The Corsair Program

Buried deep beneath the bustling courtyards and gleaming towers of the Imperial Navy Academy, hidden from prying eyes and whispered rumors, lies a dark secret— The Corsair Program. A clandestine training program, designed by the Emperor himself, it molds vulnerable children into instruments of unwavering loyalty, weapons infused with cutting-edge magitech and insidious psychological manipulation.
To the outer world they exist as nothing more than a vague rumor, a warning whispered in remote taverns, tales of entire pirate crews vanishing without a trace, notorious crime-lords found dead in their sleep, their guards none the wiser. For those that stand against the Emperor himself, they are an ever-present threat, a dark promise waiting in the shadows.
To the few within the Empire who are privy to their existence, they are an extension of the Emperor's will. They assassinate, kidnap, and sabotage without complaint or hesitation.

History

The Corsair program emerged from the shadows of Imperial ambition, a culmination of both technological advancement and a ruthless disregard for human life. As the Empire expanded its reach across Yrdde, encountering increasingly strange and formidable foes, traditional warfare proved inadequate. The demand for speed, precision, and a complete lack of moral restraint led to the development of the Corsair – a deadly weapon blending human instinct with magitech enhancement.
The first iterations of the program relied on recruiting volunteers – young, ambitious men and women seeking glory and power. But the mortality rate, even amongst the Empire's most elite, proved unacceptably high. The demands placed upon Corsairs - the intricate magitech systems, the psychological strain of becoming a living weapon – required a more malleable subject.
Thus, the program shifted to a darker path – the systematic acquisition of orphans from the Imperial orphanages in Aetheris. Children deemed physically and mentally capable, yet possessing no powerful family ties to raise alarms, were silently removed from select orphanages and funneled into a program designed to reshape them into weapons of unparalleled precision.
The current form of the Program is run by a man known only as The Ravenmaster. He rarely visits the children themselves, but is always accompanied by his pet bird. The staffers under him have taken to calling the facility "The Raven's Nest", something that has spread to the children.

Selection Process

Many families were torn asunder as a result of the Sanctum-Imperial war. In one of his first acts after ascending to the throne, Emperor Thorne ordered the creation of several orphanages in Aetheris. Over the years they have become wealthy and prestigious operations, and many a noble family unable to conceive an heir owes their continued bloodline to them.
Unbeknownst to the average orphanage staffer, however, there is a hidden cost for their operation. Agents of the Program, in disguise as everyday inspectors, survey the children for suitable marks and instruct the senior staff to prepare them for transport. The children are then drugged and taken away, all record of their existence removed. Those that ask questions are typically informed that the children were adopted out to families in remote areas, and the sheer number of children moving in and out makes tracking them down a difficult prospect.

Training

Beneath the Imperial Navy Academy, beneath a veneer of care and comfort, the stolen children are meticulously broken and reshaped into instruments of the Emperor's will. The walls of the Raven's Nest are adorned with murals depicting the Emperor as a benevolent protector, his legions as valiant guardians, and the enemies of the Empire as grotesque monsters. The socialization room is lined with shelves containing fairy tales of the Emperor's feats and ascension, and the guile and will that he championed. The children are taught to view themselves as instruments of his justice, weapons wielded for the greater good.
As they sleep, children are subjected to subliminal messages delivered through carefully crafted spells cast by the staff, amplified by yrddestones concealed within their dormitories. These whispers subtly plant suggestions – the importance of discipline, the fear of outsiders, the absolute authority of the Emperor – shaping their dreams, eroding resistance, and fostering a sense of unquestioning devotion.
Ruthless physical training then pushes them to the brink of human endurance. Each day begins before 'sunrise' with grueling physical exercises designed to hone their agility, speed, and reflexes. They are taught to move with the silent precision of hunters, to scale walls, navigate obstacle courses, and disarm opponents, their small bodies becoming instruments of disciplined efficiency.Those who fall behind vanish without a trace, fueling a silent terror that compels even the weakest to push past the boundaries of pain and exhaustion.
As they grow older, the children are introduced to combat training. They learn hand-to-hand techniques, mastering both traditional weapons (daggers, swords, staves) and increasingly lethal magitech weaponry – pistols that fire arcane bolts, blades that hum with a lethal energy, and whips that crackle with electrical currents. Compassion is eradicated through exercises that pit them against each other, fostering a ruthless determination to win, regardless of the cost to their fellow students.
The children are tested in realistic scenarios, simulating everything from infiltrating enemy facilities to defending Imperial assets from attacks. Their performances are analyzed, their flaws ruthlessly exposed, and failure met with swift and often terrifying punishments – sensory deprivation chambers, electric shock therapy, or solitary confinement within pitch-black cells where the only sounds are their own ragged breaths.

Graduation

Graduation comes without fanfare, or any notice at all. Those that have passed all assigned tests are taken from their beds as they sleep, drugged, and carried into the far depths of the facility, to a surgical hall where their final test awaits. As they drift into consciousness, strapped to a surgical table within the sterile, brightly lit room, they are reassured by a soothing voice - the Ravenmaster. They're told they are being granted a gift, an enhancement that will make them stronger, faster, more capable of serving the Emperor and achieving their full potential.
This gift comes at a steep price, however. For every hundred children that pass into the Program, perhaps twenty survive to graduation. From those that remain, only a few survive the Emperor's gift.
Limbs are severed, bone fused with steel, and their nervous systems intertwined with yrddestone-infused magitech circuitry. The prosthetics are a marvel of Imperial engineering, offering enhanced speed, strength, and dexterity. They're crafted from a sleek, obsidian-black alloy, laced with veins of glowing Yrddestone that pulsate with magical energy. These prosthetics can be augmented with various attachments – razor-sharp blades, energy shields, or concealed weapon compartments. The children are taught to view them not as replacements for lost limbs but as an evolution – an improvement upon the limitations of flesh and blood.

