Who were the old empire?

Before the flood, they ruled with salt-stained hands and storm-worn pride - The Noble Houses of the Old Empire

Before the flood claimed the coasts and memory blurred into myth, four houses stood at the heart of the Old Empire’s naval might. Each bore a legacy shaped by the elements - not of spell or sorcery, but of discipline, knowledge, vigilance, and strength. Their crests still whisper from sunken banners, and their doctrines echo through the crews who sail the drowned world.

House Emberwake

House Emberwake ruled not through fear, but through flame - steady, guiding, and impossible to ignore. Their command halls were lit by lanterns that never died, their decrees etched by candlelight, and their officers sworn in beneath flickering banners. Admirals of this house believed in a strict chain of command and upheld the old Fleet Law with unwavering authority. They were the keepers of maritime justice, where visibility and order were the flames that held the night at bay.

Crimson sashes adorned their uniforms, not as vanity, but as a symbol of duty - a spark to remind the crew who bore the burden of final decisions. When a ship was launched or a captain laid to rest, it was Emberwake’s stewards who kindled the flame. To them, fire was not destruction - it was illumination, the light by which right could be known and wrong unmasked.

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House Varneth

On the wave-battered cliffs of the eastern provinces, House Varneth built their tide-libraries and starlit observatories. Their halls were quiet, filled with the rustle of parchment and the sigh of ocean wind through coral-stained shelves. This was a house of record and reason - the thinkers, the map-makers, the oath-keepers. They governed the academies of navigation and tide-mapping, ensuring that no fleet ever sailed blind.

Every voyage under their guidance began in the chartroom - an hour of silence, study, and intent. They were slow to speak, slower to act, but never wrong. Their Book of Oaths was said to contain the names of every pact ever sworn upon the sea, and those who broke them were rarely forgiven. House Varneth remembered everything — and expected the same of the ocean.

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House Galegrave

House Galegrave perched where others dared not: atop sheer cliffs, spindly towers, and creaking crow’s nests. They were the watchers of the wind, the voice of the empire carried by storm and sail. Their duty was not to fight, but to see - to signal, to warn, to whisper. Every great fleet had at least one Galegrave aboard, hooded and sharp-eyed, always watching the horizon.

Their training was merciless. Semaphore, code-lanterns, wind-speak — the art of precision, never waste. Words, they believed, were ammunition: best used sparingly, always well-placed. Repetition was weakness. Their scouts could read a coming squall before the birds felt it. Their motto, “First to see, last to be seen,” was not just a saying - it was doctrine.

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House Dregstone

If the other houses soared or swam, House Dregstone stood. Their fortresses were carved directly into the cliffside, stone staircases descending into black shipyards where iron moorings groaned like old bones. They were the architects of the empire’s fleet - drydock wardens, anchor-priests, and makers of the keel-stones that bore every ship’s name.

Dregstone did not shout. They built. They bore. They remembered. Their officers were stoic and silent, but none doubted their strength. It was said a Dregstone could stare down a mutiny with a glance, or bury a traitor with a single nod. Every burial-at-sea passed through their rites - not out of superstition, but because the sea needed to know who it took. And the Dregstone knew how to tell it.

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What house would you have belonged to - the flame-lit command of Emberwake, the deep knowledge of Varneth, the windswept eyes of Galegrave, or the stone-bound will of Dregstone?