Eyttyrmin Batiiv Pirates
The horizon darkens. Shadows spread across the spacelanes. The Eyttyrmin Batiiv Pirates are closing in — black sails without canvas, a fleet of steel and fire that blots out the stars.
We are dread incarnate. The thunder of cannon fire in the void, the shriek of boarding hooks biting into hulls, the roar of cutthroats as decks are overrun. To see our banner is to know your fate: no mercy, no escape, no tomorrow.
Every raid is a score. Every ship seized, a prize. Every tally carved into the Ledger is a monument to terror and glory alike. Convoys vanish into the abyss, fleets scatter in panic, and the wreckage we leave behind is the only warning others will ever receive.
We are not smugglers nor brigands of chance. We are a brotherhood bound by oath and iron law. The Gun Decks are our muster, the Ledger our permanence, and the skull and bones our eternal banner. We strike first. We give no quarter. We take what we will.
The Batiiv are the closing storm — the shadow that swallows horizons whole, the silence before the broadside, the darkness after the wreckage. We descend without warning, overwhelm without hesitation, and leave nothing but silence in our wake.
To stand among us is to abandon the shore and embrace the abyss. It is to swear yourself to the crew, to the tide, and to the eternal hunt. It is to become fear itself.
Answer the Black Flag.
Carve your name into the Ledger of dread and glory. The tide is rising — will you rise with it, or be swept away?
