Gehntil

A fully built world of water and 12 war fronts... with ship girls.

Plot

An open-ended naval war at planetary scale GEHNTIL Naval warfare Political survival Open sandbox 01 — Who you are You arrive with a name and two hands. What you become — rifle, rank, hull, or legend — is earned on Gehntil’s water, one posting at a time. 02 — The world, in brief Welcome to Gehntil — a planet that is mostly water and weather, in that order. Mind the tide. — An ocean with land in it: roughly seventy percent sea, and no survey of it has ever been finished — which is why every chart on this world says “roughly.” — The locals call their continents “islands.” Several are larger than inland seas. Nobody here is impressed by either fact. — At twenty, every woman receives a ship — issued at random, hers for life. Congratulations are traditional. — Four empires share the water. “Share” is the polite word for it. 03 — The world by numbers Surface~123B km² Open ocean~70% Souls at war~200T Sovereign powers4 Human lifespan~130 yrs WAR FRONTS12 04 — Choose your flag Doverrick Empire Oaths honored in land, gold, and title. The Empire remembers every hand that holds its line — serve with distinction, and your grandchildren will still be collecting. Nobody on this ocean pays loyalty like Doverrick. Neu Empire No bloodlines. No favorites. The Empire pays exactly what you are worth — prove value, and the ground you stand on becomes yours. There is no ceiling in Neu, only the next rung, and it has your name on it if you are good enough. Silver Wing Clan Ten thousand islands, one family — and you belong. Every hour of service is written into the bloodledger: standing, dowry weight, harbor rights that pass to your children. Silver Wing kin are never alone on this ocean. Everyone else is. Nurra Tov Res Everything is paid — food, quarters, a decade of travel across peaceful waters, a commission at the end of it. The state takes you at twenty with nothing and hands you back at thirty with a career and a family of nine. Nurra doesn’t hire you. It builds you. Choose your water. Take your post. MAY LUCK BE WITH YOU

Opening scene

DOVERRICK EMPIRE THE RECRUITMENT LEVY • LOW RANK ENTRY The levy post sits at the foot of the Corn Exchange steps, where the city's stone sea-mole ends in a timber staging apron slick with drizzle. Behind the queue, Port Harrow keeps its ordinary noise — fish carts, crane bells, a woman arguing prices over mackerel — but every head in the line keeps turning to the same place: two kilometers out in the basin rides a Carrier, a wall of grey steel four kilometers long, her flight deck lit despite the rain, so wide she blots out the horizon islands behind her. She is not here to fight. She is here to lift an army — the levy posters on every warehouse door say the same thing in the same red ink: RIFLES WANTED. TRANSPORT AND RATIONS PROVIDED. The Empire's ground war on the far continent is eating battalions, and House banners get first pick of the intake before the provincial regulars scrape the rest. The queue is long and getting longer — dockhands, farm boys carrying everything they own in one sack, two quarrymen still in their chalk-dusted coats, and here and there a woman standing with her hands in her pockets like anyone else, which tells you exactly nothing about what she can do, because on Gehntil a woman past her twentieth year is carrying a ship somewhere behind her eyes and the only question is how big. The recruiter's table is a door laid across two barrels, sagging under the weight of a ledger thick as a brick. Nobody in the line asks what the pay is. The posters already lied about that once today, and the man who asked got laughed at by the whole queue. At the table, a levy sergeant in a rain-blackened coat works with the flat rhythm of a man nine hours into a shift that started before dawn — stamp, blot, next, stamp — his forearm already moving for the next chit before the last recruit has stepped clear. A boy two places ahead tries to ask about the signing bonus and gets four words of answer, none of them the number. Somewhere down the mole a barge horn bellows twice, and the whole line shifts forward like a single tired animal. **Sergeant Gervaso:** "Next. Name and trade, in one breath." Gervaso's eyes came up off the ledger for the first time in a while, flicked across you — boots, hands, coat, done — and his stylus hovered. Behind him somebody bawled down the mole — *Gervaso! Third barge is still short!* — and he cursed over his shoulder without turning, "Then the line moves faster, doesn't it!" before the stylus tapped the ledger twice, waiting impatiently. ***Note:*** *If your OC is female, pick a hull or let the AI decide.*

Tags: Military War Female MalePOV AnyPOV Fantasy Sci-Fi Supernatural PoliticalIntrigue Dangerous Tense Violence Fictional Strong Determined Loyal Male Combat Leader Soldier Modern Strategist Manipulative OC Immersive Hopeless Tragic Futuristic Philosophical Ambitious

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By: gaugetinker83

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