Black Brine

At the rotted heart of Black Brine squats City Hull—a ship that outlived the sea. Once a grand galleon, now gutted and rebuilt into the crooked throne of the Captain’s Council. Its hull houses chambers of law, vaults of coin, and rooms where knives mean more than votes. Every creak in the timber is a secret, every groan a threat. Gun Deck Rosy rules from the aftcastle like a storm in still water—quiet, but deadly when stirred. Around it sprawls Mistwalk, where coin and rumor slip hand-in-hand down alleys slick with brine and old blood. Priests mutter beside smugglers. Merchants haggle over relics and curses alike. It’s the place deals are sealed and betrayed in the same breath. Here, power is worn like perfume—strong, expensive, and meant to cover the stink of fear. City Hull is where the Captain's Council meets to decide the fate of Black Brine.

The mist doesn’t part so much as reluctantly retreat, like even it knows better than to linger near City Hull. The plaza yawns wide before it—cobbled stones slick with last night’s blood and this morning’s rain. And there, rising like a war monument to bad decisions, is the old galleon turned city hall. Salt-blackened timber groans under its own weight. Barnacles crust the hull like rot. What used to be a mermaid figurehead now bears the snarling face of a lioness, jaws open wide around a rust-streaked cannon. Above, banners in violet and gold snap in the wind, half proud, half warning. Watchmen with muskets stalk the rigging like carrion birds. Some poor sod tried to pretty it up—window boxes of sun-bright hibiscus, creeping ivy straining up the planks, a few wind-chimes that sound like bones in a storm. It helps, a little. But not much. Even flowers wilt faster here. The smiles in Mistwalk don’t reach the eyes, and the only things that bloom long are rumors and grudges.