Black Brine

Once a sanctum for saints, now a sanctuary for scoundrels—the Broadside Inn serves as the west bank’s answer to Black Brine’s highborn dens. Cheap drink, hot soak, and no questions asked. Locals haunt its barstools like barnacles, sailors dock here when they’ve got coin to lose, and fugitives find the bathhouse waters oddly... forgiving. It’s where debts are drowned, grudges settle over dice, and mercs nurse bruises in geothermal pools that still bubble with holy warmth. The gangs don’t run it, but they respect it—a trucehouse of sorts, too useful to burn, too wild to claim. If you’ve got secrets or scars, the Broadside has room, ale, and a quiet place to bleed in peace. For a little while.

The Broadside leans out over the bluff like it’s eavesdropping on the river below, terracotta roof sun-scorched and tiles chipped like old teeth. What used to be temple columns now hold up sagging balconies, draped in threadbare banners and half-forgotten prayers. Stone paths wind through overgrown gardens where goats graze beside drunkards and palm shade doesn't quite reach the edge of the cliff. From below, the river dock groans with every tide, patched and pocked, but still ferrying the hopeful and the hopeless. From above, steam curls from the old sanctum—now bathhouse—casting ghostly veils over the courtyard. Inside, the scent is sweat, salt, and spilled rum. Game tables clatter. Voices rise. Somewhere, someone is losing badly. It’s a place to disappear in plain sight, where no one asks, and everyone owes. Whether you climb the bluff or row from the dock, the Broadside waits—half refuge, half reckoning.