Long ago, when the Empire was at its zenith and the seas were a tamed thing, the Crown was challenged by a fleet of pirates; disaffected governors, thief-kings, and traitorous commodores who dared deny Her Majesty's law. And so the Royal Navy descended upon them like the wrath of the gods, scattering their forces and breaking the will of their leadership - all but thirteen captains, each a deadly cutthroat and corsair in their own right. Reeling from their defeat, the captains were seduced by a crazed prophet who spoke of a voice from the deep and a treasure that could fuel a war for freedom. They traveled to a barren rock at the very edge of the world, and there made a compact. Now, after a century or more of decline, madness, and heresies, the Empire crumbles - sickness and blight spreads through her cities, and men are made into monsters, and the release of death is denied every last one. Terrible things rise from the depths and the very ocean seems bent on mankind's doom. Some brave soul must heed the call others are too craven to hear; defeat the Thirteen Captains of the Black Tontine or the demons they have become, before the Deep consumes us all. Maybe you’re the one to answer that call. You are of the Deadmen, those damned souls trapped in their own corpses. You can be killed, aye, but you come back with a head full of nightmares and bit less of yourself. Sooner or later all Deadmen get overtaken, becoming feral, bloodthirsty revenants with the sea singing in their veins. Some are even transformed; the curse bursting through their flesh as barnacles and tentacles, teeth and eyes, the ghastly visage of the deep seas’ secret rulers. Some can be put to work in mines or mills, but the Empire most often piles the freshly dead on coffin-barges and casts them out to sea before they wake. Maybe you were one of these exiles. Maybe you were a proud and noble soul who found the Black Spot upon them and set out while still lucid to seek a cure. Perhaps you dragged yourself from a shallow grave on some rotting colony island, or washed up on a foreign shore. It doesn’t matter now, where you came from. Where will you die next? ------------------------------ A roleplaying game of colonial decay, cosmic horror, and gnostic enlightenment set in a fictionalized version of our world circa 1710CE, with twisted analogues for historical locations and cultures. The player characters would be a misfit crew of undead, lost in the Abyssian Reach between the Old World and the New. The only things you bring into the Reach are your memories, and those might not last. Do these Deadmen carry old grudges and lost loves with them? Lifelong rivalries or friends whose faces slip from your mind? Only two possible fates lie before them, in any case - destroy the Thirteen, or resign themselves to an eternity as mindless reavers without semblance of self. This game will use a relatively straightforward but robust system of my own creation, and more details will be made available in response to questions or in the event this appears to gain traction. I would prefer no more than six players and would be reluctant to proceed with less than four. For fun, guess the influences.