The Land of 1,000 gods, Calcobrina burns under the gaze of the Lion’s Eye.
Quietly situated between chic salons of the nobility and the grand halls of the great guilds is the Tabernacle of Discrete Amusements.
It is quoted in the Canon of St. Mancel that once in his life, that every devout soul should make pilgrimage to the holy city of Sangreal.
The Sea of Sand is one of the most treacherous and deceitful tracts of waste in the heart of the Djaraha desert.
It is a common conceit that banks, loans, investment and other features of the banking and financial system are entirely modern. This is far from the truth, as long as there has been money, there have been people who profitted from holding it and manipulating it.
The well was dug in years beyond memory. The locals still knew to stay away…
Tannhauser is a working class neighboorhood. No nobles will be found perusing it’s small market square, or the few shops there. The wealthy and powerful have holdings and investments in Tannhauser, but few would be willing to be seen on those dank streets.
There is a place where only the foolhardy and the greedy dare to go. Why do I say foolhardy, because of all of the poor souls who have entered that dark place…none have yet to return.
Located in the lower part of the community, Pernouds is the epitome of sleazey establishments. The floors are dirty and smell of excretement, urine, and worse. The chairs are ramshackle built, and the tables are all in poor shape.
Nestled in between the other vendors and shops in the market is a small shop, humble in appearance, yet exclusive in clientele…
Wizard’s Shop? Where’s the Magic Shop? What sort of rubbish are you going on about sir?
How many years have passed since these stones were cut? Haw many apprentices have swept these floors? Many, yes. Many.
The air is chilled and causes goosebumps, while not a sound stirs across the glass smooth surface of the water. The Inn rises three stories above the bank of the river, a single lantern lit on the quay.
Spires of crystals reach in the barren sky, glittering like the teeth of some long since slain carnivore god…
Seemingly cast out of vast sheets of crystal, glass and ice, the Sorcerer’s Palace is a breath taking wonder of the city. Few doubt the benevolence of Emet the White who makes his abode within the palace that is as much a work of art as it is a home.
The earth is bleached white, and brittle underfoot. Ribs and vertebrae litter the ground like driftwood and in the distance, colossal bones of slain giants rise like hungry fingers clawing at the iron grey sky. The wind rises, howling through the empty eye sockets of hollow skulls. A rain of hail begins, pelting the ground with fingerbones and teeth.
Welcome, ye miserly sinners. Welcome to Hell.
Cities are dynaimc organisms, alive in their own right. They grow and develope their own natures and their own cultures that are unique to them. Some are eloquent and grand, while others are slightly dirty, and willing to be bought. But anything alive can die…
The street is wide, and smoothly paved, with trees planted along the sides. The houses are mansions and palaces, each surrounded by stone and ironwork walls that are as much decorative as they are protective. These are the summer homes of the Princesses, and ladies of privelage.
The darkens as travelers draw near, the wind begins to pick up, to howl. Here, the sun does not shine, the stars and moon are forever hidden by the Stormshroud, the eternal storm…
In the forest, there is a small vale where there are no cats, and only the battered ruins of a long dead mage named Gargamel.