My group started out with the Powers of Monsters, Oceans, Currents, The Hunt, and Obscurity. From that, I twigged on the Tennyson poem "The Kraken," and everyone liked the flavor idea.
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Imperator: The Krakken
Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth:
- from "The Kraken", by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The Krakken is an old god, one of the oldest, born from the fearful worship of the earliest primitive tribes to venture out on their handmade boats, out beyond the sight of land and into the nameless deeps. The vast creatures that dwelled in those unplumbed reaches inspired terror and a frenzied awe, and their power was unquestioned and without peer. Krakken is the embodiment of that strength and the focus of that worshipful fear. He is Swallows-All, gnawing hunger and primal instinct writ larger than the world. His multitudinous limbs entwine and grasp the fabric of the universe, and his eye holds galaxies in its gaze.
In these latter times, the Krakken has subsided, the raw energy of the first flush of Creation slowing and ebbing. The modern world has small space for monsters, and so the Krakken has retreated, lowering himself into the furthest, deepest depths of the ocean and there taking his rest. The prophecies say that he will slumber until the End of All Worlds, awakening only in the final cataclysm to devour the last remnants, as well as those of Creation's foes foolish enough to linger.
Traits
Granted Gift: Aquatic
All the Powers of the Krakken are by fiat creatures of the sea. The Krakken breathes deeply in the dark reaches, and his breath suffices for all of his children. No Noble of the Locus Vorago need ever fear drowning.
Granted Handicap: Voracity
The Krakken's gnawing hunger grows the longer he slumbers. Just as his breath is theirs, so too does his appetite pass on to his Nobles. Servants of the Krakken eat often and heavily, regardless of need or personal preference. If they do not consume prodigious amounts of food, their hunger becomes more and more distracting until it is all they can think about.
Harvest
Sacrifices have always been made to the gods of the deep places. In times past, the Krakken savored animals, wines, and even human blood. If, with the proper incantations and obeisances, a sacrifice is given to the deeps, it feeds the Krakken and nourishes him in his formless dreaming. The more powerful and potent the sacrifice, the greater the benefit to the drowsing god-thing. At the lowest end, unwilling mortal beings provide virtually no value, being the metaphysical equivalent of "lite" beer. Food and drink of high quality are marginally better, with the efficacy increasing the more one needs the sustenance oneself; this is the Krakken's meat and potatoes. Unwilling miraculous sacrificees are pleasant, and generally well-received; a decent meal at a good chain restaurant. Best of all is an immortal or otherwise powerful being which gives itself willingly; this is rare Scotch, triple-cream brie, seven-layer chocolate mousse cake.
Straightforward
Few things are as obvious and clean-cut as an enormous squid which devours cities. The Krakken is ancient and cunning, powerful and skilled, but it is not a subtle being. Other Imperators and their Powers can easily gauge the Krakken's reaction to most things, and plan accordingly, leaving the Krakken's Nobles often in some difficulty. Indeed, most of the Powers of the Locus Vorago find themselves inclined to follow their Imperial master's pleasingly elegant methods most of the time.
The Krakken's Code (Code of the Deep)
1) Your strength is sufficient.
2) Grasp what you can hold; no more, no less.
3) What must be must be.
Here's a little further thought on each one:
1)Your strength is sufficient
The Krakken is as strong as the sea, though he sleeps for now. Those who follow His teachings know that they must be likewise strong. Let no one doubt your strength; answer challenges boldly, and insults with pain. Never falter in your duty, and never be afraid to make the attempt.
2) Grasp what you can hold.
The Krakken's many limbs snatch and hold His prey. No one robs Him of His meal, and He does not stoop to scavenge or thieve, but only hunts what is rightfully His. To steal, especially by trickery or stealth, is the act of a weakling. To grasp without wisdom is the act of a bully, and therefore a coward, or of a glutton, and therefore a fool. Take what you need boldly and without fear, but do not overreach yourself.
3) What must be must be.
The end has been prophesied, and it will come to pass. The Krakken does not fear His death, nor does He rush to embrace it, nor still does He rail against unkind fate. Accept what must pass with grace and without rancor, and serve Creation in all your deeds.
