benches? What, a floating bathtub... Wait."
Pietро rubbed his eyes at the dark blue flag on the stern.
[Carnoble]
The legendary guild reportedly devouring Peluah's textile market in a flashy revival. But sea wisdom differed from land. No matter the land riches, a sail-less cripple like this would sink before cresting the harbor waves.
"Carnoble Guild departure request..."
Pietро skimmed the manifest and burst into incredulous laughter.
"Listen here! This cargo weighs as much as 500 wagons of cotton cloth? You kidding? Load that on this sail-less plank, and she'll hit the reefs kissing the sea king's face..."
He trailed off, eyeing the draft line. Heavily laden and low in the water, yes—but that central black iron mass perfectly balanced her, holding a miraculously stable keel.
"...Huh. Passes loading regs, I guess. But no wind, no oars—how d'you plan to haul this beast out? Don't block the lanes; just call a galley quietly."
Pietро irritably stamped and shoved back the papers. Probably some rich kid's mad boat toy—adrift for days, mockery fodder.
"Stamped. Sail... or don't."
The guild foreman snatched the docs, signaling roughly to the wheelhouse like a true tar.
"Cleared! Master engineer! Open the valves!!"
"Right, enjoy rowing in this dead calm hell..."
Pietро turned to the next ship—then froze.
Shoooooo—!!
A deafening friction screech erupted from the ship's central stack. Black smoke and boiling white steam erupted skyward like a volcano.
"Cough! Hack! What—fire?! Fire on a mast-less ship! Fetch the hoses—!"
Pietро paled, yelling for guards—then:
Thud. Thruuum. Rumble-rumble-RUMBLE!
The wooden deck quaked. No—the iron-laden ship vibrated like a beast's pounding heart.
Clank—!! WHOOOOSH—!!
Before Pietro's eyes unfolded the impossible. The ridiculous flank waterwheels groaned into spin.
"Wh-why're they turning on their own...?!"
Massive wooden paddles mercilessly thrashed Peluah's seaward waters. House-sized sprays exploded white in all directions.
BRRROOOOAAAAARRR----!!!
A horn blast louder, more savage than any beast's roar shook the entire harbor. Thousands of sailors and inspectors from other ships rushed on deck, gaping at the monstrosity.
"C-crazy! She's moving! The monster's moving!"
Pietро dropped his ledger. Laden with 500 wagons' horror-weight, sans sails or oars, the behemoth inched from the pier.
Dead calm, no wind. Worse: fierce ebb tide flooding in from sea. Conditions where Peluah's swiftest ships needed slaves vomiting blood at oars to crawl forward.
But Carnoble's beast ignored nature's laws, churning and shredding waters, accelerating ferociously.
Clank! Splash! Clank! Splash!
"Th-that speed... impossible! A hundred galleys couldn't match it!"
Pietro's jaw dropped. The black-smoke-belching horror overtook Peluah's fastest racers—mere turtles in the channel—like an arrow in flight.
Her wake birthed massive swells, tossing ornate galleons like leaves; sailors screamed.
"Look! Plowing straight through the sea!"
In mere minutes, she'd escaped the labyrinthine channels that normallу took half a day. When Pietro recovered, the freak was a vanishing dot on the horizon.
Left: a long black smoke scar and violently shredded white wake.
"..."
Silence. Peluah's tens of thousands stared seaward, ghost-struck.
"What... was that?"
Chief inspector Pietro muttered at the fallen red wax seal. Centuries of maritime trade built on winds, currents, slaves' sweat—reduced to obsolete relics by one belch of black smoke.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Our first destination: the southern tip of the Rom Peninsula, the treacherous narrow strait between mainland and vast southern isle. Masina Port.
Masina was the absolute chokepoint linking Rom's east and west coasts, mandatory for all southern merchant ships. Bypass it, and you'd circumnavigate the isle, wasting months. Thus, continent's rarest goods and tycoons flocked here, forging immense wealth.
Yet to sailors, Masina Strait was a golden grave. Mad whirlpools from clashing seas, fickle gusts shifting wildly. Ordinary galleons dropped anchor for fair winds, bracing for boresome waits of a fortnight to a month.
"Haha... hahahaha! Insane! This is pure madness, Elpanso!"
Atop the deck, soot-blackened Aila clutched the rail, shrieking in ecstasy.
"Ripping straight through Masina's infamous countercurrents!"
Her emerald eyes mirrored the overwhelming velocity devouring the sea. Far off, rival guilds' massive galleons—trapped in whirlpools and calm, sails limp—flew backward like a frozen painting.