Docklands
Shadows linger, danger always near
The Docklands sprawl across the southwest corner of the City League, a bleak and weathered district where the city's lifeblood trickles through rusting chains and rotting timbers. The air hangs heavy with the scent of brine and fish guts, mingling with smoke from half-collapsed chimneys and guttering lanterns. Narrow streets snake between sagging warehouses and shanty homes, their walls patched with driftwood and salt-stained tarps. Graffiti scrawls over faded signs, and the cobblestones are slick with grime — a treacherous footing for anyone who doesn’t know where to tread.
Here, danger festers like an open wound. Thieves and cutthroats gather in dimly lit taverns, their whispered schemes echoing down alleyways where the city watch dares not tread. Smugglers slip through shadowed piers, and dockside gangs mark their turf in symbols few outsiders understand. The minor gate that leads from the city walls into the docks offers a constant stream of movement — sailors, labourers, and desperate souls seeking fortune or escape.
Yet for all its squalor, the Docklands possess a strange resilience. The people here are tough, survivors shaped by hardship. Shanty markets spring up overnight, hawking stolen goods, counterfeit relics, and sea-worn curiosities. The Docklands may be lawless and grim, but for those who know its rhythms — or are bold enough to forge their own — it’s a place of opportunity lurking beneath the grime and shadow.
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