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Chancel: The Locus Vorago (The Hungering Deeps)
The Locus Vorago borders closely on the Prosaic Earth, so closely that it is nearly impossible for one to tell when one has passed beyond its borders. The ocean still ripples onward, undistinguished. The sky is still blue and dotted with clouds, or thunderingly overcast. There are no buoys or signposts. Yet once within the Swallowing Sea, ordinary mortals are at immense risk of their lives. The glittering waves conceal horrors from the darkest depths of the earth and the water, as well as rocky shoals and concealed islets. The great Gulf Stream, defying logic and physics, divides into a tangled network of interweaving lines of current and flow, sending unwary boats on a dizzying chase. Tiny islands dot the water, though even their location is hardly constant. They range from mere rocks, barely dry at low tide, to county-sized swaths of dense forest and jagged coastlines. And above it all, the ever-shifting shadow of the Floating World, an enormous island hovering impossibly in the air, drifing on the wind like a cloud, distant, majestic, and coldly uncaring.
Most mortals never know how close they come to violent and painful death. The borders of Locus Vorago are guarded not by walls or fences, but by a subtle web of misdirection. Currents flow gently out of their way. Breezes shunt planes just the slightest degree off course. Only an alert and suicidally determined captain would notice the slight deviations and correct his course... dooming himself and his ship in the process. The abode of the Krakken is home to many other beasts, creatures vastly smaller in scale, the heat of their hunger a mere spark to its roaring bonfire, yet still potent enough to scorch mortals to nothingness. With claw and fang, fire and poison, the monstrous creatures attack without provocation or mercy. Only those hapless sailors lucky enough to meet the Borderguard have a chance of survival. The Patchwork Fleet sails the outer reaches of the Chancel, picking up strays and stragglers and ushering them into the inner reaches, where the islands cluster more thickly and shoals keep out the larger of the vicious animals. There the poor, lost men are welcomed into the Chancel's society, such as it is, to live out their days in unending struggle against the elements.
This is not to say that the land of Locus Vorago is any safer. Things winged and foul stalk the treetops, and the earth hisses with the scrape of talons and scales. Still, the currents bring in many supplies and items of value, and if the ramshackle cities and towns appear odd at first, they are quite functional, even comfortable, if one has the knack of it. The primary occupation of the Chancel is hunting, whether for meat, for water, or for treasure, and the vast makeshift flotillas head out every morning to trawl the deeps in search of their bounty. Many never return home, victims of the nameless beasts who haunt the depths or their human counterparts, alike in all but form, who prowl the oceans, preying on the weak. Pirates and monsters, and nights spent behind heavy walls guarded by armed men against the dangers of the forest.
Still, all is not without hope. Every natural-born denizen of the Chancel has the right to petition for Citizenship, to climb to the top of Aspiration, the great peak in the center of the largest of the islands, and there to ascend the delicate ladder and take their place in the ranks of the Court on the Floating World. The Court takes the lion's share of the treasure and luxury gleaned from the oceans, and in return provides its benevolent protection to the luckless have-nots down below. In stark contrast to the hardscrabble life on the islands, in the Court time passes in a dreamy sequence of ceremony and ritual, scented with incense and rare perfumes, cloaked in silk and velvet, and picked out with pearls on a gold-fronted clock. The Court is its own world, self-contained, and layered like an onion. A mind-bogglingly complex assortment of hierarchies governs every facet of life there, and protocol rules over all. The Court operates on favors and promises, flowing throughout the power structure like sap in a tree, bringing forth blossoms of beautiful poetry and blackest cruelty. On the islands, life hangs by a thread, the constant threat of violence leaving no room for delicacy or sentimentality. On the Floating World, nuance and subtlety govern, such that a single raised eyebrow at the wrong time can ruin lives. It is a life of luxury and terrible fear, for to be dishonored is to lose everything. Those who do wrong risk loss of position, of influence, even of their place in the Court, sent back to the islands to suffer and die. The very worst punishment, however, is to be stripped of everything... and yet forced to remain.
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