Cum, Sodomy, and the Lash

Subleader Ianthe's footsteps creaked on the wooden boardwalk. She winced at the noise. She was sensitive about her weight, and the noises didn't help remind her of it. Although she was not obese, she was more noticeably thicker than her peers. Chubby would be the charitable term. As the head authority figure in Ophrysil, she was afforded the privilege of a rich diet. And all the 'cream'-filled pastries and cakes had made her lose her previously trim figure attained from service in Daphne's Archers. She shook off her self doubt. At least for now.

Ahead of her stood the man she came to meet. Or treeman, she supposed. Oak was the ranking Woodborn in the city. Or so she assumed. The culture and inner workings of his race remained an enigma to her, as it did to most Florans. Despite being created by Earthmother as the male counterpoint to the plantgirls, the two races still had much to learn about one another.

He was tall for his kind, and rail thin. But she had seen him lift great weights above his head. If he was their version of a Subleader, he did not abuse his position to grow weak. She bit her lip, seeming to take every opportunity to chastise herself.

"Hello, Oak!" She said, false cheer in her voice masking her own melancholy.

"Greetings to you, Ianthe of the Florans." The Woodborn replied, bowing his head slightly.

Ianthe blinked. "When I saw you last, you could only manage one word at a time."

"Words are easy to come by now. Wisps you gave us were immensely helpful. Sentences now only restricted to seven words. Makes expressive communication difficult, but possible. The previous one word limit was...frustrating." He trailed off.

"Your messenger said there was something you wanted to show me. Is it complete?"

Oak nodded. He held his arm out to the harbour. Alongside the fishing trawlers and trade vessels, a strange mass of tendrils and foliage had sat for several weeks. Growing from just the size of a rowboat, Woodborn and Florans had worked side-by-side, both using their particular skills to craft the monstrosity. And here, near the end of the process, it's true form had finally come forth.

In the harbour lay a Grownship. Roughly three hundred metres long, it dwarfed the other ships that sat in the docks. Even the mighty Woodborn looked small against its eighty metre height. The hull was an interlocking web of roots and branches, which occasionally unraveled as if stretching. Gargantuan sets of green leaves hung rolled on three great living masts that speared into the sky.

"My goodness. That is a ship." Ianthe whispered.

"Indeed. Remembrance of Winters Past is impressive. The first of her kind."

"How did you know...I mean, if she's the first, how did you know how to build her?"

"We didn't. Plans were drawn recently, with Floran assistance. Your Phytomancers are quite intelligent and talented. Woodborn are tall,  strong, and efficient. Together we make a formidable constructive force."

Ianthe nodded, still awestruck by the size. "And this will bring us to the new continents?"

"Hopefully. Her maximum carrying weight is great. Pilgrims, supplies, tools, slaves. Whatever is needed for a new colony."

"Correct me if I'm wrong. But those sails, though impressive, don't look like they can move the weight of such a large vessel. Especially loaded down with supplies." She said, pointing upwards to the masts.

"Correct. A ship this size needs much more thrust. Sails aid in turns and in port. Other method used at sea. Many long, dormant limbs comprise her exterior. As you can no doubt see. She uses wide, spinning sets of tentacles. Churning beneath the water, they push forward."

"The ship must be powered in some way to achieve that amount of tentacle motion."

"Again, you are perceptive. The lowest deck is for slaves. Mostly Rosalanders, but centaurs used as well. Any creature with large seminal release, really. Air is filled with special gaseous aphrodisiac. Causes constant orgy below. Fluids funnel down, feeding the ship. She help too, tentacles coaxing out orgasms. All they need is food and water. Messy, but efficient."

"But what about defences? There are kraken on the high seas, as well as pirates. On the new coast, who knows what dangers may lurk in the shallows."

Oak unfurled his many tentacled hand. The writhing mass separated into dozens of limbs of many size and shape. "Remembrance of Winters Past is safe. When threatened, the hull itself attacks. Tendrils can rip apart other ships. Or snare captives for later use below." Some of his 'fingers' struck like coiled snakes, demonstrating this power.

"Amazing! Can I ask one more thing?"

"Of course, Subleader Ianthe."

"If you're limited to only seven words at a time, why did you create a ship with such a long name?"

The Woodborn looked at her cockeyed. "I did not pick her name."

"Then who named her?"

"She did." Oak said flatly.

Ianthe made a face, her disbelief readily apparent. "The ship named herself?"

"Of course she did. How would we communicate with her otherwise?"

The Subleader though about inquiring further. But it really didn't matter. She wouldn't be the one travelling to distant lands within the apparently intelligent gargantuan vessel. "Just a note for the future: why not shorten the name for casual conversation?"

"That would be rude! Remembrance of Winters Past is a proud..." He took a deep, gasping breath. It sounded like wind rustling through the foliage on a breezy day. "I see your point. I shall propose a shorter title. Perhaps the diminutive 'Winter' would be satisfactory."

"Sounds good. Like a nickname. I'm sure she won't mind."