Corsair Agents

There are three types of Corsair Agent, each trained and rebuilt to suit a specific task required by the Emperor.

Strikers

Strikers are the most visible of the Agents – elite pilots whose reflexes, augmented by magitech and relentless training, surpass even the most seasoned veterans. They are the Emperor’s favored messengers of death, soaring through the sky-sea with devastating speed and precision. While a deadly threat in the skies, they are just as much of a danger on the ground as well. Many an Imperial Navy officer has been taught to turn a blind eye when they are aided in battle by a silent, unmarked airfighter.

Enforcers

Enforcers are the brutal hand of Imperial power, walking tanks devoid of fear, immune to pain, and possessing a single-minded focus on accomplishing their objective, regardless of casualties or ethical considerations. Their augmentations are stark and utilitarian. Their limbs are replaced with heavy-duty, heavily armored prosthetics that offer superhuman strength and resilience. They are impervious to most conventional weaponry, and even magitech blades struggle to penetrate their metallic plating. Many Imperial Corporation executives have a few such agents in their entourage, and they serve a dual purpose. While they may be there to protect, they are still the eyes of the Emperor, and they rarely blink.

Stalkers

Stalkers are the unseen hand of the Emperor, silent predators operating in darkness, their targets rarely even aware they've drawn the Emperor's ire. Stalkers often operate for years in deep cover, embedded within enemy organizations, political circles, or even unsuspecting communities. They become sleeper agents, awaiting a whispered activation code or a symbolic trigger that unleashes their programming and sets them upon their deadly path.
No Trouble

The scent of stale ale and pipe smoke hung heavy in the air of The Rusty Cog, a low-ceilinged tavern crammed with travelers seeking solace from the sky-sea's winds. Alastor, his black Arbiter's uniform a stark contrast to the motley attire of the surrounding patrons, lifted a forkful of stew to his lips. He paused, savoring the rich flavor with an unexpected flicker of approval in his pale eyes. Aetheris cuisine had a tendency to favor excess over substance – too many spices, too much reliance on strange ingredients added purely because they were rare and costly.
Beside him, Seventeen shifted, the movement accompanied by a barely audible whir. Their metallic hand rested upon the rough wooden table, unnaturally still, reflecting the flickering candlelight with a cold gleam. Conversations at nearby tables had died down, gazes sliding away as the Arbiter took in the unfolding scene.
Alastor placed his fork upon the table and sighed. His dining companion shifted slightly and he heard the wooden bench begin to splinter. They would have blended in more if they'd ordered anything, but as far as Alastor could tell they subsisted entirely on murderous intent. Even then, they carried that out with the same enthusiasm as one would have breathing.
The tavern-keeper, a burly man with sweat beading on his forehead and his gaze darting nervously between the two figures, approached their table. His hand trembled as he extended a soot-smudged hand.
"You'll be paying now, s-sir, Lord Arbiter?"
Alastor gave him an arch look. Alastor had great respect for the lower classes, his father had been a farmer after all, but he would rather view them the same way one would an especially interesting insect. From behind glass, and with a sharp stick through them.
"Of course, of course. How rude of us."
He lifted his travel satchel and removed a small handful of crowns.
"Good, good," the man stepped forward. "and you'll be on your way, will you? No trouble here."
Alastor caught him by the wrist and pulled him off balance. As he stumbled forward, the Arbiter pressed the barrel of the gun against his chest.
"Oh, there's always trouble. Harboring deserters, for starters. For shame."
Alastor pulled the trigger. The room was lit for a moment as the aetherial charge bored through the man's chest and into the ceiling.
A chorus of metallic sounds followed as a half-dozen tavern patrons produced a variety of weaponry.
"Seventeen?" He said, casting a glance to his side.
Seventeen grunted in response. There was a metallic tinge to the sound, cold and inhuman. They stood, cloak falling away, revealing something that had, at some point, been human.
"Kill everyone in town, will you?"

"Imperial Corsairs… they’re ghosts forged from blackened steel and nightmares. They move like they’ve got ice in their veins, no hesitation, no fear. I've danced with them a few times – let's just say I still bears the scars - and it's enough to make you question your sanity. They fight like machines, all cold precision and a hunger for the kill. You can cut them, shoot them, it doesn't matter. They'll claw at the ground as the last of their lifeblood spills out, dragging their already dead body towards you in the futile hope of taking you with them. What has the Empire done to them? It makes you wonder what whispers lurk behind those blank eyes, what nightmares fuel their ruthless efficiency. But darling, that’s a story I’m not sure I want to uncover. Some doors are better left closed, some mysteries are best left buried. There’s a chill to those encounters that lingers, you know? A taste of something cold and inhuman. - E Dawnstrider

Type

Secret, Military

Notable Members

• Seventeen